by Walters
Their mission was to reach the town of Wiener Neustadt by morning.
Into a night without stars the horses galloped.
Six
Morning had broken over Wiener Neustadt.
In the house by the forge the girl stirred. From her bed by the window she looked into faint patches of sun, the gentle light on grass and trees. She smelt the sweet scent of orange blossom and heard a bird warble its message from a rooftop ...
She got up, peered along the end of the bed, then pulled the coverlet straight.
In the kitchen her father was drinking coffee. 'Guten Morgen, Liebling,' he smiled.
'Guten Morgen, Papa.'
'I am sitting here wondering,' he went on, 'There is something I must see to, but what it is I do not know. My head is like a spinning top, so great is the order for hoes, irons, plough shares, and tools! The list to repair and make things goes on and on ... '
'That is wonderful, Papa.'
'Like the little birds I must start early.'
'There is ham for your lunch. And cheese.'
'You spoil me, Liebling.' The farrier rose. He kissed his daughter and walked into the day.
The girl washed, dressed, tidied the kitchen and pulled the door closed.
The morning was pink and still. The sky was stippled with silvery cloud and the orange trees were white with blossom. As she moved through the grove a light wind rippled and a drift of petals, like snow, fell on her path, her hand, her hair ... And in the wind she heard the hymn of thanksgiving sung by the shepherd to his God after the storm had passed.
His sound. His voice saying, 'Music is the only truth.' She hadn't understood. And though she didn't still, her heart told her it was true.
If only she could turn back time, like you can a clock, or the pages of a book. To be nine again and to hear that voice and the magic of that music and feel again her heart about to burst with the joy of it; and to have her mother wave her hand as she crossed the yard, and turn the moment to gold ...
• • •
She flicked tears from her cheeks.
Mutti had said it was bad luck to cry on such a day ...
Rita was walking towards her, sniffing the air. 'It's wicked to be locked away on a day this beautiful ... '
'It's my birthday,' said the girl.
'Why didn't you tell me? I would have got you something. Still –' Rita glanced left and right, she leaned over a garden wall and plucked a rose. 'Happy birthday.'
'Danke.'
'And what did you get?'
'Papa knew there was something he had to remember –'
'If you'd told me I would have reminded him.'
'He loves me,' replied the girl. 'It's not important.' She stopped, then went on. 'Though I still checked the end of the bed. There'd always be something there on my birthday. Mutti would wrap it in paper and tie it with a ribbon ... '
'She knows,' Rita whispered. 'She's sent you this day ... '
Now the street had turned to reddish dust. Here factories rose, eyeless and higher than the trees ...
Rita said, 'I'm reading die Bruder Grimm. Everyone is. I'm the Goose Girl. I am a king's daughter.'
'I know it. Papa was given the book.'
'Cinderella is us – you and me ... '
In silence they walked. Then the girl said, 'I was Cinderella once. I wore a dress made of silk. It had lace at the wrists and the bodice, and ribbons weaved through the lace. It was blue.'
'Is it real still?'
'Yes.'
They stood at the factory gate and stared at the cold grey building.
'You could forget how to dream,' Rita murmured.
'Not you!'
'Nor you.'
They walked in.
The girl made her way to level one. She dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering the threads that had collected underneath the looms. From time to time she'd draw her hand over her eyes, and crawl on.
At the entrance Herr Graf was beckoning. There'd been a spill of needles on level three.
On level three Liesel was picking them up. Needles of all sizes were everywhere.
Again the girl fell to her knees and began to crawl beneath the work benches where most of the needles had fallen. For a moment she paused, heard the sound of embroiderers at work. A silence broken only by coughing or the moving of feet.
She edged her way forward and as she did a woman whose bench stood by the window called out, 'Look!'
A coach had drawn up outside the gate, and two men with leather ribbons in their hats were walking across the yard. They disappeared into the building.
On level one Herr Giersch was hurrying to meet them. The men removed their headwear and after much talking and nodding followed Herr Giersch past the weavers and across the floor to Herr Graf, who also pointed and nodded, and led the way through level two.
On level three they paused.
Heads turned as Herr Graf hurried to where the girl, on her hands and knees, was sifting through scraps. He motioned to her to follow him. She went with acceptance as she always had, not knowing what wrong it was that she might have done out of ignorance, or thoughtlessness. Or fear ...
At the entrance to level three Herr Graf stopped. 'This is the one,' he said.
The girl raised her head, she stared into gold buckles, gold braid, the colour crimson. At two men ...
'She has the hair,' remarked the first. 'And the eyes are blue ... '
The second carried a scroll tied with a ribbon. He held it out. 'Come here,' he said.
The girl stepped closer.
'Is that your name?'
'Yes.'
'This is for you.'
Both men bowed briefly to the girl, to Herr Giersch and Herr Graf, and walked away.
The girl clutched the thing in her hand. She looked for Rita.
Workers gathered.
'Open it,' came a voice, that of Herr Graf.
Her hands were cold, her fingers stiff. She tugged at the bow. It fell loose and unwound the ribbon. The ribbon was blue. She gazed at the twisted thread ...
'Go on.'
She rolled out the scroll. On it were notes of music ...
At the top were the words Für Elise.
It was signed Ludwig van Beethoven.