by D. W. Goates
After a week had passed, it was clear to Fräulein Schreiber that Frau Hertha Geller was worse than incompetent—she was positively pernicious. Befitting her surname, Frau Geller was loud and obnoxious; she seemed to relish berating those students who were out of her favor, which was most of them. And the whole of the woman’s pedagogy amounted to a mindless, seemingly endless drill. Even her curriculum was too simplistic for the now-adolescents she was attempting to teach, and much of it woefully out of date as well, though this last part was more to be expected from a hinterland such as Waldheim.
During this time, Frau Geller took few of the young teacher’s suggestions and instead put her to work with menial tasks intended to keep the young know-it-all busy. When Elke took the initiative to craft lessons that might better capture the students’ interest and imaginations, Geller rejected them out of hand. At first Elke wondered whether the old woman was simply resentful of her ingenuity, but in time she began to believe in a combination of factors, not the least of which being that the old teacher simply didn’t know her stuff.
Elke would have resigned herself but for the children. One in particular, Rudolph, stirred her heart the most. Of all the students in the class, Rudolph—a quiet, sensitive soul—seemed the most affected by Frau Geller’s rude outbursts. At one point, Elke had considered attacking the woman outright when she persisted in swatting the boy with a ruler to incite his response to one of her inane questions. Fortunately this proved unnecessary; a classmate—a rakish lad—came to Rudolph’s rescue, at the last moment drawing Geller’s ire his way instead.
And so, the new assistant used what free time that she had at the school to help the students in small ways, individually, where and when she could evade the prying eyes of Frau Geller.
Nights were always the same. Lonely and uncomfortable, Elke would struggle to sleep in the shoebox of a room she was afforded. The room was more closet than bedroom, and was located on the second floor of a gloomy abandoned private house now re-purposed for civic storage. At least its location was adequate—only a short walk from the square. She was free to inhabit any of the rooms in this place, but to do so she would have had to move, by herself, mountains of old and ancient furniture, as well as scores of dusty crates full of other unwanted material. She was lucky as it was just to have a path through this clutter to get to her sad closet upstairs.
No lamp was available; thus she made do with a scant ration of candles. This put her—a prodigious reader—in the positively medieval position of judging beforehand whether the evening’s book would be worth the candle. Most often she was finding that it was not, given that her sources of reading material amounted to the school, Herr Rückert, and the other teachers, for there was no library in Waldheim.
On her second Sabbath in the narrow valley town, Elke finally decided to seek out her first church service and to take part in the sacrament of the Eucharist. Frau Geller, a Roman Catholic, had coldly provided the young Lutheran with directions to the edge of town where she might find her smaller establishment of worship. There were just the two churches in Waldheim, and the vast majority of congregants attended the larger Catholic edifice.
Situated as it was on a small hillock alongside a glimmering stream filled with smooth stones, Waldheim’s small Lutheran church was rather picturesque. Coming from the center of town, one could see the Margrave’s castle looming behind it, high in the mountains above the steeple.
By contrast, the service in this attractive church was plain, and Elke’s fellow attendees were generally quiet and reserved. The devout teacher did find the plump pastor’s scriptural focus somewhat odd. His sermon centered exclusively on the theme of interpersonal relations. Man’s duty to, and celebration of, Almighty God was entirely absent from the service but for its brief appearance during the Eucharist ritual.
At the conclusion of the service, and having spoken not a word but for the liturgy during her entire attendance, Elke was making to leave when she was finally approached. It was a woman, by appearance only a few years older than she, perhaps thirty, who had been seated in the pew behind her. The man beside this woman, standing with a vacant look of disinterest, was surely her husband.
“And who are you?” asked the woman with an awkward, almost wry smile.
It was either the pregnant pause or the confused glance that the schoolteacher shot her that spurred the woman to offer her hand in accompaniment to this ill-mannered greeting.
“My name is Schreiber,” Elke replied perfunctorily with a slight bow, taking the woman’s hand only for a moment before continuing to the door.
“I am Frau Müller. Idna Müller. This is my husband, Detlef.”
Elke stopped and turned to them, impressed by this sudden civility. Was it that the pastor’s sermon was finally taking hold? Or perhaps it was simply the dusting-off of etiquette long disused. Strangers were rare in Waldheim.
“I’m Elke. It is nice to meet you,” she replied, managing something of a smile.
“And you, fräulein. Say, don’t you work at the school?”
They were walking now, together in a proper chat, as they exited the church with Detlef ambling behind.
“I do, but hopefully not for much longer. I was brought here under false pretense and stay only to earn my return up north.”
This was juicy gossip indeed, and so pressed by Frau Müller, Elke found herself spilling the details of how it was she, and not Frau Geller, who should be teaching the older students of the village. Not only had she been hired for this purpose, but she was clearly better for the job.
Only later would Elke wonder at how easy it had been for her to speak ill of another, even one who deserved it.
She learned little from Idna in this exchange but that the Müllers in fact had a child of their own in the school. This was Lisette. Elke thought she knew the name—one of the younger girls in Fräulein Rückert’s class.
“Where is little Lisette?” asked the teacher, looking ’round for the girl.
“She’s not feeling well—home sick today with her grandmother,” replied Idna.
“A shame . . .”
Elke had just offered her condolence when Frau Müller caught her gazing longingly at the castle. It was a beautiful day—the sky a sea of deep blue plied here and there by great white galleons under the majestic sun. The castle, framed by it all and those craggy mountains, looked like a scene from a postcard.
“They say he still lives up there . . .” Idna offered after briefly considering the fräulein in her fascination.
“Who?” asked Elke sincerely.
“Why, the Margrave, of course. Who else?”
“I was told he was dead.”
“This is news to me,” expressed Idna with modest surprise, before adding, “or do you mean the old man, his father?”
“I honestly don’t know whom I mean,” remarked Elke, getting genuinely annoyed at the mystery surrounding the place. “Is it just a case of his lordship mostly keeping to himself?”
“Oh, it isn’t like that at all. He isn’t welcomed in Waldheim, or any place for that matter.” Quickly building upon the teacher’s keen interest, Frau Müller added importantly, “You work at the school. You of all people should know that that man preys upon children.”
Fräulein Schreiber was in wide-eyed shock at such a revelation, but before she could press for more, she got it anyway.
“The Bürgermeister said that when they capture him, they will burn him at the stake for the witch that he is.”
This last bit was too far, and with it Elke managed to regain her senses.
“There’s no such thing as a witch,” she touted incredulously.
“You have a responsibility to the children, fräulein. You’d best keep that man away from them if you know what’s good for you.”
Looking to Herr Müller, Elke noted that the couple was in complete accord. His face ape
d his wife’s look of threatening concern.
“I would never let anyone harm the children,” Elke pleaded, “but you have to understand, this is the nineteenth century. There are no witches!”
“I shall have to speak to the schoolmaster about this!” Seizing the final word, Idna made quick her departure, her mute husband in tow.
Elke was left standing in the street staring after them, wondering what had just happened.
Several days passed with Elke hearing nothing more of witchcraft, nor the Margrave’s practice of it. She continued to throw herself into her work, menial though it was; through a series of small moments it seemed to the young teacher that she was making inroads with the students.
Elke particularly enjoyed receiving knowing smiles from children that she had originally suspected for the living dead. And she minded not in the least when this good cheer appeared to wear on the old schoolmarm; Geller only grew more frustrated with her imperturbable charges.
And the students were learning more, or more to the point, exhibiting better marks. Elke was convinced that they were showing off to get a grin out of her as she sat alone in the front corner of the classroom grading their slates. And so she egged them on, in positive defiance of Frau Geller, by periodically holding up the slates of students with better scores for the class to see when the old teacher wasn’t looking. This practice delighted the students, and put them into instant competition with one another for her affection, though they did quickly learn to express this glee soundlessly so as not to arouse the beast.
Even young Rudolph was coming out of his shell and could now be heard expressing frank greetings, answers, and even opinions that before seemed impossible for someone so shy.
It was against this backdrop that Schoolmaster Rückert eventually called upon Fräulein Schreiber to answer for the declaration she had made that past Sunday to Frau Müller and her husband.
“I hear that you have been speaking in defense of the Margrave.” The way that Rückert spoke to her was as if she were on trial.
“I did no such thing,” Elke said in stunned surprise.
“You deny witchcraft, knowing nothing of its power,” Rückert dead-panned.
“I deny witchcraft because I am a modern woman who enjoys the Brothers Grimm as fiction, not fact!”
“Do not speak to me of facts, silly girl! You know nothing of what the Margrave is capable . . . and of the things he has done to the children of this very school.”
“What things?” Fräulein Schreiber had had entirely enough of this beating about the bush.
“Things no sane man would countenance. Devilish things . . .” croaked the old man doomfully.
Elke was about to call Rückert out for the fool that he was, but managed instead to bite her tongue lest she wind up homeless then and there. However, she wore her frustration rather poorly. Her glowering invited further explanation.
“The margrave—his father—was a kind and generous patron of this school. Years ago, both he and the margravine—his mother—made frequent visits to the village. They were always most helpful to us, and especially to the children. I was teaching then, the older students. The margrave’s house had a long history of caring for the people of Waldheim before this monster was put upon us. In fact, his grandfather originally established this school.”
“So, what happened?” asked the young woman, clearly confused.
“They died.” After a moment, the old man continued, “First the margrave, under mysterious circumstances, and then his wife some months later. The young master was perhaps in his twenties at the time. The town elders called upon him at the castle when it became clear from conversations with some of the servants that the dowager countess was ill, but he refused them. When the doctor was sent for, he too was refused entry. It was a week after that that Arnaldo, the steward of the castle, notified us of the widow’s passing.”
“Was it some disease that befell the castle?”
“No. Inquiries were made. None of the guards or servants fell ill. In fact, almost all of them were dismissed during that time. It is thought that if he has anyone up there with him now, beyond old Arnaldo, it is naught but a skeleton staff of Bohemians with no familial connection to this place.”
“None of this explains your charges of witchcraft,” Elke goaded.
“I was getting to that,” snapped the schoolmaster. “This liege we are now cursed with is no longer welcomed in Waldheim. His capacity for fell ideas is only matched by his appetite for young children. He even had the audacity to try and ingratiate himself here in his father’s name!”
“But what did he do?”
“I told you, woman! He molested the children of this school, and promulgated the most malevolent of ideas. I caught him myself once, alone with a young girl!”
“Oh my . . .” thought Elke aloud, “I should think this a matter for the King’s court.”
“Better the monster stay locked up in that castle of his. We’ve no need of him nor his protections in this day. And we’re perfectly capable of justice here without the King or his judiciary.”
“I still don’t understand why you think it the involvement of witchcraft, sir.”
“You wouldn’t, fräulein,” lectured the old man, “but in time you will come to know how the devil operates—always for himself, and to put the people against one another. This school belongs to Waldheim now. The Margrave hasn’t been in town in years to my knowledge. But if you should see him, keep him away from the children.” The last of this he spoke in dire warning.
“I wouldn’t know him if I saw the man.”
“Oh, you would. He is tall, with ashen hair and imploring eyes. And his dress is like that from another era.” Here the schoolmaster paused before remembering, “He used to ride a horse as black as night. Surely the thing has long since passed of old age—unless, of course, he has kept the beast with him preternaturally.”
Clearly there was something to the Margrave—whom she surmised was at least in his late forties by now—even if the man wasn’t careening across the night sky on a broomstick.
From this point in the conversation, Elke mostly humored the humorless old schoolmaster, but she learned little else that day about the strange inhabitant of the fortress in the mountain.
One early morning the following week, Elke was awakened by a rapping at the door downstairs. She pulled on her robe and rushed down as best she could through the stacks of things to find Fräulein Rückert standing in the street, already dressed for the day.
From this messenger Fräulein Schreiber learned that she was to get her turn at teaching after all, if only for a day; Frau Geller was not feeling well.
Excited, Elke returned to her room and quickly dressed, her mind racing with fun and creative ideas that she might present to the students—students she was sure would be happy once told that they were to be free of the old yeller, at least temporarily.
As she made her way through the street to the square, the eager pedagogue detected a singular chill in the air—one that made her tug at her coat for warmth. Fall had come at last to the mountain valley. The sun was struggling, though largely failing, to make something of the small seams afforded it by the dreary, cloudful sky.
Once she arrived at the schoolhouse, Elke began hurriedly preparing the day’s lessons. She had only an hour or so before the first students would arrive. After thirty minutes, she was beginning to experience a feeling of real encouraging progress when she was met with an unfortunate surprise.
Fräulein Rückert stepped in from the back classroom with a languid greeting, and, spying Schreiber’s mad scribbling, asked her what she was so intent upon.
“Give me a moment. I’ve almost got this lesson put together,” Elke uttered, not bothering to raise her head.
“Did you not see Frau Geller’s note?”
Elke stopped with her writing and
looked up slowly.
“It’s there, on the lectern, with the book.” Rückert was addressing Fräulein Schreiber as if she were some dummkopf—remarkable, in that it was that woman, and not Elke, that best fit such a bill.
Schreiber stood and walked to the lectern where she encountered a note in Geller’s handwriting with brief yet encompassing instructions for the day. She was to have the students take turns reading aloud from a dry book of literature and then quiz them on certain facts from it. It was exactly the sort of thing that she had witnessed from Frau Geller time and again, and was a guarantee of drowsy disinterest for the students.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Elke complained.
“I just did, fräulein,” countered Rückert, before continuing, “Frau Geller gave me the note this morning, and I left it right there for you as soon as I arrived . . . It’s not my fault that you decided to make work for yourself.”
Elke was at once relieved and incensed. While there was no longer a deadline to meet, she would be damned before she taught such a lesson.
Thinking on her feet, she decided to modify the lesson in the hopes that she could meet both aims—that Geller’s material be presented, and that the students actually learn something. It was on this new plan that she operated in the remaining minutes before class was to begin.
Everything was going quite well. After swiftly maneuvering the students through the boring part, Elke promptly gathered their slates of answers to rudimentary questions about Frau Geller’s fossilized text. Then, adding additional time through subtraction, the young teacher unilaterally decided that mathematics would be skipped entirely this day in favor of the language arts. With this she left herself and the students plenty of time for a new activity wherein they would be encouraged to draft and later share their own stories.
After she reviewed with them the elements of a story, and had provided a few examples, the students were released to work alone or with others on their own literary creation. Their pleasure in this undertaking was immediately evident, especially in their voices; they were enthusiastically sharing ideas with one another in the classroom for the very first time.