by D. W. Goates
During this period of brainstorming, that once most-quiet-of-students, Rudolph, best vocalized his enthusiasm.
His novel noise swiftly summoned a bothered Bernhard from his yard.
In her time at the school thus far, Elke had surmised that Bernhard amounted to something of a caretaker or custodian. While the students appeared to remain aloof from the man, Frau Geller and Herr Rückert treated him like an unequal but trusted servant.
Bursting in from his back door as a troll from the woods, Bernhard bellowed at the boy—at the whole class—all of whom lapsed into surprised silence.
The boy’s expression had been a touch out of line, but it had been as brief as it was loud. And the sustained din of the class as they worked on their stories was, in Elke’s mind, nowhere equal to a disturbance of Fräulein Rückert or even her most bat-like pupil a mere wall away.
It was as if the man had been provided pretext to obtrude. And here now he was, utilizing Rudolph’s gleeful gasp as an excuse to deliver an impromptu lecture to the cowed class.
At some point Elke recovered herself, but before she could recover her authority and thereby her classroom, the interloper had seized young Rudolph from his chair and was half-dragging, half-carrying the prey to his lair in the yard.
The boy’s captor was unresponsive to Fräulein Schreiber’s protests and managed to easily shrug her off when she finally resorted to attempt a bodily rescue at the door. She was left with no recourse but to stand there in the doorway—her eyes wide in equal humiliation—as she felt each blow of the unmerciful whipping this brutish Bernhard delivered to the shy student.
The story-writing lesson was a bust, as was the complaint she filed later that day with Schoolmaster Rückert regarding Bernhard’s outlandish behavior.
Contrariwise, Bernhard was a reliable “member of the staff” who had “for years” been entrusted by Frau Geller to assist with the discipline. He was merely doing his job.
Even Fräulein Rückert saw fit to involve herself, complaining of the “commotion.” Wherefore such commotion, indeed! She would apparently be getting with Frau Geller to ensure that her instructions be more explicit the next time an “inexperienced substitute” was required. Fine words indeed from someone brand-new herself with absolutely no training whatsoever!
For her part, Fräulein Schreiber was to remember herself and her position. She was not a teacher in this place, but merely “assisting.” If she saw fit to go off-script in the future, she would be sent packing regardless of the circumstances under which she had arrived in Waldheim.
Her departure could not come soon enough. All she needed was a little coin. From this day forward, Elke would count the hours.
III
Despite her miseries, Elke Schreiber did have two comforts upon which she came to rely during this time.
The first was the simple geography of the place: on a sunny day, Waldheim represented the most objectively beautiful place she had ever seen. Were it not for its people, the village itself—tucked in the narrow wooded valley beneath the mountains—would exude a most unmistakable charm. Elke relished the rare bright days, especially in moments when she could be wonderfully alone.
Elke’s second sincere comfort in Waldheim came from her visits to the Bäckerei Rösner where she could be found on each and every Saturday morning. Some weeks would pass before it occurred to her that she was addicted not only to the light butter pastries that they made—sweetened with honey and fruits—but also to the kind company of the bakery’s wan shopkeeper, Milla.
Given her new friend’s sickly pallor, Elke had been surprised to learn recently that she and Milla were close in age. When they had first met, the young teacher figured the nice woman old enough to be her mother. But now that she knew, she could see it—a young woman somehow trapped, caught within a dim shadow of premature age.
Though she appeared generally quite tired, as if the vitality and even the hope had been drained from her, Milla would nonetheless blossom each time the doorbell signaled Elke’s weekly call.
The bakery also featured something of a café with tables available to the customers, but Elke had never seen anyone partake in this hospitality. In fact, it was uncommon for her to encounter another customer at all during her visits—visits that grew longer with each passing week as the two women fostered their relationship.
Elke liked Milla, and it was clear that the feeling was mutual. The two women were attracted to each other’s honesty most of all—each refreshed by the other’s stark candor. What had begun as a quick stop-in for a pastry had evolved into pastry and a word, then pastry and a chat, and finally pastry, coffee, and proper sit-down conversation.
The subject matter was light enough. Elke was always fascinated with the minutiae of baking and pastry-making, and when she was done interrogating Milla about the latest treat, she would go on to regale her friend with stories from the past week at school. Elke particularly enjoyed sharing tales of the students’ small victories of personality in the face of Frau Geller’s daily oppressions.
Milla had lived in Waldheim all of her life and spent much of her youth in the nearby forest. When afforded the unusual opportunity to steer their conversation, she enjoyed talking about the animals that lived there and how, with her duties at the shop, she rarely got to see them anymore. Remarkably, she spoke little about her own children—a boy and a girl, now approaching adolescence—even when hearing Elke’s stories about students of similar age.
About Milla’s children Elke learned only scant details. When they happened to come up in conversation, Milla would always develop a sad, far-away look in her eyes that immediately added an unsightly and wretched quality to her ill countenance. To avoid this fright and prevent her friend from suffering undue pain, Elke learned to carefully avoid the subject.
But it was a curious subject. Apparently Milla’s husband, unhappy with her for causes left unexplained, had taken their children and moved. The motherless family no longer lived in Waldheim, which was why the children did not attend Elke’s school, and Milla had not seen them in over a year. Elke got the distinct impression that the man had poisoned them against their mother, but no reason for this was suggested. Nor was a reason supplied for why Milla’s own father—the shop owner and baker, Herr Rösner—still maintained a cordial correspondence with the man. Milla’s father had even apparently given her husband his blessing for the move.
In all of her visits to Bäckerei Rösner, Elke had yet to meet Milla’s father, but that would soon change.
Butterkuchen! Elke had but this one thing on her mind. She grasped the handle of the bakery door and thrust it open so violently that it threatened to prostrate the door chime. Its loud complaint admonished the pastry lover for her enthusiasm just as she was preparing an equally boisterous greeting for the friend that she expected to see at the counter within.
Instead there was a man.
She must have startled him with her surprise entrance; his eyes were, briefly, as wide as dinner plates as he stood there, frozen in half-turn. The rest of his body, holding a tray of fresh breads, still faced the racks now behind him.
He was a balding fellow of average height with wispy white hairs on the sides of his head. Before she could apologize to him for her aggressive entrance, Herr Rösner recovered. With friendly eyes and a shrewd smile developing above his weak chin, he was the first with a greeting.
“You must be Fräulein Schreiber. Welcome again to my shop.”
“Herr Rösner?”
“That’s me,” he said informally. “You were no doubt expecting my daughter, Milla. I understand you two have become quite good friends.”
“That’s true; she’s almost as nice as your Butterkuchen,” Elke flattered, before stepping further inside. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Herr Meister. It seems I got a bit carried away with your door.”
“No problem—may I call you Elke?�
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“Please do. I don’t have enough friends here,” she replied. “Is Milla off today?”
“She is not feeling well. She was in the forest again yesterday.” His back was again turned as he finished snuggling the fresh appetizing loaves in with the others upon the display rack.
Elke, confused by the baker’s non sequitur, had no immediate response and so waited for him to finish his task.
“Was she injured in the forest?” asked Elke with concern, after the man was no longer preoccupied.
“We’ve told her to stay out of the woods, but she never listens. And she’s been going a lot more lately.”
“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with the woods? I think they are most beautiful.” Elke wondered to herself at the odd turn of their exchange.
“Oh, they are,” he said with a strange smile, “but for some they can be quite dangerous. Have you not noticed Milla’s appearance?”
“What of it? Not everyone is blessed with constitution,” Elke countered, ever ready for a debate.
“Trust me. I’m her father. She was not always so sickly.” He paused before adding, “Perhaps as her new friend you can help. Won’t you join us for supper this evening?”
“I’d be happy to help, but I don’t know what you mean.”
Instead of speaking to the matter further, Herr Rösner lightly brushed off her appeal. “Why don’t we talk about it tonight? I’ll make a roast.”
“Well, if your roast is as good as your cakes . . .” Elke smiled. “I should be delighted.”
With the date set for the evening, Elke turned to the task of selecting her Saturday morning treat. For some reason she opted to have this wrapped despite her original intention to eat it on the spot. And so, after quickly getting directions to the Rösner house, Elke was off.
She made it only as far as the Marktplatz before opting for a spontaneous picnic at what was rapidly becoming her spot: the steps beneath the central statue of that man evermore to face the town hall.
There at his feet Elke devoured Rösner’s delicate cake in six bites, pausing only before the last to look up and taunt the brooding bronze.
“So good,” she boasted smugly.
The monument only stared back at her, unmoved.
Supper at the Rösner house was at dusk. The baker and his family lived in an old but well-kept two-story structure at the edge of town. It had not been difficult for Elke to find as it was only three streets over from the bakery.
Frau Rösner was the one to greet the teacher at the door. This was their first meeting, and yet immediately Elke was struck by how harried the woman seemed. After but a perfunctory greeting, Helma Rösner was off to the living room where she began loudly expressing her concerns about the children’s proximity to the fireplace.
The house seemed full, but it was just the Rösners, their two towheaded grandchildren, and their other daughter, Berdine. Milla was noticeably absent.
Having been abandoned without further introduction by Frau Rösner, and with her only other acquaintance apparently busy in the kitchen with his roast, Elke felt quite out of place. She stood awkwardly in the doorway to the living room, admiring the energy of the active toddlers running circles around their mother seated before the fire.
“You must be Fräulein Schreiber,” said Berdine, smiling casually and looking up at the newcomer. A serene-looking woman with her long black hair in a single braid, Berdine sat cross-legged and comfortably on a thick woolen carpet.
Helma had taken her din to the other room and began yelling after her husband, the cook.
“Yes, Elke Schreiber . . . pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Berdine. And that’s Geralyn,” she said, gesturing to one of her two sweet girls that looked to be twins. Geralyn seemed to be thoroughly enjoying pushing a wheeled toy around the room. “And that one’s Lena.”
Lena looked up briefly at the sound of her name and smiled. Unlike her sister, she had decided to sit down after capturing a carved wooden horse from a nearby table.
“They are beautiful children,” beamed Elke sincerely.
“They are wonderful,” replied the young mother with a muted but evident pride.
Elke was stooping down to chat with little Lena when the child’s grandpa appeared at the door from the kitchen.
“Welcome! Did you find the place without any trouble?” The baker was smiling as he removed his apron. He had had to raise his voice somewhat as he spoke because of a concurrent racket that developed: Helma was loudly rattling plates behind him just as Berdine began cheering Geralyn’s latest endeavor.
“Yes, your directions were perfect,” Elke replied, standing back up, before adding, “Where is Milla?” Too late it occurred to her that her question lacked a certain tact.
“She could not be with us,” he said, surprisingly dismissive of her valid, if tactless, query. “Won’t you come into the kitchen? Supper is ready.” He turned to engage his wife who was now complaining that the table was not properly set.
Elke looked to Berdine, bent over her two daughters, smiling and encouraging them to “Come, let’s wash up.” The visitor was left to cross to the kitchen doorway alone, still feeling very much like a stranger in the house.
Rösner was carving his appetizing roast upon a great wooden board as his frantic wife fussed with the dishes.
“Please let me help,” Elke begged of her.
“Oh, no, you are our guest, fräulein! Please sit. I’m almost done. It’s Georg’s fault. He could have told me earlier when you were coming!”
The nervous energy of Frau Rösner made Elke uncomfortable, and so she remained standing despite the fact that the older woman had gestured for her to take the seat at the head of the table.
In time, however, the chaos subsided, and the family and their guest took their places. Compared to Elke’s usual fare—tavern food mostly—the Rösners’ spread represented an unmitigated feast. There was the delightful and quite massive roast with its dark crust and pink juicy center, mushrooms, potatoes, cheese, pickled cabbage, fresh rye bread with caraway seeds, and soft butter to slather it with.
Herr Rösner and Elke drank mugs of weak beer, with Berdine and her daughters enjoying fresh milk instead. Frau Rösner chose only water; she explained that they kept a wine-free household because of the children. Elke’s pardon was begged because of this, which she granted freely, though she would have enjoyed a rich red wine to accompany this meal, the insipid beer failing entirely to do it justice.
Wine was not the only thing lacking at this feast. Though a thoughtful but brief toast was offered to their guest, there was neither blessing nor thanksgiving to God for such a bounty. Elke found this rather queer. It had long been taken for granted by northerners that they paled in comparison to their southern neighbors in the eyes of God. Perhaps there was hope for them yet, and Elke with them, if this house and Waldheim’s collective congregations were in any way representative.
The meal was almost good enough to make Elke forget the plight of her friend, but not quite. After unceremoniously dispatching with a third of her portion, she felt the energy to broach the subject.
“Is Milla all right? You said earlier that she was not feeling well . . .” Elke had drafted this line carefully as she ate. While not wanting to impose, she was becoming quite eager to learn the details regarding her friend’s absence.
“She hasn’t been feeling well. She is in the forest now.” Herr Rösner’s reply sounded as if he were explaining something to a child. As he said this, his wife shot him a weird nervous glance.
“Yes, you mentioned the forest earlier. I still don’t get the connection. The last place I would want to be if I were not feeling well would be alone in the woods after dark.” Despite her best attempts, a tinge of annoyance became evident in Elke’s voice.
“You are absolutely right, fräu
lein. The forest is no place for anyone at night, especially a young woman.” His reply was laden with genuine concern.
At this point, before Elke could respond, Helma Rösner interrupted, saying, “I don’t know how much you know of Waldheim, fräulein, but the dangers of our wood go far beyond mere wolves and bears.”
“Well then! Let’s organize a search party! What are we doing here?” Elke had raised her voice, though she remained mindful of not frightening the children. A quick glance their way confirmed that she nonetheless had their full attention.
“A search party would only make matters worse, and bring upon us greater misfortune.” Helma said this, and it was impossible to interpret her manner in so saying as anything but becoming unhinged.
Herr Rösner tried to restore matters. “I know that you don’t know Milla very well having just met her. And I’ve heard the way she talks to you . . .”
What? When? Had he eavesdropped on them at the shop? Elke’s mind raced as she tried to figure out what was going on.
He continued. “But we believe her bewitched. She is cursed in some way. You have seen how sickly she has become. She used to be so healthy and happy.”
Here again was this nonsense about witchcraft. Elke was going to get to the crux of this matter even if cold beef roast was to be her cost. “Look, I’ve been in Waldheim long enough to hear this talk of witchcraft . . .” Civility barely restrained her word choice. “But you must know that I don’t believe a word of it. I consider Milla my friend, and if she needs my help, you must tell me where she is so that I can go to her.”
“That’s just it, fräulein. We don’t know where she is. She does this sometimes. This is far from the first of it, and we know she goes to the forest. We’ve made inquiries. No one is putting her up.”