A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  “And I you, of course. But have you not agreed that we have yet to find it—a place to stay . . . a home?”

  “When you find it, I’ll have found it,” said the boy.

  “But what about the people of these places? Could you really see yourself living with those people in Russia, or even here?”

  “If it was with you, I could. People are people. In the end they’re all the same.”

  “That’s remarkably categorical of you. But is it true? Well, young man, defend your assertion!” Elke’s tone became that of a teacher again, in the full excitement of a coming lesson in rhetoric.

  Sascha turned to her. “There’s no difference in them, and I expect you will find it true of the Parisians as well.”

  “Have you not noticed how they look at us—our current house staff? Sure, they serve us, because we have the money to pay them, but it is clear that they do not accept us, and I can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than our Germanness—our foreignness.”

  “They probably just don’t know what to make of us,” said Sascha, smiling.

  “But don’t you remember how we were treated in Denmark?”

  Sascha shrugged.

  Elke began expounding her point. “I got the impression that we were freer there to be ourselves. There was a certain simplicity, as if they knew who they were, and were quite content to let us be who we are—a place where people meet one another on their own terms with friendly genuineness instead of unspoken suspicion, expectation, or worse: malevolence.”

  “Who says the Danes aren’t guilty of those things?” he replied, looking down at nothing in particular. “Can you really claim to know what they are thinking?”

  “I’m speaking generally. I can’t say for certain. It’s just a feeling I get . . . But there’s more to it than just a feeling. Something of it can be tested. Just look around you here in London. Do you not remember Copenhagen . . . how peaceful it was by comparison?”

  “But how can you compare them?” he asked, his eyes fixed to hers once more. “There is no comparison. Copenhagen is only a village next to London. There are thousands more people living here.”

  Elke raised her eyebrows in triumph. “Perhaps that what I need then: a village. Perhaps that’s what humanity needs. I don’t know. Maybe the Margrave has finally turned me into a mystic, but if I’m to be a witch like him, I shall require a place that won’t burn me alive.”

  To this the boy said nothing. It was evident that he did not relish the reminder. The silence hung between them for a moment before Elke continued.

  “All I’m saying is that some people, some societies, are in fact better than others, and it seems to me that the more simple they are, the better. I’m looking for a simple place. And you may be right about Paris, but we won’t know until we try it. Simple can’t be the only criterion or else, on that count, I should wish to return to a certain secluded mountain valley in Bavaria.”

  Sascha, who had been glazed in thought, recovered himself. “Did I ever tell you about that day . . .?”

  Elke replied with solemnity, “You told me how you escaped, but not much about what happened before. I know it must have been horrible. It’s why I hadn’t asked . . .”

  Sascha began, determined to expel the foul story that had plagued him—and him alone—for so long. “It was late that morning. Drahomir and I were in the carriage house fixing a brake when we heard them. I went outside. There were dozens of them in the courtyard, still on horseback with torches and guns, shouting curses at his lordship the Count. Drahomir pulled me back in, told me to go and warn everyone. I ran into the house and told Bogdana; then I went upstairs to the master. He told me to lock the front door, but Drahomir had already come inside and done this by the time I got back down. He told me that they had Paul. We all went upstairs where his lordship had opened a window and was shouting with the Bürgermeister. The rest of them were just milling around; it was the mayor doing most of the talking—or threatening. You were mentioned, fräulein, while the mayor and Count were arguing, but their feud was obviously much older. The bastards were demanding that the Count submit to arrest, but he wouldn’t, he said, until they released Paul. Paul had been out in his garden and didn’t get inside in time. When they wouldn’t deliver Paul, the Count told us he had no choice. He was getting ready to go out to them by the side door—the one near the carriage house, so they couldn’t get in to us—when the man holding Paul stabbed him in the back. I think Paul knew that the Count was going to give himself up, and that’s why he put up such a struggle. After that, the Count told us all to leave immediately by the trap door. He wasn’t going to go without a fight and would not allow any more of us to get hurt. Bogdana and Drahomir refused to leave him. No one would—but still they made me. Drahomir hit me when I told him I would fight too. He had never hit me before . . .”

  Sascha began to cry, and then Elke did as well—two picnickers sobbing in the park beneath the cheery blue sky. Shaking her head, she pled for him to stop, but her young friend continued.

  “The Count too said I had to go, that one day I would understand. He told me there are monsters in this world, and when you find one you are to never give it quarter. He said that there is no good in man, and that a man may attain goodness only insofar as he allows God into his life. He said that those men were Godless filth and that whatsoever they did to him they were doing truly to themselves.”

  The boy stopped, overcome. Elke clambered to him from her chair, her cheeks glistening with empathetic tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, embracing him. “I’m so sorry. You needn’t go on.”

  Sascha, buried in her bosom, held tightly to her as he strove to control himself. “I ran . . . You told me . . . You told me to look out for them and I ran!”

  “You had no choice!” said Elke, her tired eyes bursting anew.

  “I—” The boy stopped, feeling her hand at the back of his head. His cap, displanted by the collision, lay on the blanket behind him.

  Elke said no more but heaved a ragged sigh as she stroked his hair. They hugged each other until they both ceased crying. Elke maintained her grasp even after Sascha’s arms became limp; only when he had resorted to wriggling to free himself did she finally let him go.

  Irked, he sat back from her and rubbed at his eyes. Elke remained sitting on her knees, grinning and trying to trap his gaze. When Sascha saw that she would persist, he met her stare.

  “What?” he said, still annoyed.

  “You’re sitting on your hat.”

  Sascha, powerless under the circumstances to suppress the twitching corners of his mouth, began shaking his head as he rolled over to retrieve his flattened chapeau. By the time it was back on his head, Elke too had dried her tears.

  “Well, that’s over with. You don’t have to tell me anything more about it ever again,” she said.

  “There’s not much more to tell. The Margrave gave me this treasure,” he said, patting the pack that almost never left his sight, “and Bogdana showed me the way to the trap door. They all stayed with the Count; no one came with me.”

  “Was Loritz there?” asked Elke, not quite wanting to know but unable to restrain her curiosity.

  “He must have been, but I don’t remember it. I didn’t meet him until days later when he found me.”

  “All that he did in my name . . .” said Elke with regret.

  “He didn’t know. He told me this when he found me. He seemed convincing. I’d be surprised if he’s still there. I think he hates those people as much as we do.”

  Elke waxed philosophical. “Such a waste . . . such an awful waste . . . How could anyone hate such a man?”

  The boy had no answer for her. They sat in contemplative silence for a while before Elke spoke again.

  “I don’t feel much like an English lesson today. Or even . . . French now, no?”

&n
bsp; “Nah,” replied Sascha. “And you’re sure you don’t want to go back to your awesome Denmark instead?”

  She laughed. “Well, there’s that awful herring, and I’m sure the winters are miserable, and as it is, I don’t know if I’ve got more than a channel-crossing left in me . . .”

  “So that’s a no to America then as well?” he said, jestingly.

  “America? Ha! Don’t get me started!” she said with a playful smile. “So, what shall we do?”

  Sascha gestured to the lovers still out bobbing in the Serpentine. “I want to rent one of those boats!”

  Within a fortnight Elke and Sascha were re-settled in “La Ville Lumière.” As London had before it, the great city of Paris made a good first impression. Excepting perhaps Saint Petersburg, the governess and her charge found it the most visually striking to date. The two now-experienced travelers executed their plan to precision in securing a fine apartment and staff, fully intent on giving the new city every bit its due, as they had the British capital.

  Their first stop once established was the Musèe du Louvre. The two art lovers immediately proclaimed it the most astounding thing that either of them had ever laid eyes on. They spent the remainder of the week in it, carefully considering each and every piece on display. From there they went on to discover the other delights of this city nonpareil—so much more than art, than architecture, fashion, even cuisine. The overawed travelers could easily see how such a magnificent culture had once brought all of Europe to heel. The pair spent weeks exploring the city’s broad avenues and boulevards. They strolled along the Seine like the aristocrats they claimed to be, and they ate still better—like kings. Elke discovered wine as God himself intended it to be; she would even share a sip or two of the delicious nectar with her young friend on the infrequent occasions when she was feeling generous. Weeks passed before it finally occurred to the oblivious ex-history teacher that all was not as it seemed in their oppidan paradise.

  In July of the preceding year, a great upheaval of discontent had shaken the city, the very heart of France, for “Three Glorious Days.” The House of Bourbon was removed by revolution—France’s second—and a new King, Louis-Philippe, installed. The people that had tasted of republicanism would evermore keep monarchical rule in check. What prevailed now in the fall of 1831 was neither revolution nor contentment, but unease.

  As was typical in their travels, the two tourists kept mostly to the fairer parts of town. And they had not initially questioned why their gold coin brought them such value—well beyond that which they had enjoyed in London. But one day, while in a carriage in search of countryside, the pair happened upon a working-class commune on the outskirts. In this decidedly rustic part of town, Elke and Sascha encountered a much different way of life.

  “What are they saying?” asked Sascha; he had only just begun his tutelage in the French language.

  “Their factory has been shuttered, and they’re none too happy about it,” replied Elke, her ear pricked. She was trying to make out more from the shouts of the crowd that had formed nearby.

  They had been enjoying the air, riding in an open landau, but apprehension cast its shadow over their journey. In their newest French finery, the fancy young baron and his governess were out of place and would soon be made acutely aware of it.

  “Driver, please move us quickly from here,” said Elke, in her thickly accented French.

  The tremor in her voice spoke to her concern, yet their driver did nothing—his two horses plodded along as before. Suddenly, someone at the rear of the crowd began yelling loudly and gesticulating. He was pointing at their carriage, and soon others turned and joined him in noting its presence. Elke shuddered as an icy chill ran down her spine.

  “À bas les aristocrates!” shrieked someone, then another.

  As the undulating crowd began to turn itself upon them, Elke compelled herself to her feet. She gripped the back of the coachman’s seat with her left hand for support; with her right, she made a fist and knot with her thumb. Taking a wide swing she stabbed this knuckle viciously into the coachman’s ribcage on his right side, just beneath the arm. The stricken driver yelped in pain and twisted to her so fast that his hat almost flew off. Their eyes locked. Behind his wince she saw a desire for retribution: he wanted to hit her back. With the whole of her countenance she dared him to try. A stern warning then came out of her, under her breath, as if by its own accord.

  “Bewegen, oder ich werde dich bewegen.”

  He blinked. Turning back to his task, the driver snapped the reins, finally encouraging the horses to pick up their pace. As they made their escape, Sascha, with wide eyes, resorted to shifting about in his seat to keep close watch on the disgruntled workers. Fortunately, the throng never made it to them, though the both of them felt sure of its ultimate intentions. They had simply made the necessary haste before the mass had finished absolving itself of the individual responsibility that so hindered its true potential.

  When they had put some distance between themselves and the angry crowd, Elke slumped back into her seat beside Sascha.

  “He speaks German?” he asked.

  “He does when he knows what’s good for him.”

  That afternoon they cut short their trip out of town and chose to return to their place in the city by another route. From that point on, the two explorers were more careful. Elke’s eyes had been opened at last to the true circumstances surrounding them, not the least of which explained why their coin went so far: the French economy was in dire straits. In spite of her expansive knowledge of history, Elke knew little of the recent events in France, nor how they had given rise to the current discontent so unmistakably evident now that she would see it. She needed to know more.

  They began to take the papers and were appalled at what they read. The rank political debates destroyed their idyllic first impressions of the French, and especially of Parisians. Elke began asking the locals political questions everywhere they went, telling Sascha how essential it was if they were to consider staying. She wanted to hear how these people felt about their new constitutional monarchy and its opposition, but in reality, all she discovered was that people didn’t like talking to outsiders about such things, not even in their mother tongue.

  At the very least the papers offered a lesson idea. Repurposed for language instruction, the antagonistic rags proved most excellent; Elke took to having Sascha read them to her. One day while working his way through an obituary, the boy happened to elicit an unexpected reaction from his teacher.

  “Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel has died. On November fourteenth, 1831, the great thinker died of cholera in Berlin . . .” said Sascha in broken French, reading from a newspaper held close to his face.

  “He’s dead?” asked Elke, her voice booming enthusiastically from the other room of their upstairs suite. She spoke in German, clearly breaking their French lesson.

  “Hegel is dead,” answered the boy.

  Announced by the swish of her petticoat, Elke appeared in the adjoining doorway and stopped. She leaned against the doorframe and looked over to Sascha as he sat comfortably on a chaise opposite her.

  “Hegel selbst ist tot,” she said, and a smile developed on her face.

  “Yes, that’s what I said,” replied Sascha, puzzled.

  “O Traurigkeit!” she responded, putting the back of her wrist to her forehead in mock melodrama.

  The boy just rolled his eyes and shook his head, having long learned to leave his friend to her inscrutable inside jokes—their investigation was almost never worth the effort.

  Elke Schreiber had begun to tire of life in the French capital. Though she still enjoyed certain aspects of the city, she conceded to herself that, as a permanent place of residence for her and Sascha, it was unsustainable. It wasn’t as if their treasure could not hold out—even at their exorbitant rate of expenditure they could expect their money to last fo
r years—rather that they did not fit in; more so than in any place yet visited, in Paris the pair felt their unbelonging. Neither of them was accustomed to acting the part of a stuffy aristocrat, and the denizens of French society had quickly found them out. One waning day of November they were dining in a favorite restaurant, L’Alsace, when the ex-teacher’s acute hearing picked up some vicious gossip directed at them from four women at a nearby table.

  “That’s her again with the boy,” said the one with a long sharp nose jutting from her overpainted face. “She calls herself a ‘governess’, but tries to do herself up like a duchess. Just look at her: miserable Prussian!”

  “She can’t hide in that dress,” added another, as cackles erupted from their table.

  “What’s with the boy?” asked a third.

  “He’s a baron!” replied the second, mockingly.

  Elke had seen them before and conjectured that this second woman, with her blond curls and non-existent chin, was principal toady to the first: “Madame Nez,” the apparent leader of their gang.

  “A baron? He’s cute!” piped the fourth.

  “I wonder what she really does with him when they are alone in that apartment of theirs,” said Nez.

  “Alone?”

  “Oh, yes! It’s just the two of them. They’ve lived in the old Boissieu place over on Rue Saint-Dominique for over a month now.”

  Elke stood to leave, looking down on her little baron who remained seated, perhaps presuming her off to powder.

  “Come, let’s go,” she said to him in German.

  “But we haven’t ordered yet,” he complained. “I’m starving.”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Dutifully the boy complied, but before they left, Elke stopped to offer a word at the table of French women; they were still snickering, though at some other amusement. Sascha was just close enough behind to make out what she said.

  Leaning down, Elke got right up in Madame Nez’s ugly mug, interrupting the rotten gossip mid-sentence, and saying, “Je viens de Brême.”