The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn II.4
A Gothic Horror Novel
Book II, Chapter 4: Kohlendorf
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Departing the firehouse, Hermann and Walter made their way through the empty lanes of Kohlendorf. It was the first Sunday of November, 1870, but the exigencies of Prussia’s war with France meant that most of the foundries and manufactories of North Rhine and Westphalia remained in a state of uninterrupted production with their smokestacks fuming.
Despite its name, Kohlendorf (Coal Town) produced no coal. Established in 1826 as a way station for fuel arriving from collieries in the east, the coal had originally been stored in sheds and warehouses along canals formed by water diverted from a tributary of the Rhine. Now the canals lay weed-choked and almost dry. In the summer of 1857 the Royal Westphalian Railway Company, in recognition of the town’s growing importance as a distribution center, voted to lay a line through Kohlendorf.
Hermann carried the three iron tools from the Allard farm over his shoulder. He scanned the shuttered establishments on the sidewalks. He was starting to feel foolish for surrendering all of their food and fire-building kit to the poor widow and her children. His visit to the firehouse had guaranteed they would be taken care of until the woman’s family arrived from Kiel. Now he and Walter would have to do without.
“I don’t feel bad about helping those people the way we did,” Walter said as if reading Hermann’s thoughts. “But it would be nice to have a big meal. Something filling. I almost miss the bacon from the workhouse.”
“God will provide for us.”
Walter did not respond. He shifted the tin pail from one hand to the other.
It occurred to Hermann that the orphan neither prayed, nor invoked God or His saints. He wondered if Walter had even been baptized. Truly, the Lord chooses the unlikeliest of vessels to execute His will and implement His designs.
“I don’t think you should say ‘God’ as much as you do,” Walter remarked. “The way you pronounce the ‘O’ makes it obvious you’re a southerner. And you always cross yourself and pray to Maria and such. People in towns take notice of things like that. They’ll remember you days after you’re gone.”
Hermann looked at the boy, stunned. They had spent much of the past week hiding in the country. But now, among these paved streets and brick buildings, the orphan seemed at home. I wonder if he was born in a metropolis. Cronenberg was large but you could not go anywhere in it without seeing at least two or three people you knew.
They came to an alley between a gap in the sidewalk. The alley was broad enough for two wagons to enter side by side. A double door on rollers stood open. There was a horse trough outside next to a hitching post. Voices could be heard coming from within.
Hermann glanced at the building’s sidewalk facade. The window shades were drawn low, but a sign swinging from a wrought-iron bar over the door indicated the establishment specialized in horse tack.
Hermann entered the alley, and Walter followed.
Two elderly men were inside, chatting inconsequentially with each other as they busied themselves amidst a profusion of stirrups, saddles, bridles, harnesses, and bits. It was a combination workshop and showroom. To the left, Hermann saw a few steps leading up to the storefront. The smell of leather and linseed pervaded the air.
The men stopped talking and turned to regard the newcomers. The heavier of the two, who wore round glasses, threw up his hands in mock surprise, dropping the leather straps he was holding and pulling a comical face that made Walter laugh.
The other man grinned. “Please, come in. You’re welcome to have a look. But I’m afraid we can’t sell you anything today, what with it being Sunday.”
“I’m afraid I’m not here to buy,” Hermann confessed. “I was hoping to sell.” He removed the tools and propped them against a thick strut hung with saddles. He went to Walter, who was wearing the rope harness with the sickle. The boy bent his neck and shrugged so Hermann could lift it off his shoulders.
Unraveling the rope around the sickle, Hermann spoke. “I recognize it’s Sunday. But if you’re interested we could come back tomorrow to conduct a transaction. The iron is solid and the wood is sturdy.”
The brothers glanced at each other. It was obvious by the visitors’ carriage and appearance that they were down on their luck.
The jester went to the strut and lifted his glasses to his forehead. “I’m blind with these things on. I only wear them so I don’t have to look at my idiot brother.” He examined the tools. “Yes, we’ll take these, so long as the price is reasonable. We can use the iron for stirrups and the wood for bits.”
“Are you hungry?” the other man asked.
Hermann looked at him.
“Yes,” Walter whispered.
“My brother requires mountains of food to keep him fat and florid.”
“It’s true!” the jester said, rubbing his stomach. “There’s a cauldron of beef stew on the fire. We were about to sit down for lunch. Would you care to join us?”
“We would be grateful,” Hermann said.
They withdrew into the brothers’ living quarters at the back of the shop, which opened into a kitchen dominated by a benched table. A hearth with a tin hood was built into the wall.
Due to Walter’s small stature, he shared the bench with the fat man. The older brother ladled out four bowls and insisted Hermann and Walter eat their fill. “Whatever you don’t eat will go down the boar’s gullet!”
Hermann uttered a hasty prayer of thanksgiving and crossed himself. The brothers maintained a respectful silence. But Walter looked away.
When Hermann and Walter had finished two bowls, along with a slab of black bread with lard, the older man, who appeared to be the proprietor, produced a bottle of wine.
“To facilitate digestion,” he explained.
Walter’s eyes were beginning to droop.
The brothers discussed the weather and other topics, such as the novelty of having to sweep soot from the sidewalk each morning to keep it clean. This had not been a problem when their family had come to the region long ago.
“Back then,” the elder brother remarked, “Kohlendorf was a nameless hamlet with no sidewalks. And there were far fewer chimneys here—or anywhere else in the world.”
The jester could not help but to bring up the rising prices as a result of the war. The proprietor nodded, but admitted that their business had been flourishing as a result. “I can’t keep up with the orders coming in.”
Hermann spoke with circumspection if he spoke at all.
Suddenly, Walter passed out and slumped over onto the heavy man’s side.
“Pop!” the jester remarked. “I don’t think he’ll be back until the last thunderclap.”
The three men laughed.
Hermann placed his winecup on the table. “I never would have imagined we would stumble upon such spontaneous hospitality. But this is a Sunday and we have overstayed our welcome. My son and I will return tomorrow, if you permit, to settle the deal.”
“Where will you go?” the jester asked.
“We’ll find a place.”
The brothers’ eyebrows shot up.
The proprietor spoke. “Why don’t you stay in my nephew’s room upstairs.”
Hermann looked at the jester, presuming it was his son the elder brother was speaking of.
“Not my boy. Our sister’s youngest child.”
“He won’t mind?” Hermann asked.
The proprietor shook his head. “He has regrettably passed.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hermann replied.
The heavy man’s eyes misted over. “He was about this one’s age when he started working for us. Then one day he tells us he’s enlisting in the Prussian army; and off he goes.”
“So he died in the war?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” the older man said, shaking his head. “It was an accident. Nine years ago, now.”
“I see.”
The jester roused Walter, and smiled down on him. “Would you like to sleep in a real bed?”
“That would be nice,” the orphan said, rubbing his eyes.
Hermann and Walter were conducted back through the showroom to an open portal near the storefront. This led into an antechamber with a cupboard and small table in it. A narrow flight of steps led up to a garret.
“I can no longer squeeze up that staircase,” the jokester said, wagging his head jovially.
The older brother conducted them to the half-landing. The door at the top of the second flight of steps stood open.
“Oh,” the man said. “Thought I had shut that.”
Hermann was surprised by how wide the bed was. Without even asking permission Walter removed his shoes and climbed up into it, keeping the rest of his clothes on. He does that in case we have to flee again, Hermann thought. The boy fell asleep almost instantly.
The brother whispered into Hermann’s ear. “The reason the bed is so large is that my nephew was a bit of a blade.” They both looked at a photograph of a handsome man in uniform. “Lady visitors day and night, you know?”
Hermann pointed apologetically to Walter. “I’m really sorry. His clothes are filthy. We haven’t washed.”
“It’s true, you both reek to high heaven. But my brother and I are used to such smells. During the work week the alley is full of horses pissing and dropping apples, with their owners doing more or less the same. . . If you feel so inclined, you may clean yourself in the trough outside before turning in. Our laundress comes every Monday. I shall have her strip the bed tomorrow.”
Hermann felt a wave of exhaustion from the warmth of the food and the wine in his belly. “It’s not even noon.” He shook his head.
“You need rest. I don’t know what you and your boy have been through. But you both have a hunted and anxious look.”
Hermann wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Thank you,” he said. “I think I will clean myself before laying down.”
The man went to the door. “Oh, and you might want to bring that pail of yours upstairs to use as a piss-pot.”
Hermann left his hat on a hook in the room and descended the steps. He exited through the double door. At the horse trough, he pulled off his shirt but kept his trousers on. Since it was a holy day and the alley was a public thoroughfare, he dare not risk being arrested for lewdness.
He didn’t have the courage to ask the brothers for soap or a towel since they had already given so much. The water was frigid, but he washed himself as best he could, shaking his damp head like a dog. He kept his shirt off as he ambled back inside. The two men were in the kitchen, washing the dishes and discussing something quietly.
I’m sure it’s about us.
He grabbed the tin pail and carried it upstairs. In the bottom of the pail was the shoulder satchel containing his father’s things: the straight-razor, shaving mirror, and memento mori. Once in the room, Hermann removed the satchel and put it on the side table.
He didn’t want to wear his stinking shirt to bed. It was filthier than Walter’s, with a broad patch of soot on the back where he had lain on the floor in the brickmaker’s burned-down house. But if he slept with his shirt off, the un-evaporated water on his shirt and chest might seep into the sheets and make the bed cold for Walter. And I can feel a draft coming in through that window sash.
He rummaged through a chest-of-drawers and found a folded nightshirt. Surely the brothers would understand and respect his decision to don their nephew’s clothes. He removed his boots, disrobed, and put the nightshirt on. The garment was cut for a young man’s frame and was tight-fitting. But it would have to do.
He had not slept in a bed for over three years. The smooth sensation of the mattress and pillow accepting his weight was so overwhelmingly comfortable that Hermann felt his conscious mind roll like a boulder down a hill into absolute blackness.
His sleep was uninvaded by dreams. But he woke suddenly because he felt a sharp cut across his neck. His throat was gurgling. Moritz’s straight-razor fell from his slack hand and clattered to the floor. Hermann sat up and saw a jet of hot blood spurting from a severed artery. But as suddenly as the pain had come, it was gone; and what he had thought had been a stain on the nightshirt proved to be a fleeting shadow, which his unfocused eyes had perceived as blood. There was no razor on the floor. The satchel lay undisturbed on the side table where he had put it.
A train whistled in the distance. Walter was still asleep. The first light of dawn cast its wan beams in the chamber and discovered the room to be empty.
Hermann crawled out of bed and felt the cool floorboards on his bare feet. How long did we sleep?
He lifted the pail to use it for the purpose proposed. There was already a pool of urine inside it. Walter must have got up in the night to relieve himself. But a grimly amusing thought came to his mind as he imagined the ghostly nephew standing at the foot of the bed, yawning and emptying his bladder as he smiled beatifically at the two sleeping mortals.
Hermann went to the window and raised the sash, using a stick on the sill to prop it up. There was no one in the alley below. The double door had been closed for the night. He emptied the pail’s contents and lowered the window again.
He dressed in the filthy clothes he’d worn the day before and pulled on his boots.
Walter had flopped to the center of the bed, limbs asprawl.
“Runt,” Hermann sniffed. He stepped out and quietly shut the door.
At the bottom of the staircase a candle burned in a sconce. Hermann presumed one of the brothers had lit it so their guests did not stumble on the lower steps. A metallic glint in an open cupboard caught his eye. It was a menorah with a cloth wrapped around its stem. Pewter cups and plates were stacked on either side of it. This was why the brothers had been working in their shop yesterday morning.
When he stepped into the showroom, he found the proprietor behind a counter, going over his books. At his elbow was a lantern and inkhorn. A wisp of steam climbed from a tin cup. He looked up and smiled. “I think you slept well. Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be nice.”
The man poured a second cup.
“My brother is still asleep,” he said, “shaking the walls with his snores and farts.”
Hermann sipped the coffee. It tasted richer than the thin brew doled out at the Schorn Foundation. Despite the shocking manner by which he had been startled awake, he felt refreshed. “I haven’t slept so well in a long time,” he observed.
“That’s good,” the proprietor said, striking a line through an inaccuracy. “You have a southern accent. But your boy does not.”
Hermann looked at the man from under his brows.
The proprietor closed the account book with a sad frown. “I don’t think you should stay in Kohlendorf. There are Prussian inspectors here who are pressing men they perceive as vagabonds and idlers into military service; and there are rumors that. . . orphans are being sent off to the coal mines in the east.”
Walter emerged from the shadows. It was obvious that he had overheard.
The old man saw the boy, but did not alter his tone. “At the end of the counter, I have placed what I believe you will agree is fair compensation for the tools you brought in yesterday.”
On the table were five Vereinstalers and fifteen groschen. Hermann turned to the man, agape. The proprietor nodded and pointed with his pen to the coins. Hermann scooped them into both palms. “Thank you so much!”
“My brother and I have been discussing your situation; and I would like to raise a proposal with you. . . Ten miles north of Kohlendorf our sister, Elischewa, the mother of the man whose room you slept in last night, runs a coach inn, which services traffic between Hamburg and Cologne. Her surviving children are married and live far away. They have become. . . Well, it is as though they no longer care what happens to their parents.
“Elischewa’s husband, our brother-in-law, is still alive but in a severe state of mental decline. There are days when he no longer recognizes his home, or even his wife. Our sister administers the accounts of the inn and regulates the household’s economies on her own.
“Before the war, seven laborers resided on the property, earning a modest salary and boarding in quarters over the coach house. Now, only two remain: an ostler and his wife. The girl runs the tap and kitchen and helps Elischewa prepare the guest rooms and keep them tidy. The ostler is a queer fellow, a former schoolmaster. He has a hangdog manner and is rather bumbling, but otherwise capable. Elischewa has absolute faith in the couple’s integrity.
“If you are interested, I can recommend you and your son to Elischewa’s employ. I am certain she would be grateful for the help, even if it were only temporary. But you must be given to understand that, were you to accept, you would be entering into a business connection that would subject you to the government of a Jewish matron. I do not know where you stand on such matters.”
Hermann recalled the kindness Frau Jeismann had shown to him at the lowest point of his life, a kindness this man and his brother had shown tenfold. “My son and I would consider it an honor.”
“So be it.” He reached for a cream-colored sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkhorn and began to write. He paused in the middle of the first sentence. “What name shall I give?”
“Moritz,” Hermann said.
“Moritz,” the man repeated. He did not ask for a surname. “And Moritz’s son?”
Hermann looked at Walter. “Umm. . . Florian.”
“I hereby recommend the bearer of this letter, Herr Moritz, and his son, Florian . . .”
Hermann finished his coffee.
When the proprietor had completed the letter, he sprinkled pounce on the ink to dry it. Then he shook the sandarac off, folded the paper, opened the lantern, and heated the sealing wax over the flame.
“I wanted to mention,” Hermann said, “that last night I used one of your nephew’s nightshirts.”
“It’s quite alright. I will have our laundress clean the shirt as well.”
He sealed the letter and handed it to Hermann. “Incidentally,” he remarked, “I should like to discuss with you the circumstances surrounding my nephew’s death before you meet his mother. But I would like to do so privately.”
“Florian. . .” Hermann said, turning to Walter. “Fetch the pail we brought with us. I want you to wash it in the alley.”
“There’s a wire brush on the hook over there, lad,” the proprietor commented.
The orphan withdrew.
The old man led Hermann up the steps into the storefront, gently closing the door behind them.
“My nephew entered the Prussian army and swiftly rose to the rank of corporal. He was posted to a unit in Wedding, located in Berlin’s Mitte borough. His courage and intellect marked him for distinction. But it earned him the envy of others. He was promoted to the rank of sergeant over a fellow corporal in his company.
“The disappointed man crashed the promotion banquet in a state of drunkenness. He denounced what he claimed was the injustice of granting preferment to a Jew over a gentile. The lieutenant ordered my nephew to punish the drunkard as the first duty of his new rank. The blackguard was cast into a cell for thirty days on a charge of insubordination and conduct unbefitting a non-commissioned officer.
“Seemingly chastened, the man returned to the barracks, sentence served. My nephew embraced him before his messmates and proclaimed that, in order for them to fight effectively on any future battlefront, it would be imperative for them to regard one another as brothers. “And so we must let bygones be bygones,” he said.
“Because it was Christmas Eve, my nephew concluded this speech by granting the soldiers under his charge a three-day pass. He himself would remain in the barracks with a coreligionist, with whom he had been on cordial terms for several years, but with whom he was no longer permitted to fraternize due to the dignity of his new rank.
“This man, a few years younger, spent his Christmas Day recreating himself along the banks of the frozen Spree. When he returned to the barracks, he was horrified by the grisly spectacle that confronted him. My nephew lay on his cot, throat slit by his own straight-razor, which he still clutched in his right hand.”
Hermann covered his mouth at the recollection of that morning’s waking vision.
“A letter announcing the suicide was to be dispatched to our shop in Kohlendorf, our nephew’s last known residence before his enlistment.
“What none of us were aware of at the time was that the fellow, who had discovered the corpse, was the battalion clerk and had commissioned to draft up the offending document. Instead, he forged a letter alleging that Elischewa’s son had died in a carriage accident on the Polish border; and that the body had been interred condignly in a shtetl close by.
“Six months after our nephew’s death, the same man visited our shop in mufti. He introduced himself to us and confided to my brother and me the story, which I have related to you. It was obvious to the man that our nephew had been murdered. The straight-razor had been found in the corpse’s right hand, despite my nephew being left-handed. Moreover, the slain man’s face was smeared with bloody palm prints, even though his hands were but lightly dappled with blood.
“Despite these incontrovertible clues and proofs, the commanding officer in Potsdam refused to rule the death a homicide. My nephew’s corpse was ignominiously cast into a pauper’s grave.”
The old man’s shoulder’s slumped.
“Elischewa has never learned the truth of what happened. But my brother and I felt duty bound to communicate to her husband the sad account of his son’s murder. We believe that it was this that broke the poor man’s spirit and accelerated his mental decline. I wanted you to know my nephew’s tale, if for no other reason than to pity his still-grieving mother should you meet her.”
The proprietor gestured to a picture over the till. It was a crude folk painting of Jacob giving Joseph a coat of particolored patches.
“My nephew’s name was Joseph,” the old man wept. “And like Israel, my sister loved him more than any of her other children. For he was the son of her old age.”
A fascinating continuation of this tale. Walter is a very perceptive boy it seems. Will this continue to be to the benefit of the both of them I wonder? The troubling vision that Hermann experienced at the tack shop, along with the story about the demise of the nephew of the two brothers provides a necessary element of foreboding going forward. The continuation will be more than welcome Daniel!