The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn (Book II Conclusion)
A Gothic Horror Novel
The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn II.27: “Let There Be No Strife Between You and Me”
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The western horizon had been overclouded for much of 5 March 1871, but the downpour did not begin until midnight on what would be Hermann’s last full day at the Eltzbacher Coach Inn. The subtle and malignant forces driving events to this catastrophe were already uncoiling themselves amidst the soothing tattoo of raindrops drumming on the wooden shingles, beneath which the orphan boy Walter was sinking into a dream that mingled the roaring winds of the storm with the baleful cry of a wolf.
Even in his sleep, the child knew wolves were not native to the Rhineland. A bright morning sun had purged away the insubstantial mist veiling the smokestacks and geometric buildings of the industrial town of Kohlendorf. It was early November, four days after their hairbreadth escape from the largest workhouse in the Wuppertal (run by the dour Widow Schorn); and their clothes still reeked of their panicked flight over the slime pits behind Cronenberg’s Tar and Creosote Factory.
Walter’s left hand spasmed in his sleep because his knuckles in the dream had brushed Hermann’s as they strode down the immaculate brick-lined avenue with that diminutive municipal steam engine wheezing toward them. They were at the edge of town. They had only just departed the firehouse operated by the so-called Brigade of Saint Florian. And “Florian” would be the name Hermann gave Walter to use as an alias when they came to the inn.
The sunbeams, now watery, danced on the gold and copper leaves of the soot-dusted trees. And a clowder of cats with matching fur crossed their path. Walter had never dreamed in color. But everything now was shot through with it; and somehow the vibrant hues were tied to the howling of that wolf, because the louder it got, the deeper the tints became, until everything around him was embrowned to the color of clotting blood.
The source of the lupine howl lurked in alley: it was Mürrisch, the one-eyed cat, which Hermann had slaughtered. In the nightmare Walter himself now felt a creeping sense of aversion toward the animal he had rescued and grown to love as much as the man walking next to him. As his thoughts flowed down these disconnected channels, he recalled that Mürrisch had been in the alley that morning.
I distinctly remember him now, Walter thought. I wondered why the other cats hissed at him before rolling over onto their backs in submission. And one of the cats not only rolled over but convulses and died right in front of us. And I looked at Hermann, because I suspected that he had something to do with that.
The Prussian inspector who had detained and robbed them as they were departing town the next day was now standing in Mürrisch’s place. The man’s grizzled features remained motionless, but his pores expanded into pinholes that shed blood, along with a blood-curdling roar, that at once sapped all color from the dream, as a hand gripped Walter’s shoulder and shook him awake.
“Florian,” Elischewa said in a hushed voice.
Walter’s eyes opened; but he neither jumped nor cried out. He could not easily be startled out of sleep.
Before being arrested and sent to Cronenberg, Walter had survived on the streets of Berlin as a pickpocket. During that time, he had endured so many abuses at the hands of adults that he could not sleep deeply. The orphan had conditioned himself not to overreact to external impulses, having learned early on that men who enjoyed tormenting boys felt empowered on seeing them flinch. This did not mean Walter could not feel fear. On the contrary, fear was the only thing that had kept him alive.
“Why are you sleeping on the stove?” Frau Eltzbacher asked.
“The carriage house is cold.”
“Good Heavens, Florian, you’re as peculiar as your father. He’s in the common room. Go help him with the fire. I need to prepare two breakfasts for the guests this morning: one each for the arriving, and departing guests. I received a wire yesterday notifying me that we will be fully booked tonight. A single large family, apparently.”
On the day Hermann killed Mürrisch, Walter moved out of the carriage house and took to sleeping on the inn’s kitchen stove, using a quilt, which retained Mürrisch’s odor. (The orphan had not told Frau Eltzbacher about this.) The stove’s surface tended to stay warm through much of the night, though now its heat was all but spent.
He climbed down and walked out of the kitchen into the common room, shoulders slumped. He saw Hermann lounging in the wingback chair, prodding the fire with an iron. Walter went to him and flopped down in the chair opposite.
Hermann had obviously come in through backdoor, since Elischewa was the only one who had the key to the front entrance. The boy wondered if Hermann had loitered over the stove, looking down at him. That must be why I dreamed about him. I smelled him in my sleep.
Walter had sworn never to speak to Hermann again after the man had butchered his cat. But the ominous dream was still fresh in his mind and had so unnerved him that he was considering breaking his vow to ask Hermann about its significance.
Hermann glanced at Walter, and looked away with a mocking smile. “You can’t go on like this forever. You’re acting like an infant. All because of a stupid cat.”
Walter stood up, grabbed the tin bucket, and exited the front door to draw water.
Hermann cursed to himself and stood up. He went to the kitchen to kindle the fire in the stove. Once done, he stormed out into backyard and crossed to the carriage house to wake Benedikt. The two of them would need to prepare the horses that were to refresh the team of the two coaches arriving this morning.
A French-speaking Catholic family arrived from the Swiss canton of Jura. There were thirteen members of the family in all: an elderly deaf man (obviously the patriarch), five adults, six children and a baby. The only member of the party who could speak German with fluency and rapidity was a bearded man in his thirties, who kept close to his meek wife. They were the only couple among the group that had no children.
Elischewa welcomed the arrivals and took them upstairs to show them their rooms. By the time they returned downstairs, the long table in the center of the common room had been cleared of the departing guests’ breakfast things and reset with clean dishes and two bread baskets. Monika and Walter served the arrivals; and, as they were finishing up, Elischewa removed her apron, telling Monika that she needed to return to the cottage for a short nap.
The family was engaged in a serious discussion about finances, when Hermann and Benedikt entered from the kitchen. Hermann carried an armful of firewood, while Benedikt held two buckets of water from the well, which he set on the sideboard for the guests to take upstairs with them to their rooms.
When the wife of the German-speaking man caught sight of Hermann, she uttered a cry, pointed her finger at him, and spoke energetically to her husband. He enfolded her in his arms and smoothed her hair. The children went silent; and the adults looked dolefully at one another, including the patriarch, who sighed and shook his head gravely when his daughter shouted into his ear-horn what the woman had said.
“Is something wrong?” Monika asked, stepping out of the kitchen. Although the Saxon woman was obviously ill at ease by the outburst, she smiled in her eirenic way, and, switching to French, offered to bring the Madame anything she might require.
“Warm milk,” her husband replied. “S'il vous plait.”
Monika nodded and returned to the kitchen.
“She means no offense, Monsieur,” the man said to Hermann, though his wife’s bitter groan belied this.
“Mein Herr!” Benedikt said sharply, “what has my friend done to justify your wife’s hysterical behavior?”
The man uttered a command in French and the children rose, obedient, from the table and slipped out of the front door. The adults sat in mute despondency. Benedikt made a motion for Walter to join the children outside. The orphan threw down his towel, but complied, shooting an angry glance at Benedikt over his shoulder.
“Ten years ago,” the bearded man began, “my wife and I left the Confederation to begin a new life abroad. My brother, the gentleman seated there, came with us. We took four of my father’s cows and made our way to the border of the Tyrol, where we followed the trend of the river Inn until it brought us to a peaceful mountain valley.
“Here we discovered the charred remains of a desolate village that clung to the Inn’s brink. On a bluff in the distance loomed a ruined chapel. We took this as a sign that we had found the place where we should build our home. The rocks abounded in salt for the cows to lick; and the ash that had settled on the valley’s fields made the land not only arable, but bountiful.
“For months we sheltered in the burnt-out dwellings as we labored from sunup till sundown, building a lasting habitation. Soon we had constructed a modest homestead on a patch of green; and a few months later my wife and I welcomed into the world the first of what would be three beautiful children—all daughters.”
The man’s wife had recognized the German word kinder; and, on hearing it, tears coursed down her cheeks.
“We encountered few people in the valley, though hikers and journeymen roaming along the trend of the river were not uncommon. During that first summer, an imperial notary stayed with us for two days to explain that, though we were welcome to remain in the valley, we would need to travel to Innsbruck once a year to pay a modest impost to the assize house in exchange for our usage of His Majesty’s land. The notary inquired, in a disinterested voice, if we had been molested, or in any way discommoded, during our stay.
“I replied that we hardly saw anyone, which was surprising, considering the valley’s lovely seat, the lovely chapel on the hill, and the evidences that lay all about us that a once-flourishing community had once occupied this place. He smiled ambiguously, saying that the chapel had been dedicated in ancient times to Our Lady of Mercy, and that the village had taken its name from it: Mariahilf am Inn.”
The ostler looked casually at Hermann and saw that his face had clouded.
“The valley had been a halt for pilgrims and wayfarers traveling to and from Italy, because there had been a secret path that wended its way through the mountains and linked up with the Brenner Pass. But some years ago, His Majesty had ordered this route sealed, not only to prevent smugglers from bypassing the toll roads run out of Innsbruck, but to prevent banditti from infiltrating the Tyrol. The notary claimed that is had been a band of such malefactors that had laid waste the village and massacred its denizens.
“We thrived in that valley for almost nine years. And though we often heard in the wee hours of the night the dreadful and almost human cry of the werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn, none of us had ever seen the monster in the flesh. . . .”
Benedikt interposed himself between Hermann and the guests, so that they would not see the look of undisguised horror that overspread his countenance.
“Loup-garou,” the man’s brother said, adding in broken German: “It is meaning werewolf in the French tongue.”
Monika returned with a warm cup of milk, which she set on the table before the woman. She warned her in French that the cup was hot. The woman thanked her, and placed her palms around it, withdrawing deeper into her thoughts as she stared at the rising steam.
The man resumed his story. “Last winter, we spent most of our days and nights huddled around the hearth, or tending to the cattle in the barn, because it was too cold to do anything outside. During those idle hours, my wife and I would relate to our daughters the tales of Perrault as they had been told to us—to include Le Petit Chaperon Rouge (Little Red Cap). We enforced to them the potent moral of this story, which was that children should never trust strangers, no matter how suave or polite they might seem.
“It is not healthy for children to be cooped up indoors for so long. One day in early December, when our eldest asked if she and her sisters could play on the chapel hill, my wife and I consented. Late in the afternoon, my brother and I were busy in the barn when my wife reported that the girls had not yet returned. The gusts blowing off the mountain were preventing her voice from carrying to the hill. She had resolved to fetch them, because she needed their assistance in preparing supper.”
Monika sat down in the chair next to the man’s wife.
“What I am about to tell you is the account of what my wife heard and saw when she attained the summit of that bleak eminence. To this day, the chapel’s graveyard is encircled with a low wall. The wooden double door that gave access to the chapel’s hallowed interior was stolen long ago. Over the years its roof has caved in, and the nave is now bestrewn with rubble and other detritus.
“When my wife stepped into the cemetery, she froze and drew her cloak about her. She heard a noise coming from inside the chapel. It sounded like a ravenous beast feasting on flesh. At once, a naked man steps out of the entrance, covered in gore from his chin to his ankles.” The narrator looked directly at Hermann. “The reason my wife reacted to you as she did, Monsieur, is because she believes that you were that man!”
“It is impossible,” Benedikt said, waving his arms in the air to deflect attention from Hermann. “Utterly impossible. My friend was working here in December when this occurred. Moritz was born and raised in the Rhineland.”
Monika’s eyelids fluttered when Benedikt said this. She did not understand why her husband was lying about Moritz’s origin. Anyone who heard the man speak knew that (like Benedikt) he was Austrian.
The man translated to his family all that the ostler had said. There was a pause before he could collect his thoughts enough to continue.
“My wife says that the man leapt over the cemetery’s boundary stones, landing on all fours like a wolf. He ran off in the direction of the foothills. The pace of the creature, she avers, was inhuman. . . .
“And in the chapel!—Oh, God! In the chapel, all that remained of our babies were their bones and the garments they had worn that morning when they left us to play on the hill.”
The woman swooned. Monika and the narrator’s brother rose to help her up.
Her grieving husband was the last to rise. As his wife was led upstairs, he paused at the newel post and continued to speak to Benedikt and Hermann.
“We gathered our daughters’ remains from the chapel. And as we grieved over them in the cabin that night, we heard our cattle being slaughtered in the barn. The next morning, at first light, we fled the valley, taking with us the bones in bags. Despite it being deep in the winter, we did not stop until we had made it to Jura.”
The man pointed to a long chest that lay on the floor near the staircase. Neither Hermann nor Benedikt had noticed it until now. The panels of the chest were framed and braced in iron. On all sides were painted crosses, flowers, and representations of the Holy Mother.
“The contents of that chest,” he sighed, “are more precious to my wife and me than all the riches of the Earth.”
“The werewolf followed us to Jura,” he said, looking at Hermann. “My family has sold everything. We are leaving the continent, so that we may bury my children’s bones far away from Europe. Tomorrow, we depart for Bremerhaven, where will book passage to America. It is our hope that whatever evil broods over the Old Country will not pursue us to the New.”
When the man had reached the top of the landing, Hermann and Benedikt hastily exited the front door. Walter was wrestling with one of the Swiss boys in the yard. The orphan stopped when he saw them come out. His opponent caught him unawares and grappled him around the waist from behind. The boys fell on the damp ground and resumed their tussle.
Once they in the upper quarters of the carriage house, Hermann addressed the ostler in urgent tones. “What does it mean?!”
“How should I know?!” Benedikt replied, gritting his teeth. He wiped his face. “Hermann, I fear something dreadful is coming to a head.”
“I want to talk to Walter.”
“The boy has set his face against you. You can’t force yourself onto him.”
“He tried to speak to me this morning. I could see in his eyes that he yearned for a truce.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“I did say something. But I spoke insensitively, and he stormed off in a huff.”
Benedikt placed his palm on Hermann’s chest until he could feel the impression of the wolf’s face carved on the medallion beneath his friend’s shirt.
“From now until the curse is lifted, everything you do, Brother, every choice you make, will be fraught with consequence. If you knew that Walter wanted to speak to you, you should have granted him leeway to do so? You must take heed when the gods come calling, Hermann, because they may not come again.—Even guardian angels have their limits.”
They sat at the small table in the living room and ate a cold lunch. When they were done, Benedikt urged Hermann to remain behind. “The horses will sense your agitation and it will make them unmanageable. You need rest. I’ll tell Monika to remain at the inn so that she does not disturb you here.”
When he was gone, Hermann went to the sofa and stretched out beneath the bookshelf. He removed the accursed medallion from his shirt and pondered it in the gray light filtering through the windows. He wondered whether it was true that, if he tried to cast it away or destroy it, it would only multiply his sorrows.
He was reminded of the dream he had had that morning in which he and Walter walked side by side down that street in Kohlendorf. It was autumn and the leaves were bright and colorful. But the werewolf was with them, standing just behind Hermann’s shoulder. As he thought of the dream, he felt himself sinking into a state of catalepsy. He thought he saw his father standing in the room: “I’m so sorry, son.”
Hermann sat up with a start and bumped his head on the lower bookshelf. It was dark outside. How many precious hours had he lost? He grabbed his coat from the hook and hurried down the steps.
Outside, a line of lanterns moved along the highway. Scores of uniformed men were marching north from Kohlendorf. Cavalrymen were among them. A booming order was issued, and the formation halted at the drive of the Eltzbacher Coach Inn.
Hermann picked up his pace. He doubted that the soldiers on the highway could see him at that distance. The moon’s position in the sky suggested it was early evening. It’s sometimes after seven, he thought. He opened the backdoor and stepped into the kitchen. A candle flickered on the cutting board. But the common room was brightly lit.
Walter and Monika were standing near the kitchen door with their backs to him. He could tell the front door was open by the din coming from the room and the hollow thud of hobnail boots echoing on the floorboards. To his left, he heard on the other side of the wall a group of soldiers walking around the side of the building. They were heading for the rear entrance.
He went around the cutting board to the trapdoor in the floor that led down into the root cellar. He opened it and descended the ladder into its cold depths. As he reached the bottom rung, he heard someone testing the cellar’s outer door, which Elischewa kept padlocked from the inside at night. When the door did not yield, it was abandoned.
The footfalls of the soldiers above him shook dust from the groaning planks. It would be unlikely the soldiers in the kitchen would find the trap door, unless ordered to search the inn. But as a precaution, Hermann stepped behind the sacks of potatoes into a deep and narrow recess that enabled him to overhear what was happening in the common room.
He was now directly under the long table. His eyes widened when he heard Colonel Ludwig Landecker enter the establishment. With him was the Prussian inspector from Kohlendorf.
The Swiss guests had retired early, since their coaches were scheduled to arrive two hours before dawn. Hermann could now see that Benedikt, too, was in the common room. He was next to Elischewa.
Colonel Landecker was standing at the steps, assuring the guests in German that they were completely safe. He tried to win the children over by pulling a comical face, which only made them slink farther behind their parents.
The Franco-Prussian War had come to an end, but a treaty had not yet been signed. In the presence of so many uniformed men, the guests feared that their French accents might convict them of some obscure crime they were not privy to.
The inspector went to the middle of the room and asked to speak with the proprietor. Frau Eltzbacher responded that she was the owner of the property. The inspector doffed his top hat and bowed.
“We apologize for this intrusion,” he said. “Colonel Landecker is leading a relief force into France. He has graciously offered to escort me here, so that I can conclude my months-long investigation into the murders of the four bankers from Lübeck, who perished less than a mile from here December last.”
“Please explain,” Elischewa said.
“There is an Austrian man who works here by the name of Hermann Tischler. He arrived in the company of an orphan boy, who goes by the name of Walter. The two are accused of grievous crimes in Cronenberg. They fled the workhouse there on 31 October, and were spotted by multiple witnesses in Kohlendorf days later. I, too, encountered them, as they were heading north—in this direction.”
The inspector was so nearsighted that he did not even recognize that Walter was standing in front of him. But the inspector was not really looking for the boy.
Colonel Landecker contemplated his fingernails with a vulpine smile on his face.
“What makes you think the individuals you seek are here?” Frau Eltzbacher inquired.
The inspector lifted his index finger. “The massacre that occurred on the highway bore a striking resemblance to the murders committed at the workhouse. I have questioned several guests who have lodged here. They say one of your employees speaks with a thick Austrian accent, and that he pretends to be the father of a boy who meets the description of the aforementioned Walter.”
“I’m Austrian,” Benedikt said, in a thick Tyrolean drawl. The ostler threw his arm around Walter’s shoulder. “This boy is my son. His name is Florian.”
“This family has been in my employ for several years,” said Elischewa, lying casually.
The inspector and Colonel Landecker looked at each other in confusion.
The soldiers standing about were all officers. One rested his boot on the trunk containing the murdered girls’ bones. The Swiss storyteller at the top of the steps saw this, and his eyes narrowed. He was able to follow the gist of what was happening; and he wondered where the other man was, the one his wife thought was the werewolf of Mariahilf.
Even though he could not see what was happening, it was obvious to Hermann that Ludwig was the hidden hand behind this invasion. Ludwig wanted to see Hermann swing.
Colonel Landecker spoke abruptly. “If you don’t mind, my men would like to have a look around the place, and speak with your guests.”
“I do mind,” Elischwa snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Ludwig yawned. “I’m feeling rather tired. My men and I are about to embark on a long march. We shall abide here for a week to prepare for it. I shall stay in your cottage, Madame. My officers will make use of the coach inn. The NCOs will take turns sleeping in the carriage house out back. My soldiers will bivouac on the property.” He smiled unctuously. “It will only be for a few days. No more than a week.”
“Wait,” Elischewa said. She went to her office under the staircase, and returned minutes later with a document in hand. “Two years ago, my husband and I made a substantial contribution to the Prussian King to help build a new munitions factory outside of Krefeld. In return, we received this guarantee that this property and all the buildings located on it could neither be seized nor in any way appropriated by the Prussian military for a decade, whether in time of peace or war. This document also specifies that this same property, over the course of the same duration, shall not be subject to warrantless searches.”
She handed the paper to Colonel Landecker, whose lips moved as he silently read it.
“This bears the seal of His Majesty the Prussian King—now Emperor of the Restored Reich.” He gave the paper back to her with a frown. “This is a legally sound document.”
“What do you mean?!” the inspector blurted out.
“It means we must vacate the premises,” he said, bowing to Frau Eltzbacher. “Herr Inspector, if you wish to return and conduct a search, you’ll need to procure a warrant from the Police Confederation in Cologne.”
The inspector bared his teeth in a feral sneer. “You’re the one who told me you wanted this place turned upside down! It wasn’t my idea!”
Ludwig ignored the inspector, gesturing for the officers to vacate the building. They shuffled out, bowing awkwardly and mumbling apologies to Frau Elztbacher.
The last to leave was the inspector. He pointed to a framed work of art hanging on the wall over the sideboard. It was the Eltzbachers’ ketubah, or marriage contract, which was inscribed in Hebrew letters and adorned with a hand-painted scene from the Torah.
The proprietress knew exactly what that man was pointing at. She kept her gaze fixed on him.
“One day,” he said, “you people will realize that you are only guests in our house.”
Frau Eltzbacher drew herself up to her full height. “At the moment you are a guest in my house. And a most unwelcome one. And I command you to leave.”
“It is her right,” Colonel Landecker said brusquely, dragging the inspector outside by his coat.
When he reached the drive, the flustered man spun around, and shook his fist at her. “I’ll be back!” he said. “And I will have a warrant!”
“Until that time,” Elischewa said with a blasé grin, “I bid you Shalom.” She slammed the door and placed her back against it.
Benedikt went to the window by the door and peered out through the curtains. Then he went to the south wall and looked out the windows there.
“The colonel is ordering his men to go to the village,” he commented.
“What for?” Monika asked.
“They’re going to billet the soldiers there,” Elischewa said. “There’s nothing we can do about that.”
Walter went to each window as well, forming his own assessment of the situation. “They’re stationing two men on horses at each corner of the property,” the boy noted.
The ostler wiped his chin. “They’re doing that so that they can monitor everyone who enters and exits the inn and the other buildings on the property.”
“Madame!” a voice called out. It was the German-speaker upstairs. Elischewa went to the base of the steps. The family members trembled on the landing. “Are we safe?”
“Yes, she said. Please rest assured, this has nothing to do with you. The coaches taking you to Bremerhaven will arrive as scheduled tomorrow morning.”
“Where is the other man?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Elischewa replied.
“The one they were talking about.”
“Return to your rooms, please.”
Reluctantly, he shook his head and translated into French what the proprietress had said. The doors upstairs closed one by one.
Meanwhile, Hermann had climbed out of the root cellar and now lingered at the kitchen threshold, not daring to step into the light of the common room.
Elischewa looked at Hermann, Monika, and Benedikt. She addressed them in a subdued voice. “You three must decide what is to be done.”
“What about me, Frau Eltzbacher?” Walter asked. “This involves me too.”
The old woman shook her head. “Go to the carriage house, child.”
“Do as she says,” Benedikt mumbled.
Hermann could not look Walter in the eyes. The orphan wedged his way past him and exited the backdoor.
He crossed the yard, refusing to look at the soldiers marching toward the village. Once he had made it inside the carriage house, he fell to his knees and prayed, something he had never done before.
Elischewa casually exited the inn and returned to her cottage. Inside, she sat down in Abner’s rocking chair and waited in the dark.
The three adults huddled in the candlelit kitchen.
Monika was the first to speak. “We’ll raise him as our own.”
“I know,” Hermann replied in a hollow voice.
“Brother,” Benedikt said, “you knew this moment would come.”
“But I didn’t know it would come so soon.” Hermann placed his palms on the still-warm stove where he had found Walter sleeping that morning. “There’s a path through the trees behind the Eltzbachers’ cottage. I’ll sneak out and take that route.”
“No,” Benedikt said. “I have an idea. There are three coaches arriving before dawn. Two are taking the family to Bremerhaven, one is heading to Hamburg. We expect more guests to arrive by these.”
“What are you thinking?” Hermann asked.
“You’ll stay here in the kitchen until the coaches arrive. We’ll ensure the two heading to Bremerhaven depart so that the bereaved man and his wife do not cause trouble. After they are gone, you will be able to show your face in the common room.”
“Yes,” Monika said. “And since Benedikt and I will be closing up tonight, it will not be unusual for us to cross back and forth across the yard to bring your personal effects to you.”
“There’s a spare trunk in Frau Eltzbacher’s office,” Benedikt observed. “We’ll load it with food and other essentials.”
Monika touched Benedikt’s arm. “I’m sure Frau Eltzbacher won’t mind if Moritz takes some of Abner’s clothes with him. Herr Eltzbacher was your size. If need be, you can sell the clothes in Hamburg for ready money.”
Hermann stared at his knuckles on the stove. He recalled how his knuckle’s had brushed Walter’s in the dream. “My name is Hermann,” he said.
“I know,” Monika replied. “I’ve heard Benedikt and Walter call you by that name.”
Hermann looked at her, ashamed. “I want to speak with Walter before I leave.”
“We’ll arrange it,” Benedikt said. “We’ll send him here tomorrow to kindle the fire.”
The three concluded their interview.
Monika and Benedikt acted out the plan, going to the carriage house and carrying back with them what the men on the horses presumed to be bundles of laundry and fresh linens, but were in fact Hermann’s belongings. Benedikt moved the spare trunk into the kitchen.
Monika went to the cottage and explained the situation to Frau Eltzbacher, who went to Abner’s wardrobe and removed several articles of clothing, which Monika took back to the coach inn, folding them and placing them in the trunk.
Alone in the candlelight, Hermann laid the broken mirror and memento mori that his father had sculpted on top of clothing. But he slipped his father’s straight razor into his front pocket.
At three o’clock (the Devil’s hour), the backdoor opened and Walter stepped in, holding three logs. He set these down by the stove. One of the guests was already descending the staircase, so Hermann took the candle and ushered Walter into the large pantry.
He placed the candle on a shelf. Then he clasped Walter’s shoulder, and smiled. “You’ll be safe here, Walter. Monika and Benedikt love you. They’ll see you’re taken care of.”
The boy nodded.
Hermann removed the straight razor and handed it to him. “This was my father’s. I want you to have it. You’re almost a man now.” He stroked the boy’s chin. “You’ll be needing it.”
Walter accepted the gift. “I have a gift for you,” he said. He handed Hermann a coin— a Vereinsthaler.
“Where did you get this?!”
“I stole it.”
“Please tell me you didn’t steal it from Frau Eltzbacher.”
“No. I stole it from you. On the day we left Kohlendorf, Frau Eltzbacher’s brother gave you a large sum of money. You had it in your pocket when that damned inspector detained us. I knew he was going to rob you, so I ran to you, and caused a ruckus so I could pick your pocket. I didn’t want him to take all the money.”
“I remember,” Hermann said with a grin. “We laughed about it as we left town. But I thought you handed over to me all the money once we were outside the town’s gate. What possessed you to keep this?”
Walter burst into tears. “Because I was afraid you would leave me and I’d have to get by on my own. You need it more than I do. I’m grateful for all you did for me. I’m sorry I stopped talking to you. I’ll be obedient to Benedikt, but you’ll always be my father.”
Hermann folded Walter into his arms. When the boy had stopped weeping, Hermann kissed his brow. “Let there be no strife between you and me. You will go your way, and I will go mine. And we shall part as brothers.”
They heard the wheels of the coaches approaching. The guests upstairs began plodding down the steps with their baggage. The Swiss storyteller and his brother, lifted the trunk containing the girls’ remains and carried it out the front door.
Benedikt and Monika arrived and entered through the backdoor.
The predawn breakfast for the departing family was much sparer: bread, jam, cold speck, and freshly brewed coffee. The new arrivals would have a cooked meal prepared for them within the hour. They heard Frau Eltzbacher greeting the guests and coachmen out front. Then she stepped inside and bade farewell to the departing family.
When the two coaches heading to Bremerhaven rattled away Hermann emerged into the common room. He drew on his coat, and Benedikt helped him carry the trunk outside. “Remember,” Benedikt mumbled. “You’re just another guest.”
Elischewa paid for Hermann’s fare. Then she went to Hermann and handed him a purse containing the wages she owed him, and an added severance. “I wish you well,” she said, nodding curtly and returning to the stoop.
Monika, Benedikt, and Walter stepped outside. The ostler forbade the orphan from approaching Hermann, out of concern that the soldiers might take note. But the men on horseback were so exhausted by their all-night vigil that they paid scant heed to the conspiracy playing out before them.
Hermann mounted the coach steps, climbing in and taking his seat, facing the back so that he could keep his eyes on the inn as it receded in the distance.
The passengers that had arrived in that coach would be overnighting at the inn. None of the horses that morning were due to be replaced. After finishing his coffee in the inn, the coachman stepped outside and mounted the box. He blew his horn and whipped the steeds. And the conveyance pulled off.
Walter made a sudden move, as if intending to bolt to the carriage. But Benedikt clapped his hand on his shoulder and restrained him. Monika held a lantern that shed its dim light over the yard.
As the orphan’s outline faded, Hermann recalled the day he first laid eyes on Walter, standing friendless and dejected amid the factory’s boiling vats. My guardian angel, Hermann thought.
He strained his eyes until he could see the boy no more. Then he clutched the medallion at his breast, turned his face away from the window, and wept.
End of Book II
Aww, Walter and Herman
Dense and atmospheric as always, Daniel. Bravo!