The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn I.14
A Gothic Horror Novel
Book 1, Chapter 14: Walter
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Hermann slammed shut the hatch of the furnace under the vat and flung the shovel into the empty cart. The lanky boy concentrated on his every move. It was the boy’s first night. He wore a chest harness with a chain that connected him to the cart. When Hermann nodded, the boy turned and dragged the cart along its iron tracks to the coal shed outside.
It was late October and the shutters along the walls and rooftop were flung wide open. But the building had not been designed for ventilation, so the cold blasts of autumn and winter could not contend with the hot winds thrown off by the furnaces and vats.
He went to the trough on the south wall to quench his thirst, grabbing the tin cup and plunging it elbow-deep into the black water. With his free hand he raked the grit and dust from the filmy surface as he lifted the cup out, hoping the water deep down would be cooler and less polluted. It tasted warm and metallic but satisfying. He panted between gulps and watched the others at their hellish tasks.
He missed Walter, the man he’d met that first morning after his arrival at the Schorn Foundation.
He’d met him in the dining hall of Bock 2, a drab narrow space of green-gray walls and lattice windows, most of the panes of which were cracked or knocked-out. Hermann had been slouching over a tin plate of potatoes, as a woman made her way between the tables, doling out two rashers of bacon for each worker.
There were no utensils: an unnecessary extravagance. But some of the men wielded their own knives and forks. The food was good but he wasn’t hungry. His head was pounding and what he needed more than anything was the easement the morphine had provided him.
A husky kind-eyed man with a goatee sat down across from him. He didn’t have a plate. He must have already finished his breakfast. Maybe he was going to ask for Hermann’s bacon.
“My name is Walter.”
“I’m Hermann. Pleased to meet you. I’m new here.”
“I know.” The man leaned back in the chair.
Hermann mopped his brow. There was a damp chill in the dining hall but he was sweating bullets. His head felt like dough. “I’m sorry. I’m not a sociable person. The last few days have been hard.”
“The last several months have been hard for you, Herr Tischler. I know all about you.”
Hermann couldn’t tell if the ambiguous tone was laced with a threat. He looked at the man and glanced at the other tables, wondering if he was being set up for a cruel joke. His experience growing up among the poor in Mariahilf had taught him that sometimes the cruelest people were those of one’s own class, no matter on which rung of the ladder one stood.
“Why did you say that?”
“I saw what happened that day.”
Hermann inhaled and pushed the plate away. He looked at the man through a mist of tears because now he recalled who he was. This was the man who had witnessed the murder of his children.
Walter placed his hands gently over Hermann’s. “The thing that slaughtered your little ones was not human.”
“You told everyone it was. You said it was a man.” He raised his voice and several workers turned and looked at him curiously.
“I couldn’t credit what I had seen. It moved so swiftly. It was hairy, deformed. On its stomach were pouches, which looked like pale goiters or the teats of a wild animal.”
For some reason the man’s words not only stunned but exhausted Hermann. “It’s haunted me since I was a boy,” he said, folding his arms on the table and laying his head down to rest.
The next thing he knew, the Widow Schorn was at his shoulder beating an empty pot with a wooden spoon. He sprang up and saw that the dining hall was empty. The two rashers of bacon lay untouched on his plate.
“If you run, you’ll catch the others before they cross the bridge. When you arrive, report to Maximilian, whom I believe you know. He will apprise you of your schedule. Drink water and eat when told.” She pointed to the bacon on his plate. “Today will be your first day and if you are not nourished, you may buckle under the strain.”
His first meeting with Maximilian was brief and unsentimental. The old man was a shell of his former self. The weight of his new responsibilities had almost killed him.
It was said that when the Widow Schorn learned that Max had served as a foreman at the Landecker Werke, and that he could read, write and calculate sums, he was appointed leader of both the evening and first morning shift. He served as the middleman between the Widow and the board of directors, who sent a representative every quarter to check the books. Max read the roll call at night, marched the men to the factory, and oversaw the second crew’s arrival the next morning. But these many roles meant that he only worked 12 hours each day.
“Today you train until sundown,” Max said. “Then you’ll need to be awake before midnight to start your first night shift. I’m sorry, Herr Tischler. These are hard times for us all.”
Hermann later wondered how he had managed to make it through that first day. The bearded man instructing him on how to check the temperatures of the vats and stoke the fires beneath them kept cuffing his ears because he couldn’t concentrate and kept bending down and resting his hands on his knees.
“I have to rest,” Hermann begged.
“You can rest when you’re fucking dead, which won’t be long judging by the looks of you.”
Returning to his room that afternoon, Hermann collapsed on the rush mat only to hear Nanna rapping on the door sometime before midnight to tell him the factory bell was ringing and that he needed to get ready.
“You’ll want to accustom your ears to the bell, Herr Tischler,” she said with a melancholy grin. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to wake you every night.”
He went to Henrietta, kissed her, poured water into the basin and washed his lean face. When he felt he could descend the steps without staggering, he left the room and went downstairs.
But only two hours into his night shift he collapsed and began convulsing.
“He’s dying!” someone yelled.
He heard Max’s voice amid the knot of men. “He was a good man. His children were murdered this past spring.”
“He’s the one?!—At Easter?!” someone asked.
“Yes.” Max replied, his voice choking. “Take him to the infirmary.”
“Poor guy,” the man said. “He’ll be dead by morning.”
He couldn’t remember being carried from the factory to the infirmary in Block 1. But when he came to, he heard Nanna whispering to another woman. “When he dies, Frau Schorn will contact Colonel Landecker to have the wife taken to the asylum in Cologne.”
“No!” Hermann cried out, despite being barely able to breathe. He opened his eyes. Everything was out of focus. He was thirsty and asked for water. He heard a cup being filled; but whoever was bringing it to him—Nanna or the other woman—froze in her steps, because a short black figure, whom he recognized through the fog to be the Widow Schorn, stood at the threshold.
Hermann flailed his arms. “You can’t send my wife to an asylum. They won’t know how to take care of her.—Please!”
“Then you’ll have to live, won’t you?” the Widow said.
“He’s dying, Frau Schorn.” Nanna’s voice was heavy with grief.
“He’s not dying. I saw this among the opium eaters of Turkey. The wild eyes, the delirium tremens. He’s become habituated to a drug.”
Again, Hermann’s vision clouded and he heard what sounded like men in boots entering the room with chains or buckles.
“Restrain him,” the Widow commanded.
“What?” Nanna asked.
“He will be restrained for a month, perhaps two, until the demon inside of him has been exorcized!”
Hermann felt the leather belts tightening around him. A strap pulled his forehead back until he couldn’t lift his head from the pillow. “Don’t make them too tight,” the Widow remarked. “He must be able to breathe. And his blood needs to circulate.”
She lowered her eyes and stared into his. Now she was in clear focus, and he could see that cruel half-smile of hers.
“You have no right to do this to me!” Spittle flew from his lips.
“On the contrary, I have every right to do with you as I see fit, so long as you are under my charge. Assuming Christ has not turned his face away from you, you shall be healed by January.”
And with that she was gone.
He lay alone, weeping.
The next morning he woke up, shaking violently. Nanna stepped in and made ready to clean him.
“You mustn’t touch my privates!” he shouted. “It’s an obscenity. Let me clean myself. Please. Just loosen these straps and leave me with the water and rags. I promise I won’t do anything to embarrass you.”
“Nanna, you shall do no such thing.” The Widow stood at the foot of the bed.
“It hurts so much!” he cried. “God, it hurts! Do you have nothing that will numb the pain?”
“Don’t speak to him, Nanna,” the Widow persisted. “You see the foam at his lips? The blood in his eyes? The Devil works through him. And you mustn’t let him enthrall you.”
In the days that followed he would call out for water. Sometimes it was provided. But often no one heard him, and so he would gasp and pass out, waking moments later, still thirsty, still delirious.
One day his eyes opened and the room was empty. But Walter stood at his side with his hand on his shoulder. “Why did you let this happen to you, Hermann?”
Tears rolled out of the corners of Hermann’s eyes. But he couldn’t wipe them away. “None of the misfortunes that have befallen me in my life has been my fault.”
Walter frowned. “I spoke with your father.”
“My father is dead.”
“He told me that you must fight this thing. That you must never lose hope.”
“He also told me that I’m already dead.” Hermann closed his eyes. “I no longer trust the counsel of the undead. Are you even real? Or has my mind conjured you up? I think you’re the werewolf.”
He fainted away, and when he woke sometime later, it was night and the room was empty again.
Each day the strap at his forehead was released so he could lift his head to eat and drink. But every morning and afternoon he suffered the humiliation of Nanna or the Widow Schorn cleaning his body and carrying away his filth. He wondered if the denizens of Hell went through similar torments. And this made him conclude that he was still alive, since Hell was everlasting but he was beginning to experience periods of peace and tranquility.
One morning he overheard Nanna talking to one of the men’s wives about how pretty Cronenberg’s Christmas market was this year. The news depressed him, because this meant the First Vespers of Advent had come and gone, and he had never missed it in his life. Then a thought came to him and he panicked. He pulled against the restraints and yelled, “I want to see my wife!”
“She’s fine,” Nanna assured him.
“Yes,” the Widow echoed. “Your wife is fine. You will not see her until you are cured.”
On Christmas Eve, Hermann woke just after midnight—at the same moment his father, Mortiz, had died so many years ago. Hermann was jolted awake by a voice he heard in a nightmare that said, “Mmm. . . Lecker, lecker (yummy, yummy).”
No candle burned in the infirmary. The wintry gusts buffeted the brick walls of Block 1. He opened his eyes and saw a faint tawny light wavering near the foot of one of the beds far to his left. He couldn’t turn his head to look at it full on. But he heard it breathing.
“Who are you?” Hermann asked in horror.
“It’s Walter.”
“You’re not Walter. I know who you are. Get away from me!”
“I’m here to help you,” the figure said.
Hermann screamed and his whole body twisted against the belts that confined him to the bed. Moments later, the Widow Schorn entered in her nightclothes. Nanna stood at the door holding a lantern. The girl looked frightened.
The Widow went to him and laid her hand tenderly on his brow. “It is Christmas morning,” she said. Her voice lacked its customary sting. “My husband visited me in a dream, which ended when you cried out. He said, ‘Tell Hermann Tischler that the angels are on his side.’”
She unclasped the buckles and loosened the restraints. This done, she rejoined Nanna at the door, glancing at the medicine cabinet which stood open.
Hermann sat up and massaged his wrists and ankles. He carefully let his feet down, and eased himself out of the bed. When he stood his limbs tingled and his knees wobbled. He re-accustomed himself to walking by gripping the mattress and making tentative steps toward the door.
The Widow and Nanna had returned to the Widow’s private chambers. The double doors closed with a thud.
He kept glancing in the direction from which he’d seen the sickly yellow light and heard the voice that had sounded like Walter’s. Barefoot, he made his way out of the infirmary and up the narrow staircase that led to the corridor where the families lived.
When he opened the door to his room, he saw by the moonlight reflected off the snow banked against the windowsill that Henrietta had been moved from her chair to the mat on the floor. A cloth diaper, similar to the one he had been wearing for weeks, was fastened around her waist. He lay down beside her and put his arm around her. He slept until dawn broke on Christmas Day.
It was the only day of the year when the Tar and Creosote Factory idled all operations for 24 hours.
Hermann exited Block 1 and found a crowd standing outside to greet him. Max smiled broadly and proclaimed. “You are proof, Herr Tischler, that there is a living God.” The others applauded. And the bearded man who had treated Hermann so harshly on his first day apologized.
At noon the workers and their wives gathered in the largest of the Foundation’s spaces: the laundry room annexed to Block 2. It was ample enough to accommodate everyone, since the lines were strung up from wall to wall during the winter months to the dry the clothes on. The lines, clothes and laundry baskets had been removed so the men and women could press close together and hear the Widow Schorn’s lecture.
Since she was a woman, she had no authority to preach or sermonize. So she quoted Bible passages from memory and told a homespun version of the nativity story. Max led the prayers. After three hours of worship, during which Hermann sat on bundles (since he had not recovered completely from his confinement and his legs were still weak), the Widow turned to him and said, “Herr Tischler, will you conclude today’s service with a testimony?”
Hermann rose and went to her. Max extended his arm to support him, but Hermann waved it aside. He knew everyone was aware that he was a Catholic, so he had refrained from crossing himself during the prayers. He was wary of offering a public profession of gratitude to the Holy Mother, since this might offend the Widow Schorn.
He scratched his right ear and began. “I’m not used to speaking before so many people. . .”
“Speak,” a man insisted. “We want to hear your testimony.”
He took a deep breath and weighed his words. “I fell out of love with life and saw no reason to go on. But by God’s grace and the charity of the Widow Schorn I was brought back from the brink.”
“Amen,” came the answer from the crowd.
The Widow nodded gravely.
“But I also want to thank a friend I met on my first day here, a man who comforted me in my darkest hour. Thank you, Walter. . .”
When he uttered the name, the men and women gasped. The Widow Schorn looked to Nanna, who burst into tears, clutching her heart.
“Herr Tischler,” Max said, “Walter died the week before you arrived. He was Nanna’s father. They lived in the room you and Henrietta now occupy.”
The Widow raised her black-gloved hand to silence the murmuring that had broken out.
“I testify,” she said, “that this morning when I entered the infirmary, an angel stood in the room, guarding Herr Tischler’s bed.” Then she went to Nanna and wiped the tears from the girl’s eyes.
Without turning, she spoke in a loud voice so everyone could hear: “For the next two weeks, all rations shall be doubled.”
The announcement was met with applause.
“God bless you, Frau Schorn!” — “Happy Christmas!”
The head cook shouted “Merry Christmas” in English, since she knew the Widow Schorn was part English herself.
The crowd parted to make a way for the old woman, who walked proudly from the laundry room with that half-smile on her face, which now seemed far less cruel. Nanna followed, but only after seizing Hermann’s hands and saying, “God bless you, Herr Tischler.”
—And that all happened nearly three years ago, Hermann thought as he put the tin cup back on the shelf by the trough and returned to the tar vats.
When the bell ending the shift rang out that afternoon, the setting sun was already obscured behind the gathering storm. The men dropped their tools and made their way to the rallying point so Max could conduct the final roll call before marching them back across the pontoon bridge.
The boy who had been hauling coal all night stood close to Hermann. Apparently, he hadn’t yet made any friends. Hermann thought of that cold morning in the dining hall when he himself had felt so alone and lost and had met the kind-eyed man who might have been an angel.
“What’s your name?” Hermann asked.
“Walter.”
Hermann put his arm around him. “You did very well today, Walter.” He could tell by the way the boy’s fingers dug into his back that he had never known a father’s embrace.
They made their way to the exit, Hermann resting his arm on Walter’s shoulder.
The wooden sign hanging over the factory door swung on its iron chains in the late October wind. The sign was adorned on both sides with an old German adage in gothic script, which Hermann had once found inspiring, but which now seemed to cast an ominous shadow, not only over his and Walter’s prospects, but over the prospects of many generations to come: “Arbeit Macht Frei” it said; “Work shall set you free.”
Will Hermann be set free at last? He surely worked hard enough? Another intriguing chapter, Daniel!
A beautifully written chapter, Daniel, showing that even in the darkest of times, the Christmas spirit can shine through and bring hope to those in need.
In case I don’t get a chance to say it again, I would just like to thank you for your wonderful writing and for all the support you have given me this year. It’s been a pleasure. All the best to you and your family over the festive period 🙏