Gretel and the Dark (10 page)

‘What?’

‘So terrible that I’m not going to tell you. Anyway, I forget. Because of whatever it was
der Kinderfresser
was cursed to wander the Earth for ever and have no real home. He’s been walking for hundreds of years. At night he steals children who are still awake. And
fee fi fo fum
during the day he gobbles them up.
Slurp
,
slurp
, he sucks out their blood.
Crunch
,
crunch
,
munch
,
munch
, he breaks every bone in their skin.’ Greet pauses. ‘Quiet! Did you hear that sound?’

‘What sound?’

‘
Bumpety-bump-bump
, like a full sack being dragged along the ground.’

‘N–no.’

‘If you listen carefully there’s also a
clunkety-clunk
noise, for he’s worn out one of his legs with walking and has to make do with a wooden peg.’ Greet squats down and whispers. ‘That’s what he’s really after – a nice new leg.’ She pats my thigh. ‘So far none fits, but he keeps searching.’

I whimper and start to curl into the smallest ball possible, but Greet has hold of me and is hauling me, feet first, out into the light, dispatching me towards the stairs with a sharp slap on my rear.

Papa says he has found someone to take care of me during the day. I hold Lottie very tight and don’t say anything.

‘She’s promised to teach you a few handicrafts. Sewing. Knitting.’ He does a pretend smile. ‘That will be nice, won’t it?’

This time he doesn’t try to make me take my thumb out of my mouth. He pulls a roll into small pieces and drinks four
cups of coffee before the lady comes. It’s the very old witch with the caterpillar eyebrows, the one who was sitting in the kitchen corner the day the plum syrup burnt my fingers. There’s no sign of the black cat but she’s all in black herself and she’s brought her magic wand, leaning on it so people think it’s a walking stick. I stare at the floor.

‘Say good morning to Frau Schwitter.’ Papa nudges me. ‘Krysta, where are your manners?’ He coughs apologetically. ‘I’m afraid my daughter is refusing to speak to anyone at the moment.’

The witch laughs. ‘After raising seven children and twelve grandchildren, there’s nothing much I haven’t dealt with,
Herr Doktor
.’ She says nothing for a moment, but I can feel her staring. ‘Are you spellbound, Krysta?’

One quick glance and I see that her eyes are small and very bright blue, shining out from among the wrinkles as if they don’t belong there. Her teeth are funny: a very long one each side and not many in between. As soon as Papa goes, she taps me with her wand.

‘There. Now tell me, Krysta, what is your doll’s name?’

‘Lottie.’

‘Ah, so at least we know the cat hasn’t got your tongue.’ She produces a ball of grey wool and unwinds a long length. ‘Come, we must keep ourselves busy. Today I’ll show you how to knit.’

‘Don’t want to.’

‘You can make a nice winter scarf for Lottie.’ Witch Schwitter pats the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit here.’

‘No.’ I take three steps backwards, but she starts winding up the wool, doing it widdershins, all the time keeping her eyes on my face, and it must be a pulling spell because my feet move forward without asking me first.

‘That’s better. Sit up straight. Watch carefully. This is how it’s done. First we make a loop, so –’ She suddenly taps my hand with her little claw. ‘Are you too stupid to master this, Krysta? Is it true that there’s something wrong with your mind?’

‘No.’

‘Then watch and learn.’

I struggle with the bone needles and the ugly, storm-coloured wool, dropping stitches, pulling so tight that the yarn breaks, or not enough, so that the knitting looks like a broken spider’s web. Three times I throw it on the floor and three times the witch makes me pick the tangle up and carry on. Finally, she lets me put it away.

‘We’ll do some more tomorrow.’

‘Won’t.’

‘And why not, pray?’

‘I don’t want to. It’s nasty. I don’t want to knit or sew. Only poor people make things. Papa will take me to a shop where I can buy Lottie a prettily coloured scarf.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes.’ I watch the witch carefully, for her hand is resting on that stick. ‘Papa told me I don’t have to do what you say either. You’re only supposed to make sure I don’t come to any harm.’

The witch cackles. She brings up the wand and taps me on the shoulder, making me jump. ‘Nevertheless, Krysta, all young girls must learn to be industrious. Tomorrow you will go on with what you’ve started.’

‘Won’t.’ I rub my shoulder, pinching the skin hard to make sure there’s a mark. ‘I’ll tell Papa how hard you hit me and then he’ll send you away like Elke.’

‘
Lügen haben kurze Beine
, my child.’ She laughs some more. ‘Yes, as the old saying goes, lies have short legs and usually come back to haunt you. Now read your book quietly. I need to rest my eyes for five minutes.’

Lottie and I sit in the corner and listen to the old witch resting her eyes:
schnarch
,
schnarch …
She snores until Ursel brings milk and cake at eleven o’clock. By then I’m not hungry because we’ve been exploring and bad Charlotte stole some chocolate from a bedroom. After eating it very slowly we do the ‘Hansel and Gretel’ story again. This time the mother can’t make the children go into the forest so she runs away herself.

When the witch wakes she makes me practise my writing while she talks to her friends. I don’t mind. When I grow up I shall be a famous author like Carol Lewis or Elle Franken Baum, but the girls in my books will be explorers, they’ll fly planes and fight battles, not play down holes with white rabbits or dance along brick roads with a silly scarecrow and a man made out of metal. In the afternoon, the witch gives me a little square of printed linen and some brightly coloured silks.

‘Come along, Krysta.’ She threads a needle and shows me how to fill in the petals with neat little stitches. ‘Embroidering pretty things is a good way for young ladies to pass the time.’

‘Don’t want to.’ I clench my fists.

‘You must.’

‘I won’t.’ Already her hand’s tightening on the stick, but this time I’m ready. I shuffle backwards to the other side of the room. ‘You can’t make me.’

Ursel, come to collect the plates, clicks her tongue. ‘Now you understand what Elke had to put up with. It’s more than naughtiness. No respect. Never been socialized. Can’t imagine
what that father of hers thinks he’s about.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Unless there’s a change of attitude I wouldn’t be surprised if the creature ended up wearing a black
Winkel
.’ They both look at me.

‘Not with her father being who he is,’ mutters Frau Schwitter.

‘Indeed,’ agrees Ursel, scraping up my squashed cake, ‘but he won’t be around for ever. She’ll have to grow up sometime. And if she doesn’t –’

‘The money he’s paying me,’ whispers the old witch, with a sidelong glance, as if to reassure herself I’m not listening, ‘she can play up as much as she likes. The worse she behaves the more I can ask for, so, as far as I’m concerned, for the next few weeks she can dance with the Devil himself if she’s a mind.’ She shrugs. ‘Her future isn’t my business.’

I get out my drawing book and, until Papa comes back, my pictures are of ugly old witches falling off their broomsticks and smashing into pieces. All of them have
Winkel
, big black striped badges like soldiers wear, but on their faces. I’m in the picture, too, smiling and being very good just to annoy them. When Frau Schwitter wants to see what I’m doing, I turn the black crayon on its side and colour over everything, making it night, leaving space for a single big yellow star. She’s very pleased when I sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ for her:

‘Funkel, funkel, kleiner Stern,

Ach wie bist du mir so fern,

Wunderschön und unbekannt,

Wie ein strahlend Diamant,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are.’

Papa scrubs his hands so hard now that his fingers are starting to look as raw and red as
Bregenwurst
. I still won’t talk to him, but I help Lottie pass the towel. He sits and shields his eyes, sipping a linden-blossom tisane for his headache while I lie on the floor looking at the pictures in
Der Rattenfänger von Hameln
, especially the ones of the rats biting the babies and making nests inside men’s Sunday hats. Many of the girls have long yellow hair, like mine. It’s only when I get to the last page where most of the children have gone into the mountain that I notice that the boy left behind is dark-haired, like Daniel. I stare at Papa so hard he uncovers his eyes.

‘What were you doing to Daniel?’

‘Who’s Daniel?’ he asks wearily.

‘He’s my new friend.’

Papa sighs. ‘Come here, Krysta.’ He holds out his hand. But I won’t go. ‘Very well,’ he says, and knuckles his temples. After sitting a bit longer he unlocks the little cupboard and pours something that looks like water into a glass.

I can tell he doesn’t want to talk to Johanna, but she comes in anyway. Today her mouth shines scarlet. She’s wearing a blue, flowery frock and shoes with very high heels.

‘I’m glad to see you’re enjoying your book, Krysta. Look what else I’ve brought you.’ She feels in her pocket and brings out a bright-red ball, holding it up for Papa to see before she hands it over. ‘Of course I made sure it was properly cleaned.’

‘Very thoughtful,’ says Papa. ‘Krysta, what do you say?’

‘Does it bounce?’

‘Yes.’ Johanna smiles and tries to pat my head, but I move fast. ‘Why don’t you go outside and try?’

‘Not just now, Krysta.’ Papa shakes his head, adding: ‘We’ve had one or two problems. She needs an eye kept on her.’

I bounce the ball against the wall and pretend not to hear the first time he tells me to stop.

‘We could sit outside,’ suggests Johanna. ‘It’s a pleasant evening. Krysta can run about and play while we chat.’

Papa sighs again but follows us out of the building. He sits and looks at his hands. Johanna’s doing all the talking and she keeps touching him, a little pat here and a little stroke there. Sometimes I’ve heard her roaring like Greet when the butcher brought old meat, but today her voice has become soft and nearly sweet. On and on she talks, every so often glancing at me, while Papa shrinks down on the bench, saying nothing. Finally, Johanna lights a cigar and leans back, blowing smoke rings. She comes inside when Papa decides I must get ready for bed.

‘Let me brush your hair for you, Krysta.’

Her big hands are clumsy but I’m still holding the red ball, so I grind my teeth instead of crying out as she undoes the braids.

‘Beautiful, beautiful hair,’ Johanna says, as she starts to brush. ‘Look at it, Conrad, shining like gold.’

‘It’s the same as Mama’s hair.’ For a moment the brush falters. Johanna’s hair is as kinky and dull as a back doormat.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ she says. ‘Almost like a real family. I’ll come in the morning and plait it for you, Krysta.’

Papa stiffens. ‘That very kind, Johanna, but it’s not necessary.’

‘It won’t be any trouble.’

I’m sent to bed, but I creep back to listen. Johanna is doing most of the talking again, but it doesn’t make much sense. I put my eye to the crack and see Papa sitting with his head in his hands.

‘It’s not a burden you should have to bear alone, Conrad. Of
course, if we were married, then it would be
our
secret. Both of us could protect her. Nobody need ever know. Whether the … uh … irregularity’s been passed down or not, surely you can see that the child needs a mother figure.’

‘Lidia wasn’t insane,’ protests Papa. ‘It’s nothing that can be passed on. It was a difficult birth and she never got over it. And, you know, being an artist she wasn’t cut out for domesticity. I blame myself. Too wrapped up in my work. If it wasn’t for the other thing –’

‘Is that how it will look to the world, though?’ Johanna looks at the clock. ‘It’s late. I’d better be getting along, otherwise people might talk.’ She laughs. ‘You think over what I’ve said. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Papa is washing his hands with red paint. Behind him Johanna is holding something and there’s scarlet dripping from her mouth –

I wake up screaming and run to find Papa. He’s holding the bottle of water from the cupboard that is always locked. His eyes look funny.

‘Papa! Papa!’

‘What is it, Krysta? You’re supposed to be in bed, asleep.’

‘What were you doing to Daniel?’

‘Who is Daniel?’

‘My friend. I told you. I saw you. I saw –’

‘Stop shouting.’ He drinks straight from the bottle. ‘I’ve done nothing to Daniel. There are no little boys in the infirmary. What you saw was just a … what did I hear you call them? Ah, yes, an animal-person. They’re hardly human. That’s what we’re told. They are rabbits, Krysta:
króliki
,
Kaninchen
,
lapins
… they’re only rabbits.’

‘No. No. No.’ I clench my fists. He is being stupid and I want to smack him. ‘No. Rabbits have little legs.’

‘Everything I’ve done is to protect you, Krysta. That’s why we came here. Go back to bed now.’

‘Where’s Daniel?’

But Papa’s eyes close. The water bottle is empty and it slips from his fingers. ‘It has to be done,’ he says. ‘We have to know what’s scientifically possible.’ He goes on talking, but not to me. ‘Lidia was right – should have gone when we had the chance. Perhaps we still can if we go about it quickly and quietly. Somewhere quiet and peaceful. Far away.’

‘I know another tale,’ whispers Greet, ‘about an evil giant who cut off a boy’s legs and stewed them for his dinner with some fine magic beans. He had a harp that played itself and a clutch of golden goose eggs, too. There’s a princess in the story. Behave yourself and it all comes right in the end – the boy kills the giant, grows new legs and lives happily ever after.’ She empties a basket of
Stangenbohnen
, long green stick beans, on to the table and seizes her knife. An earwig runs out of the pile and
bang!
she crushes it to a brown paste with her fist. ‘If you want to hear more you’d better hurry up and finish your breakfast.’