Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

She looked at him sharply.
“Really?” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “And just
what is it that you think would be worth my effort?”
He didn’t respond–Didn’t have any answer at the moment.
He stood up, shrugged his shoulders and went into the garden.
Her laughter sounded behind him.
“In a bad mood, Herr Guardian?”
That afternoon he sat in the library. Some documents lay in front
of him that Attorney Manasse had sent over yesterday. But he didn’t
read them. He stared into the air, hurriedly smoking one cigarette after
the other.
Then he opened a desk drawer and once more took out the Privy
Councilor’s leather bound volume. He read slowly and carefully,
considering every little incident.
There was a knock; the chauffeur quickly stepped inside.
“Herr Doctor,” he cried. “Princess Wolkonski is here. She is very
upset, screamed for the Fräulein while she was still in her carriage.
We thought that perhaps it might be better if you received her first–So
Aloys is bringing her here right now.”
“Well done!” he said. He sprang up and went to meet the
princess. With great effort she squeezed through the narrow door and
waltzed her heavy masses into the half darkened hall, which was lit
only by the sparse sunlight that came through the green Venetian
blinds.
“Where is she?” she panted. “Where is the Fräulein?”
He took her hand and led her over to the divan. She recognized
him immediately and called him by name, but had no intention of
getting into a conversation with him.
“I want to see Fräulein Alraune,” she cried. “Bring the Fräulein
here!”
She would not calm down until he rang the servant and
instructed him to announce the visit of the princess. Then, for the first
time, she consented to listen to him.
He asked after the health of her child and the princess related to
him, in an immense flood of words, how she had met with her
daughter. Not once had she recognized her own mother, had simply
sat by the window looking out into the garden, passive and listless.
It had been in the old Privy Councilor’s clinic, that fraud, which
Professor Dalberg had now turned into an insane asylum, the same
building where–
He interrupted her, cutting short her flood of words. He quickly
grabbed her hand, bent over it and looked with simulated interest at
her rings.
“Excuse me, your Highness,” he cried quickly. “Where did you
ever get this marvelous emerald? Definitely a showcase piece!”
“It was a button from the Magnate’s beret of my first husband,”
she replied. “It’s an old heirloom.”
She prepared to continue her tirade, but he didn’t let her get a
word in.
“It is a stone of uncommon purity!” he affirmed. “And of
remarkable size! I only once saw a similar one, in the royal stud of the
Maharajah of Rolinkore–He had it set into his favorite horse’s left
eye. For the right it carried a Burmese ruby that was only a little
smaller.”
Then he told of the hobby of Indian princes, how they gouged
out the eyes of their beautiful horses and replaced them with glass
eyes or large round highly polished stones.
“It sounds cruel,” he said. “But I assure you, your Highness. The
effect is amazing when you see such a magnificent animal, when they
stare at you with Alexandrite eyes, or glance at you out of deep blue
sapphires.”
Then he spoke of precious stones, remembering from his student
days that she knew quite a bit about jewels and pearls. It was the only
thing she was really interested in. She gave him answers, at first
quickly and briefly, then became calmer with every minute.
She pulled off her rings, showed them to him one after the other,
telling him a little story about each one. He nodded attentively.
“Now let my cousin come,” he thought. “The first storm is over.”
But he was wrong. Alraune had soundlessly come through the
door, walked softly across the carpet and set herself down in the easy
chair right across from them.
“I am so happy to see you, your Highness,” she piped.
The princess cried out and gasped for breath, crossed herself,
then a second time, in the Orthodox manner.
“There she is,” she moaned. “There she sits!”
“Yes,” laughed Alraune, “alive and breathing!”
She stood up and reached her hand out to the princess.
“I am so sorry,” she continued. “My sympathies, your
Highness!”
The princess didn’t take her hand. She was speechless for a
minute, struggled for composure–Then she found herself again.
“I don’t need your sympathy!” she cried. “I have something to
say to you!”
Alraune sat back down, waved lightly with her hand.
“Please speak, your Highness.”
The princess began. Did the Fräulein know that she had lost her
fortune through the machinations of his Excellency? But yes,
naturally she knew. The gentlemen had explained every detail to her,
explained what she had to do–But she had refused to fulfill her
obligation.
Did she know what had happened to her daughter? She explained
how she had found her in the asylum and what the doctor’s opinion
was. She became more excited, her voice swelled, becoming higher
and more shrieking.
She knew all of that, declared Alraune calmly.
The princess asked, what was she now intending to do? Did she
intend to walk in the same dirty footsteps of her father? Oh, there was
a fine scoundrel. You couldn’t find a finer or more cunning
blackguard in any book. Now he had his just reward.
She continued screaming and yelling about his Excellency,
saying everything that came to her tongue–She screamed that Olga’s
sudden attack had been because of the failure of her mission and not
wanting to come back. Alraune had made things worse by enticing
her friend of many long years away from her.
She believed that if the Fräulein would now help, not only would
her fortune be saved, but her child as well, when she heard the news.
‘I’m not asking,” she screamed. “I’m demanding! I demand what
is rightfully mine. You have done this wrong, you, my own Godchild,
and your father. Now make it right again, as much as you possibly
can–It is a shame that I must be the first to tell you this–But you will
have it no other way.”
“What is there left to save?” Alraune said softly. “As far as I
know, the bank collapsed three days ago. Your money is gone, your
Highness!”
She stressed the ‘gone’–You could hear the bank notes fluttering
in all directions.
“That doesn’t matter,” declared the princess. “The Legal
Councilor told me that almost twelve million of my money was
invested into that rotten bank. You will simply give me those twelve
million out of your own money. That will be nothing to you–I know
that very well!”
“Is that all?” said Fräulein ten Brinken. “Are there any more
commands, your Highness!”
“Many more,” cried the princess. “You will inform Fräulein
Gontram that she is to leave your house immediately. She will go with
me to my poor daughter. I promised to bring her along the next time I
came. Especially now, so she can share the news that this sad
misfortune has been made right. It will have a very good effect on the
countess–Perhaps a sudden recovery.
I won’t reproach Fräulein Gontram in any way over her
ungrateful behavior or continue pointing out your own behavior to
you. I only wish this affair to be settled immediately.”
She fell silent, took a deep breath after the tremendous exertion
of her long speech. She took her handkerchief, fanned herself, and
wiped the thick drops of sweat that beaded on her bright red face.
Alraune stood up briefly, made a slight bow.
“Your Highness is too gracious,” she piped.
Then she remained quiet.
The princess waited awhile, then finally asked, “Well?”
“Well?” the Fräulein came back in the same tone of voice.
“I’m waiting, –” cried the princess.
“So am I, – ” said Alraune.
Princess Wolkonski moved back and forth on the divan, whose
old springs sagged heavily under her weight. The way she was
pressed into her mighty corset, which even now formed the huge
masses into some type of shape, made it difficult for her to breath or
even move. Her breath came short and unconsciously her thick tongue
licked her dry lips.
“May I be permitted to have a glass of water brought for you,
your Highness?” twittered the Fräulein.
She acted as if she had not heard.
“What do you intend to do now?” she asked solemnly.
Alraune spoke with infinite simplicity, “Absolutely nothing.”
The old princess stared at her with round cow eyes, as if she
could not comprehend what the young thing meant. She stood up,
confused, took a few steps, looked around as if she were searching for
something.
Frank Braun stood up, took the carafe of water from the table,
filled a glass and gave it to her. She drank it greedily.
Alraune stood up as well.
“I beg to be excused, your Highness,” she said. “May I be
permitted to convey your greetings to Fräulein Gontram?”
The princess went up to her, seething, full of repressed anger.
Now she is going to burst, thought Frank Braun.
But she couldn’t find the words, searched in vain for a
beginning.
“Tell her,” she panted. “Tell her that I never want to lay eyes on
her again! She is no better a woman than you are!”
She stamped with heavy steps through the hall, gasping,
sweating, and waving her mighty arms in the air. Then her glance fell
on the open drawer. She saw the necklace that she had once given her
Godchild, a gold chain with pearls and set with diamonds around the
fiery lock of the mother’s hair. A triumphant look of hatred flew over
her bloated features. She quickly tore the necklace out of the drawer.
“Do you know what this is?” she screamed.
“No,” said Alraune calmly. “I’ve never seen it before.”
The princess stepped up right in front of her.
“So that scoundrel of a Privy Councilor embezzled it from you–
just like him! It was my present to you, Alraune, as my god-child!”
“Thank you,” said the Fräulein. “The pearls are very pretty, and
the diamonds too–if they are real.”
“They are real,” screamed the princess. “Like this hair that I cut
from your mother!”
She threw the necklace into the Fräulein’s lap. Alraune took the
unusual piece of jewelry, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
“My–mother?” she said slowly. “It appears that my mother had
very beautiful hair.”
The princess placed herself solidly in front of her, putting both
hands solidly on her hips. She was matter of fact, like a
washerwoman.
“Very beautiful hair,” she laughed. “Very beautiful! So beautiful
that all the men ran after her and paid an entire Mark for one night’s
sleep with her beautiful hair!”
The Fräulein sprang up. The blood drained out of her face in an
instant, but she quickly laughed again and said calmly and scornfully:
“You are getting old, your Highness, old and childish.”
That was the end. Now there was no going back for the princess.
She broke loose with ordinary, infinitely vulgar language like a
drunken Bordello Madam. She screamed, howled and obscene filth
poured out of her mouth.
Alraune’s mother was a whore, one of the lowest kind, who gave
herself away for a Mark and her father was a miserable rapist and
murderer whose name was Noerrissen. She knew all about it. The
Privy Councilor had paid the prostitute money and purchased her for
his vile experiment, had inseminated her with the semen of the
executed criminal. That was how Alraune had been created and she,
herself, had injected the loathsome semen into Alraune’s mother.
She, Alraune, the stinking fruit of that experiment, was sitting
there now–right in front of her!–A murderer’s daughter and a
prostitute’s child!
That was her revenge. She went out triumphant, with light steps,
swollen with the pride of a victory that made her ten years younger.
She slammed the door loudly as she closed it.
Now it was quiet in the large library. Alraune sat in her chair, a
little pale. Her hands played nervously with the necklace, faint
movements played around the corners of her mouth. Finally she stood
up.
“Stupid stuff,” she whispered.
She took a few steps, then calmed herself and stepped back up to
her cousin.
“Is it true, Frank Braun?” she asked.
He hesitated a moment, stood up and said slowly:
“I believe that it is true.”
He stepped over to the writing desk, took up the leather bound
volume and handed it to her.
“Read this,” he said.
She didn’t speak a word, turned to go.
“Take this too,” he cried after her and handed her the dice cup
that had been fashioned out of her mother’s skull and the dice that had
been created out of her father’s bones.

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Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Waking in a glorious resolve, sweat-soaked, he heard
fists pounding his door.
He stood in the doorway, shirt flapping, blinded
by a lantern’s glare. Someone ordered him to rise
quickly, speaking of a ladder, ropes, a pickaxe, and a
shovel from the tool shed behind the house. It
might’ve been Schiereisen. He had to dress; it
seemed urgent. When Rotrehl was ready and
Schiereisen explained the task, he wasn’t overly
surprised. It felt like a continuation of his
adventurous dreams, his mind brimming with
Cossacks and battle scenes, making him eager to
follow. Soon, they descended the hill, armed with
ladder, ropes, pickaxe, and shovel, like treasure
hunters or conjurers, cloaked in night’s mantle.
Stars began to adorn that mantle. Clouds had
cleared, and the night grew bright. Warm mist rose
from wet grass, spreading a thin, white fog over the
meadows. Midnight had long passed; in the east,
night’s veils thinned, stars peering large and anxious
through dawn’s weave. Light welled from the earth.
At her bedroom window, Helmina stood in a gray
travel dress, a small handbag ready. She sometimes
brushed her forehead, turning to check if the sounds
she heard were in her ears and blood or from outside.
At times, she thought someone approached along the
corridor, pausing at her door. Then she heard
breathing—the breath of sleepers, a whole castle
asleep while she alone watched, ready to flee. Short,
quick breaths stood out, those of children in their
beds. For a moment, Helmina distinguished them,
then they merged back into the collective slumber’s
weave. She made no effort to hear them again.
Motherly tenderness was alien to her; her soul knew
nothing of it. She preferred solitude, connected to
others only through her senses. She stared into a new
world, seeking the extraordinary. Was it power, a
searing, ruinous, blissful passion? She didn’t know. It
flowed darkly within her, driving her, and she yielded
without resistance. Sometimes, she felt not herself
but part of a cruel force spilling over the world…
She stood thus for two hours, staring at the bridge
deep in shadow, awaiting the signal. Her mocking
lips grew thinner, pressed tighter. Perhaps Fritz
Gegely wouldn’t come. Maybe he’d only boasted,
shirking the deed, and she’d have to leave without
him. He was merely a bridge, but if he failed her,
after so many defeats, she’d be utterly crushed. This
waiting was unbearable. Lorenz would be furious.
Time slipped away; they could’ve been far gone.
Half an hour more. Then Helmina must leave,
with or without Gegely.
But the signal came. On the bridge, an electric
lighter flashed thrice, three seconds each, like a
firefly. Helmina grabbed her bag, glancing around the
room. She left not as a victor… only her hate
remained.
Cautiously, she stepped out, unlocked a secret
door in the corridor, and descended a narrow, musty
staircase to the forecourt. It was safer; someone
might be on the main stairs. She crept across the
courtyard to the gate tower, opening the small door in
the large gate. It wouldn’t budge at first, rarely used
and swollen. She yanked the lock with all her
strength, tearing her delicate gloves.
Finally, she slipped out, leaving the door ajar.
Gegely stood under the chestnut trees.
“Where were you so long?” she asked, furious.
“Forgive me… she couldn’t sleep… I had to
wait… only a quarter-hour ago…”
“Forward!”
They were halfway down the castle hill when the
gate was flung open. Schiereisen leapt out, followed
by Jérome Rotrehl, clutching rope and spade as if
someone had thrust them into his hands and fled.
Both men’s faces, hands, and clothes were smeared
with mud, crusted with clay, speckled with white
patches of lime or mortar.
Schiereisen saw the two figures vanish into the
early morning’s dusk at the chestnut alley’s end.
They ran along the road, and soon he heard a
sound—a nerve-shredding, whipping noise, the
sputter of a car readying to drive. It drummed into the
dawn’s silence, like handfuls of peas hurled against
this glassy hour.
Schiereisen gauged the distance from the alley’s
mouth. He sprinted down the hill, first driven to
pursue, to halt the fugitives. Near the bottom, he
stopped abruptly, planting his feet, fists in his
pockets. No—she should flee.
The car’s starting roar sounded. Good… it’s
right… He finished his descent slowly, regulating his
breath with closed lips. On the bridge, the car was
gone. He broke into a trot, wanting to confirm who
Helmina fled with. The road stretched through the
valley, rising in wide curves to the highlands. A
steep, direct climb could cut off its loops.
Schiereisen plunged into the woods, scrambling
between trees, hooking from one to another at steep
spots. His lungs expanded, filling his chest, pushing
his heart to his throat. Sweat poured from his brow,
carving furrows through mud and grime, mixing a
sticky paste that tightened his skin. Several times, he
felt he couldn’t go on. But his immense resilience
drove him, making the impossible possible.
He reached the forest’s edge, where he’d first met
Helmina, standing in dense shrubs, their dampness
cloaking his steaming body. For a moment, all was
still, branches swaying softly. Seconds passed. Then
the car’s sputter burst in, sudden, as it rounded a
sound-catching forest bend.
Schiereisen knew he could’ve stopped it—
stepping into the road, Browning raised, an effective
warrant. But he stayed hidden.
The car roared up, shooting around the final curve,
snorting, racing uphill at full power… gone ten
heartbeats later. Schiereisen saw its occupants
clearly: Helmina, Herr Gegely—husband of the sick
woman—and Lorenz at the wheel.
The detective began his return. Near the house, he
met Rotrehl, lugging the gear alone. Seeing his
summer guest, the violin-maker stopped, staring. His
mind was saturated with the past hours’ events,
unable to grasp more. Bewilderment wrapped him in
soft veils. He could only shake his head.
“Come, Napoleon,” Schiereisen said, taking the
ladder. “Don’t think we’ve lost the battle. We’ll sleep
a little now. Later, I’ll explain everything.”

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Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

What should Ruprecht reply? Her words didn’t
wound him, for he knew Hedwig was on the path to
health. That was a secret for him alone. So he only
nodded to Helmina and left the room.
Schiereisen had spent the afternoon on the small
bench outside Rotrehl’s house. He’d spread out all
his notes, reviewing his reasoning. When the rain
began, he gathered his papers and wrapped himself in
his waterproof loden coat. He let the water stream
down, only retreating to his room when the coat’s
hems grew heavy with damp.
What would happen now? The decision loomed. If
Ruprecht spoke, all efforts might be for naught. It
was almost certain he would. Lorenz had already
slipped away; Helmina would likely try to escape too.
Could he allow that? His duty was to detain her, but
he lacked direct evidence against her. Still, this night
must be used. He wrote a detailed letter to Herr Peter
Franz von Zaugg, delivered it to the post himself that
evening, and sent two coded telegrams—one to the
prosecutor’s office, one to his agency. Then he dined
at the Red Ox. The landlady mentioned Fritz Gegely
and his wife had been invited to the castle. That was
the poet with the sick wife, whose connection to the
castle lords he’d observed before leaving.
Pensively picking his teeth, he walked the village
street. The ground was soft from rain. At a large
puddle, Mathes Dreiseidel stood with the head
teacher, discussing politics sagely. Schiereisen saw
Dreiseidel’s urge to draw him in and kept to this side
of the water. He crossed the bridge and climbed the
castle hill under the deep shade of chestnut trees. The
rain had stopped, but drops fell from the branches,
some sliding coldly down his collar, jarring his
nerves.
The castle windows still glowed. Schiereisen
decided to wait. He wore his yellow overcoat, the
winter one being damp, and buttoned up, leaning
against a tree trunk. Two hours passed. Schiereisen
waited calmly, unsure what for. At career peaks, after
completing preparations, he surrendered to intuition.
A voice must call, a light must flare, illuminating his
path. Impatience was foreign to him.
When voices and a carriage’s rumble sounded in
the courtyard, he retreated deeper into shadow. The
heavy gate opened, clanging against the wall. A
carriage emerged, brakes grinding down the hill.
Three people sat within—the Gegelys and another,
perhaps the Major, part of their circle.
The gate closed, but Schiereisen didn’t hear it
lock. The sleepy gatekeeper, loath to rise again when
the carriage returned, left the task to the driver.
Schiereisen waited, then opened the gate a crack
and slipped inside. The outbuildings were dark; only
the overseer’s apartment showed light, now
extinguished. Only the main building stayed awake.
Above dark roofs, the sky slowly brightened.
Schiereisen crossed the courtyard silently, senses
sharp, each impression vivid and swiftly processed.
Sleeping and waking people, stone blocks, courtyard
walls—they merged into his being, parts of his skin.
He passed under the main building’s archway to
the inner courtyard. Below were the servants’
quarters. There was Lorenz’s former room. Opposite,
a dim light burned where old Marianne, the
madwoman who spent nights praying and singing,
was housed. She was awake. A murmur crept across
the courtyard, simmering around Schiereisen’s ears.
He decided to see what the old woman was doing.
Suddenly, he froze.
How could all his cunning, experience, and
caution have overlooked this? How far was he from
mastery in his craft, neglecting such a crucial detail?
He’d searched everywhere, yet ignored this old
woman. Now, intuition struck. Hadn’t Johann said
she was a Moreno heirloom, inherited by Helmina’s
first husband? She’d lived here since Helmina
arrived, witnessing all events. Her madness emerged
under Dankwardt. How had Schiereisen failed to
probe its roots? She’d once been quiet, content with
small chores for the modest keep the last Moreno
secured her. What if her simple mind was later
shattered by something horrific, a dread, an unwitting
knowledge of a secret too heavy?
A shrill scream burst from the window, followed
by babbling clamor. Schiereisen hurried over. Red
curtains covered the lower window, but on tiptoe, he
could peer inside. Old Marianne knelt before her
table, her headscarf slipped back, gray-yellow hair
tangled, strands writhing like battling snakes. She
struck her forehead against the table’s edge, crying,
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!”
On the table stood a crucifix and three burning
candles, their flames flinching and flaring with each
forehead strike.
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!” she repeated countless times. Then she calmed,
murmuring softly. Her forehead rested on the table’s
edge, her arms, once flailing beneath, now crossed
over her chest. She rose, lifting one knee, then the
other, pulling herself up by the table.
Schiereisen saw her face for the first time. It
wasn’t contorted but wholly consumed by one
thought. This poor, muddled mind held room for
nothing else. She took the three candles and moved to
the door.
Schiereisen hurried behind a pillar to hide. He
watched her emerge and cross the courtyard, carrying
the candles in her left hand, her right shielding the
flames. Silently, he followed through the archway,
along the main building’s wall to the park gate. The
rusty grille creaked like night birds with sharp beaks
eyeing living prey. The candles’ glow dazzled,
revealing only path fragments. They passed rubble
and wet shrubs. Schiereisen couldn’t avoid rustling
bushes or snapping twigs, but the old woman seemed
deaf, pressing forward. Massive stone blocks loomed
from the dark. The tower… Schiereisen thought. She
stopped, shone the light up the wall, and crouched
before a flat stone, fixing her candles to it. She
poured melted wax onto a smooth spot, pressing each
candle’s base into it. Clumps of wax showed this
stone had often served this strange rite.
She knelt before the burning candles, seeming to
pray. Her back hunched, head bowed low, the dirty
yellow-brown pattern of her jacket lit by the glow.
Schiereisen stood behind her, part of the
darkness—formless, chaotic, lingering in torpid
waiting, indifferent to time and space. But the old
woman stayed motionless; nothing more happened.
He spurred himself; the night couldn’t be wasted.
Stepping forward, he touched her shoulder.
“What’re you doing, little mother?”
She turned, unstartled, only peeved at the
interruption. “Be quiet… the three are inside. They
don’t sleep. They wander, banging their heads on the
wall. Three candles: one for each. Three candles for
the poor souls in purgatory.”
“Who’s inside?” Schiereisen asked kindly, patting
her back.
“Oh, no, I won’t tell you,” she replied earnestly.
“No one must know who they are. If I speak, they’ll
come out, eat and drink as if nothing happened, and
live again. That mustn’t be. She won’t allow it.”
“Yes, the gracious lady is strict. We mustn’t do
what she forbids.”
With a look of great fear, the old woman spread
her thin arms. “No… no… she won’t allow it, they
must stay there. Otherwise, Lorenz comes and beats
me. He has a rubber stick; he hits my head with it. I
must watch and pray.”
“You’re right,” Schiereisen said. “Keep praying.”
“Prayer can do all. Prayer seals the hole so they
can’t get out. Prayer is the wax of the pious, sealing
entrance and exit.” She lifted her head, gazing at the
damp stone blocks.
Schiereisen saw, above, between treetops at the
edge of the candlelight, a dark hole in the tower.
Good, he thought, this night must be used.
The old woman had lowered her head again,
resuming her prayers. Schiereisen left her
undisturbed, crashing through the bushes. He
followed the garden wall until he reached a spot
where elderberry shrubs and rubble made climbing
possible. He slid down the outer side, heedless of his
yellow overcoat, its buttons tearing off. Then he
raced down the castle hill, across the bridge, and up
the slope to Rotrehl’s house.
Rotrehl was dreaming of crossing the Beresina,
fleeing in a sleigh from a horde of Cossacks with
long lances and blood-red tongues lolling like
hunting dogs. His sleigh wouldn’t budge; leaning
forward, he saw its runners were cardboard, softened
and collapsing in the snow. Cannon booms thundered
ahead—boom, boom, boom! The enemy had cut him
off, guns ready. Nothing remained but to die a hero.

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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XV.

Falk pressed himself even tighter against the wall. He sat on the sofa. The room was completely dark. Fear seized him: he heard voices in the corridor. He listened. 

“The gracious lady left with the boy today. The gentleman has been sitting in his room all day. He is probably sick. He wants nothing to eat, and does not answer.” 

He heard knocking again. 

He did not move. But then he saw the door being opened, a broad strip of light fell into the room, then it became dark again. The door closed. 

“Falk!” he heard Olga call. “Pst—quiet, quiet!” 

“Where are you?” “Here.” 

She groped her way to him. 

“What are you doing?” she asked frightened. “Someone died.” 

“Who?” 

“She, she… Just sit here… here…” “What do you have in your hand?” she asked. 

“A letter from her. She is gone. Never coming back. So she is dead.” 

They sat very long and held each other’s hands. 

The mysterious silence, the darkness confused her head. “Are you mad?” she asked anxiously and softly. 

“Now it is over, but I was.” They were silent again very long. 

“It is good that you came. I would have gone mad today.” He breathed relieved. 

“And now what?” 

He did not answer. She did not dare to ask further. 

After a long time she wanted to ask him again, then she noticed that he was sleeping. 

She did not dare to move, for fear of waking him. Even in sleep he held her hand tight. 

So an endless time passed. Suddenly he sat up. 

“I will perhaps go to Czerski. Will you come with?” “Yes.” 

“Vive l’humanité,” he giggled softly and cheerfully. 

The End

Kongsvinger (Norway).

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