OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 21
The sun had melted the last remnants of snow and streamed unrestrained over the steaming spring earth. Liverworts and primroses dotted the ground beneath the beeches in blue and yellow, and Friederike had intended to go into the forest to pick a bouquet for Reichenbach’s desk. But a dull unease had plagued her since the previous evening; she could find no explanation for why she wasn’t cheerful amid so much sun, light, and vibrant color in the world. Several times, despite the heavy pressure in her temples and the sluggishness of her legs, she had started out, but each time she turned back, as if she weren’t allowed to leave the dairy today. Something was approaching, compelling her to stay.
While she was in the milk room, a young man limped through the courtyard gate. He was about twenty-five, crippled in both legs; his left foot was a shapeless lump, and his right knee was bent and drawn up, so he touched the ground only with his toes, using a stick for support. He had a slightly crooked nose and a wide mouth; his face was scarred by smallpox, and behind the humble demeanor of a beggar lurked something indefinable. He was anything but handsome, so wretched and dirty that one had to pity him, though it was a pity mixed with revulsion.
As he took a few steps into the courtyard, Friederike emerged from the milk room, carrying a large pot of milk in her hands.
She had to watch the pot to avoid spilling, unaware of what else was happening in the courtyard, until a shadow suddenly fell before her feet.
She cried out, and the pot slipped from her hands. There, there was the man she had encountered twice before in Sievering. He had stared at her with cold eyes, and it felt as if a veil had been cast over her. She had prayed God would spare her from meeting this man again. And now he had come to the courtyard, standing before her, grinning, gesturing mockingly at the broken pot’s shards and the large puddle of spilled milk.
Friederike didn’t understand him. But then he pointed to his mouth and ear, then made a scooping motion with his hand, as if tossing invisible bites into his mouth.
Now Friederike understood—he was deaf-mute and hungry. Fine, he would get food; he shouldn’t think they’d drive him away from this farm out of disgust or fear. Friederike lowered her head and walked toward the steward’s quarters, the beggar limping behind her.
She signaled him to wait, took another pot from the kitchen shelf, and headed back to the milk room. In the courtyard, she thought the only thing left was to run to the Freiherr and ask for help. But then she told herself it wouldn’t do to leave the man waiting if he was hungry—God knows how many doors had already turned him away.
He stood before the pipe collection when Friederike returned with the milk, expressing lively admiration for the large, finely tinted meerschaum heads with vivid gestures. Friederike set a glass on the table and was about to fill it with milk, but he held her hand back, made the sign of the cross over the empty glass, crossed himself over mouth and chest, and then nodded for her to pour.
Friederike sat by the window while the man ate. She saw his large, red, freckled hands with broken nails, the grime around his neck, the matted hair with bald patches. He was hungry and poor, my God, yes, but her dread of him was so great that she could only wish he’d leave soon.
After the man drank the milk and ate the large piece of black bread, he leaned back, blinking at Friederike, sated and content. She thought hard about how to make him understand he could now go. He seemed in no hurry to leave, making no move to do so; he sat there, apparently quite comfortable, grinning. Friederike was at a loss for what to do with him and couldn’t immediately grasp what he wanted when he reached across the table and mimed writing.
She tried offering ink and a pen, and indeed, that was exactly what he wanted. After slowly scrawling a few lines on the paper, he handed it to Friederike, and she read: “I am the Son of God, come from heaven, and my name is: Our Lord God! You see my small wonders and will soon see my great ones. Do not fear me, for God has sent me to you.”
What did that mean? Was she dealing with a madman? But the man sat calmly, his face solemnly serious, his eyes glinting so sharply that Friederike could hardly look away. A while later, as dusk began to fall, he pointed to his feet, likely indicating he was tired, then folded his hands, raised them to his cheek, and tilted his head against them.
He wanted to go to sleep. Friederike was startled; she didn’t immediately know where to put the man, but she was also unable to turn him away.
Finally, she decided to offer him a bed in the hay and led him to the barn. To the stable hand Franz, who asked in astonishment what sort of suspicious fellow she was letting onto the farm, she replied almost irritably that he was a poor wretch, and it was a Christian duty to grant him a roof for the night.
But when she went to bed herself, such fear overcame her that she dressed again and ran to the castle. She wanted to see and speak to Reichenbach, to beg him to let her sleep at the castle that night, where she’d feel safe. It struck her like a misfortune when Severin told her the Freiherr was in the city and wouldn’t likely return before tomorrow or even the day after.
With drooping arms, weary and disheartened, Friederike returned, as if surrendering to an inevitable fate. She bolted her bedroom door and lay on the bed fully clothed, beside herself with terror at the thought that the dreadful man was lying in the hay nearby. And she felt distinctly that a foreign will was relentlessly fixed on her.
But nothing further happened; the night passed quietly, save for a chaotic flurry of dreams in which the image of enormous pincers kept recurring, their jaws opening to seize Friederike’s head.
In the morning, as she stood at the stove cooking milk soup, she sensed the man behind her. He stood in the open doorway, grinning at her, and made a scooping gesture with his hand, as if tossing invisible bites into his mouth. Friederike set a plate before him, but the beggar pointed to the seat opposite, signaling with gestures that he wished her to eat with him. Fine, that too, thought Friederike; she’d do his bidding, but then she’d make it clear he must leave the farm.
As she raised the spoon to her mouth, the man made a lightning-fast motion, as if tossing something into her plate. The spoon fell from her hand, clattering against the plate’s rim, and Friederike was instantly paralyzed throughout her body. She hadn’t lost consciousness but was defenseless; she saw the man rise with a nod and a grin, limping around the table toward her. An immense scream of mortal terror remained silent within her. The man grabbed her around the waist, dragged her to the bedroom, threw her onto the bed, and pressed his body into hers.
Around nine in the morning, the stable hand Franz saw the stranger stagger across the courtyard and head toward the forest path. A few minutes later, Friederike appeared, a bundle under her arm and her headscarf pulled low over her face, as if heading to a distant field. Franz intended to ask where she was going, but a commotion broke out in the stable—the gray stallion and the chestnut were fighting, as they never got along, and he had to rush to intervene.
No one stopped Friederike; she reached the forest’s edge, where the beggar waited under the first trees. They wandered all day and spent the night in a hayloft.
The next evening, they stopped at a remote farmhouse near Heiligenkreuz, and the man asked for lodging.
Yes, he spoke—he was not deaf-mute at all—making a humble face and begging for shelter. Had he been alone, the farmer would have turned him away, but the delicate, quiet girl with him, who looked so utterly miserable, stirred pity in the farmer and his wife, and they allowed the two to stay. They even permitted them to sleep in their son’s room, as he was at the livestock market in Sankt Pölten.
After supper, as they prepared for bed, the strange girl suddenly fell to her knees before the farmer’s wife and cried out, “Help me… for God’s sake, help me… save me from this man; he forced me to follow him… I can’t… help me. He forced me… I’ll throw myself into the water.”
This wasn’t immediately clear to the simple folk, but something was certainly amiss. The farmer glared threateningly at the beggar.
The man grinned and tapped his forehead. “This is my bride,” he said in a tone that brooked no interference, “no one has any say in this. She’s just not right in the head sometimes.”
“He pretended to be deaf-mute…” Friederike wailed, “he wrote that he’s the Son of God. Help me. Let me sleep with you, not with him. Not with him.”
“Shut your mouth!” the man snapped at her. “Watch, she’ll follow me in a moment.” He stood in a corner of the room, whistled as one might to a dog, and pointed to the floor. And the girl, whimpering and whining, began crawling on her knees toward him.
“Good, very good,” he praised, “and now you’ll go up and climb the stairs.”
Friederike stood and began ascending the wooden stairs from the room to the son’s chamber, counting, “One, two, three, four, five…” Suddenly, she broke into laughter that made her sway, nearly falling from the steep steps. The man nodded to the farmer’s wife, as if to say, “See, what did I tell you?” and drove the girl ahead of him into the bedroom.
The household didn’t know what to make of it all. The farmer seemed reluctant to get further involved, but his wife insisted something was amiss, and the two maids and the farmhand sided with her.
Finally, the farmer grudgingly agreed to go to the village the next day and report it, to ease their conscience.
But the next morning, nothing stirred in the bedroom, and when the farmer’s wife went upstairs, she found the strangers had already left. They must have departed the house together before dawn.
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