Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

Beneath the well-worn tricorn hat that he wore, grinned a monkey’s face
with a mouth which he could contort in every way, as well as
make his yellow eyes squint in the most ghastly way. His
crooked nose almost touched his chin and gave him an almost
devilish appearance, which was still strengthened by the
disgusting faces, which he made. The people around him found
him less sinister than amusing, and shouted all sorts of coarse
words at him, which he answered with indecent and inviting
gestures.
Then, however, a jerk and a crane of the neck went
through the crowd. The sad procession had returned.
Two servants in dirty red coats led a stout older man with
gray hair onto the scaffold. Behind him the Red Coat climbed
up the steps and immediately stood there with naked arms.
“Heiner has refused spiritual encouragement,” said a
voice behind us. “He thinks, that the great ones are allowed to
do wrong up there in the kingdom of heaven, not only here on
earth and so he has no desire to do so.”
My father quickly turned around. The voice was silent.
“Cursed pack!” he rumbled to himself. “Good that again
an example is made.”
Someone read out something at length in a fat, nasally
and quite indifferent voice. Two pieces of wood flew onto the
scaffold, pieces of the stick which the judge broke. Master
Hans approached the blacksmith and put his hand on his
shoulder. That was now his right, and the blacksmith buckled a
little. Now he saw that he wore a coarse shirt with black
ribbons on it. I had often seen the man working merrily in his
forge. His wife was very beautiful and still young. I saw him
well now. Under his gray, wispy hair stood the bright drops of
sweat on his forehead. Once he opened his mouth and dropped
to his knees.
“Y-i-i-i,” was heard.
“Plumplumplum,” sounded the drums of the soldiers who
surrounded the scaffold.
Then the man stood up, ran his hand over his wet, shiny
forehead and looked around him in amazement. But
immediately the servants threw themselves upon him, forced
him down with ropes and straps. One saw how one leg thrust
up into the air, was grabbed and bent and disappeared.
I could hardly breathe for fear. A woman screamed
luridly. My father was panting heavily through his nose.
The executioner stepped forward, with both hands raised
a wheel with a piece of iron on it, lifted it up high and pushed it
down with all the strength of his fleshy arms.
A whimper -a scream followed -howling –
“O my -God-oh-oh-oh-“
The wheel lifted again.
“Scoundrels! Damned scoundrels!” shouted one of the
crowd. Soldiers rushed to him, pulled him out, and led him to
the side.
Screams – screams!
I vomited.
“Get out of here!” my father hissed at me.
I pushed aside shouting people, pushed, pressed, got
through – ran – ran – as fast as I could run.
In the evening, I had to sit at the long table in the dining
room with my father, and wait until he had drunk his measure
of spiced wine and smoked two pipes of tobacco. I too had to
drink wine, even though it resisted me and brought nausea.
Then I had to walk alone through the corridor where the clock
stood with the little dead man measuring and dividing the time.
I anxiously held my hand in front of my light, so that the
draught would not extinguish it and the old woman jump out of
the cabinet in the darkness. If my father had known about this
fear, a bed would have been made for me just in front of the
closet, and I would certainly have had to spend nights in it.
At the other end of the corridor a steep staircase led to
the maids’ chambers. As I passed by I saw that someone was
sitting at the foot of the stairs, sleeping. It was Gudel, a brown
haired young girl with saucy eyes and pigtails that hung down
to the back of her knees. When she carried the water bucket on
her head, the pointed berries of her breasts almost poked
through the robe. When I looked after her longingly, she
laughed with her white teeth and often turned around.
There she sat asleep, dressed only in a short red petticoat
and a shirt which had slipped half off her shoulder. I could see
the dark tuft of hair in the hollow of her armpit. At my step she
flinched, raised her head and shamefacedly put her hand in
front of her eyes. I grabbed her bare arm, which felt firm and
cool.
“Let me into your chamber, Gudel,” I whispered, and was
quite hot in the face.
She smiled and climbed slowly, moving her hips, up the
stairs. I saw her legs in the mysterious shadow under the red
skirt, and a strong smell as of fresh hay and sweat stunned me.
She slipped into the hovel she inhabited, and held the door shut,
but so weakly that I could push it in without much effort.
“The young gentleman is a nuisance -,” she laughed.
I reached for her, and she giggled softly. I was out of my
mind and grabbed her and threw her onto the blue bedding,
gasping and struggling with her.
“So the Lord put out the light -” she cried, half choked.
I let go of her and blew out the light with an
unnecessarily strong breath. It rustled in the dark, the bed
creaked. The stuffing of the upholstery smelled musty. The
smell of onions wafted warmly toward me. I squeezed my knee
between hers —
“The young gentleman is probably still clumsy -“, she
laughed again and pulled me to her.
Her arms wrapped tightly around my neck —.
“But don’t tell anyone anything,” she said afterwards and
caressed my back with her coarse hand.
That’s when the door opened. My heart stopped. It was
Balthes, the dairyman, with a big horn lantern. Stupid and mute
he looked at us in bed. Gudel took a corner of the sheet in her
mouth. Her whole solid body shook with restrained laughter.
“May a thousand-pound seething thunderstorm -” began
Balthes, but then his mouth remained open. Gudel jumped out
of bed in her shirt, went over to him and said something quietly.
Balthes hung his head, pulled a crooked smile and scratched
behind his ear. I remembered that he considered Gudel as the
house treasure and that they were going to get married.
“Go on, then – go! You know that this is nothing,” hissed
Gudel and pushed him out the door. His broad back, crouched
and strong, had something sad about it. It was the back of a
sorrowful man.
It was dark again, and Gudel crept into bed with a quiet
cracking of the joints and rolled over to me. All pleasure in her
was gone, and I lay very still. Then she kissed me tenderly and
sang softly:
“Oh, my brave little rider,
Your steed snorts freely
You may well trot with him
An hour or two.”
But I pushed my hand away and said, “What did you
whisper to Balthes?”
She laughed:
“You nosy kid -“
And threw herself over me so that her hair tickled my
face.
Then I got angry and pushed her roughly. So immediately
she lay still and was silent.
“What did you say?”
She shrugged and turned away from me in the dark.
“Gudel, I’m going to give you my baptismal dime – but
tell me!”
“Well, what?” she said harshly, “that it’s about our
marriage property, nothing more.”
I did not understand.
“How – about your marriage property?”
“The gracious lord has made it for me, and so I have
done it and will do it again, as often as the lord Squire has a
desire for a woman. In return, Balthes and I shall then live on
the Wildemann fiefdom and be allowed use of the buildings
and lands.”
Now I knew.
“And I even had to go to the Spittel-doctor, where the
free women are lying inside, and have them look at me back
and forth to see if my blood is healthy. I got a note, and the
gentleman has read it and told me to see to it that the
gentleman squire in good time gets his first gallop on the horse
that stretches its legs upwards. So said the gracious lord!”
I sat up in bed. It suddenly stank in the narrow chamber.
The air was hard to breathe, and my throat was choking me.
“Aren’t you ashamed, Gudel?” I felt as if I just had to cry
now.
“Why ashamed?” she cried angrily. “I have to do His
Grace’s bidding and also give the coarse Lord of Heist a warm
bed, as the great hunt goes. I do whatever it takes for me to
create.”
All of a sudden she grabbed me by the shoulders and
shook me with terrible force.
“Spit on me! Hit me! You make dogs out of men, you
cursed, you arrogant devil, and respect a poor woman no more
than a chair for the night, where you do your needy business
when it comes to you!”
Horrified, I jumped out of bed and rushed to the door.
Then she ran after me, threw herself down on the ground
and grabbed my knees.
“Have mercy! Do not listen to what I blabbed, most
gracious nobleman. Do forgive me! I will make it up to you –
kick me – but for the sake of God’s mercy say nothing to the
lord. It would be very bad for me – do you hear, Herr Squire?
And I have done you good this night, my gracious squire -“
“Don’t be afraid, Gudel,” I said, but I couldn’t speak any
more.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

He nodded, but she fell silent again.
“So,” he began, “did you read the leather bound volume?”
“Yes,” she said.
She took a deep breath, looked at him.
“So, am I only a joke that you once made, Frank Braun?”
“A joke?” he returned. “–An–idea, if you will–”
“And I suppose it was funny enough,” she laughed out loud. But
that’s not why I waited here for you. I want to know something
entirely different. Tell me. Do you believe it?”
“Do I believe what?” he answered. “If everything happened like
Uncle relates in the leather bound volume? Yes, I believe that.”
She shook her head impatiently. “No, that’s not what I mean.
Naturally that is true–why would he lie in his book?–I want to know
whether you also believe–like my–my–that is–your uncle did–That I
am a different type of creature, different from other people, that I–am
now, that I am, what my name implies?”
“How shall I reply to your question?” he said. “Ask any medical
doctor–he will certainly say that you are just as good a human being
as anyone else in the world, even if your first appearance was a little
unusual–He would add, that all the other details are pure coincidence
and unimportant, the–”
“That means nothing to me,” she interrupted.
“For your uncle these little details were most important.
Basically it doesn’t matter if they are or not. I want to know if you
share his opinion? Do you believe as well that I am a strange
creature?”
He remained silent, searched for a reply, didn’t know how he
should respond. He did believe it–and then again he didn’t–
“You see–” he began finally.
“Speak,” she urged. “Do you believe that I am your insolent
joke–that took form? Your idea, which the old Privy Councilor threw
into his crucible, which he cooked and distilled, until something came
out that now sits before you?”
This time he didn’t hesitate, “If you put it that way, yes, that’s
what I believe.”
She laughed softly, “I thought so–and that’s why I waited up for
you tonight, to cure you of this vanity as soon as possible. No, cousin,
you didn’t throw this idea into the world, not you–not any more than
the old Privy Councilor did.”
He didn’t understand her.
“Then who did?” he asked.
She reached under the pillow with her hand.
“This did!” she cried.
She lightly tossed the little alraune into the air and caught it
again, caressed it lovingly with nervous fingers.
“That there? Why that?” he asked.
She gave back, “Did you think about it earlier–before the day the
Legal Councilor celebrated the communion of the two children?”
“No,” he replied. “Certainly not.”
But then this thing fell down from the wall, that was when the
idea came to you! Isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” he confessed. “That is how it was.”
“Now then,” she continued, “so the idea came from outside
somewhere and entered into you. It was when Attorney Manasse gave
his lecture, when he recited like a school book and explained to all of
you what this little alraune was and what it meant–That’s when the
idea grew in your brain. It became so large and so strong that you
found the strength to suggest it to your uncle, to persuade him to carry
it out, to create me.
Then, if I am only an idea that came into the world and took on
human form, it is also true that you, Frank Braun, were only an agent,
an instrument–no more than the Privy Councilor or his assistant
doctor. No different than–”
She hesitated, fell silent, but only for a moment. Then she
continued–
“than the prostitute, Alma and the rapist-murderer whom you all
coupled–you and Death!”
She laid the little alraune on the silk cushions, looked at it with
an almost loving glance and said,” You are my father: You are my
mother. You are what created me.”
He looked at her.
“Perhaps it was so,” he thought.
Ideas whirl through the air, like the pollen from flowers and play
around before finally sinking into someone’s brain. Often they waste
away there, spoil and die–Only a few find good rich soil–
“Perhaps she is right,” he thought.
His brain had always been a fertile planting place for all kinds of
foolishness and abstruse fantasies. It seemed the same to him, whether
he was the one that once threw the seed of this idea into the world–or
whether he was the fertile earth that had received it.
But he remained silent, left her with her thought. He glanced
over at her, a child, playing with her doll. She slowly stood up, not
letting the little manikin out of her hands.
“There is something else I want to tell you,” she spoke softly.
“But first I want to thank you for it, for giving me the leather bound
volume and not burning it.”
“What is it?” he asked.
She interrupted herself.
“Should I kiss you?” she asked. “I could kiss–”
“Was that all you wanted to say, Alraune?” he said.
She replied, “No, not that!–I only thought I would like to kiss
you once. Just in case–But first I want to tell you this, why I waited.
Go away!”
He bit his lips, “Why?”
“Because–because it would be better,” she answered, “for you–
perhaps for me as well. But it doesn’t depend on that–I now know
how things are–am now enlightened, and I think that things will
continue to go as they have–only, I will not be running around blindly
anymore–Now I see everything. Soon–soon it will be your turn, and
that’s why it would be better if you left.”
“Are you so certain of this?” he asked.
“Don’t I need to be?”
He shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps, I don’t know. But tell me,
why do you want to do this for me?”
“I like you,” she said quietly. “You have been good to me.”
He laughed, “Weren’t the others as well?”
“Yes,” she answered. “They all were. But I didn’t see it. And
they–all of them–they loved me–you don’t–not yet.”
She went to the writing desk, took a postcard and gave it to him.
“Here is a postcard from your mother. It came earlier this
evening; the servant brought it up with my mail by mistake. I read it.
Your mother is ill–She very much begs you to come back to her.”
He took the postcard, stared in front of him undecided. He knew
that they were right, both of them, could feel it, that it was foolishness
to remain here. Then a boyish defiance seized him that screamed out,
“No! No!”
“Will you go?” she asked.
He forced himself, spoke with a determined voice, “Yes,
cousin!”
He looked at her sharply, watched every line of her face
searching for some movement, a little tug at the corners of her mouth,
a little sigh would have been enough, some something that showed
him her regret. But she remained quiet and serious. No breath moved
on her inflexible mask.
That vexed him, wounded him, seemed like an affront and an
insult to him. He pressed his lips solidly together.
“Not like this,” he thought. “I won’t go like this.”
She came up to him, reached out her hand to him.
“Good,” she said. “Good–Now I will go. I can give you a
goodbye kiss if you want.”
A sudden fire flickered in his eyes at that.
Without even wanting to, he said, “Don’t do it Alraune. Don’t do
it!”
And his voice took on her own tone.
She raised her head and quickly asked, “Why not?”
Again he used her words, but she sensed that it was on purpose.
“I like you, Alraune,” he said. “You have been good to me
today–many red lips have kissed my mouth–and they became very
pale. Now–now, it would be your turn. That is why it would be better
if you didn’t kiss me!”
They stood facing each other; their eyes glowed hard as steel.
Unnoticed, a smile played on his lips. His weapon was bright and
sharp. Now she could choose. Her “No” would be his victory and her
defeat–then he could go with a light heart. But her “Yes” would mean
war and she felt it–the same way he did. It was like that very first
evening, exactly the same, only that time was the beginning and
opening round. There had still been hope for several other rounds in
the duel. But now–it was the end. He was the one that had thrown the
glove–
She took him up on it.
“I am not afraid,” she spoke.
He fell silent and the smile died on his lips–Now it was serious.
“I want to kiss you,” she repeated.
He said, “Be careful! I will kiss you back.”
She held his gaze–“Yes,” she said–Then she smiled.
“Sit down, you are a little too tall for me!”
“No,” he cried out loudly. “Not like that.”
He went to the wide divan, laid down on it, buried his head in the
cushions, stretched his arms out wide on both sides, closed his eyes.
“Now, come Alraune!” he cried.
She stepped closer, kneeled by his hips, hesitated, looked at him,
then suddenly threw herself down onto him, seized his head, pressed
her lips on his. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t move his arms. But his
fingers tightened into fists. He felt her tongue, the light bite of her
teeth.
“Kiss harder,” he whispered. “Kiss harder.”
Red fog lay before his eyes. He heard the Privy Councilor’s
repulsive laugh, saw the large piercing eyes of Frau Gontram, how
she begged little Manasse to explain the little alraune to her. He heard
the giggling of the two celebrants, Olga and Frieda, and the broken,
yet still beautiful voice of Madame de Vére singing “Les Papillons”,
saw the small Hussar Lieutenant listening eagerly to the attorney, saw
Karl Mohnen, as he wiped the little alraune with the large napkin–
“Kiss harder!” he murmured.
And Alma–her mother, red like a burning torch, snow-white
breasts with tiny blue veins, and the execution of her father–as Uncle
Jakob had described it in his leather bound volume–Out of the mouth
of the princess–And the hour, in which the old man created her–and
the other, in which his doctor brought her into this world–
“Kiss me,” he moaned, “Kiss me.”
He drank her kisses, sucked the hot blood from his lips, which
her teeth had torn, and he became intoxicated, knowingly and
intentionally, as if from champagne or his oriental narcotics–
“Enough,” he said suddenly, “enough, you don’t know what you
are doing.”
At that she pressed her curls more tightly against his forehead,
her kisses became hotter and more wild. Now the clear thoughts of
day lay shattered, now came the dreams, swelling on a blood red
ocean, now the Maenad swung her thyrsos and he frothed in the holy
frenzy of Dionysus.
“Kiss me,” he screamed.
But she released him, let her arms sink. He opened his eyes,
looked at her.
“Kiss me!” he repeated softly.
Her eyes glazed over, her breath came in short pants. Slowly she
shook her head. At that he sprang up.
“Then I will kiss you,” he cried.
He lifted her up in his arms, threw her down struggling onto the
divan, knelt down–there, right where she had knelt.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered and he bent down–
Good, his kisses were good–caressing and soft, like a harp
played on a summer night, wild too, yes, and raw, like a storm wind
blowing over the North sea. They burned red-hot like the fiery breath
out of mount Aetna, ravishing and consuming like the vortex of a
maelstrom–
“It’s pulling me under,” she felt, “pulling me into it.”
But then the spark struck and burning flames shot high into the
heavens, the burning torch flew, ignited the altar, and with bloody
jowls the wolf sprang into the sanctuary.
She embraced him, pressed herself tightly to his breast–I’m
burning–she exalted–I’m burning–at that, he tore the clothes from her
body.
The sun that woke her was high in the sky. She saw that she was
lying there completely naked, but didn’t cover herself. She turned her
head, saw him sitting up right next to her–naked like she was.
She asked, “Will you be leaving today?”
“Is that what you want, that I should leave?” he gave back.
“Stay,” she whispered. “Stay!”

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Intermezzo
Perhaps your quiet days, my blonde little sister, will also drop
like silver bells that ring softly with slumbering sins.
Laburnums now throw their poisonous yellow where the pale
snow of the acacias once lay. Ardent clematis show their deep blue
where the devout clusters of wisteria once peacefully resounded.
Sweet is the gentle game of lustful desire; yet sweeter to me are
all the cruel raging passions of the nighttime. Yet even sweeter than
any of these to me now is sweet sleeping sin on a hot summer
afternoon.
–She slumbers lightly, my gentle companion, and I dare not
awaken her. She is never more beautiful than when she is sleeping
like this. In the mirror my darling sin rests, near enough, resting in
her thin silken shift on white linen.
Your hand, little sister, falls over the edge of the bed. Your
slender finger that carries my gold band is gently curling. Your
transparent rosy nails glow like the first light of morning. Fanny, your
black maid, manicured them. It was she that created these little
marvels.
And I kiss your marvelous transparent rosy nails in the mirror.
Only in the mirror–in the mirror only–only with loving glances
and the light touch of my lips.
They will grow, if sin awakes, they will grow, become the sharp
claws of a tiger, tearing my flesh–
Your head rises out of the pillow, surrounded by golden locks.
They fall around it lightly like flickering golden flames that awaken at
the first breezes of early morning. Your little teeth smile out from your
thin lips, like the milky opals in the glowing bracelet of the moon
Goddess.
And I kiss your golden hair, sister, and your gleaming teeth–in
the mirror–only in the mirror–with the soft touch of my lips and with
loving glances.
For I know that if ardent sin awakes the milky opals will become
mighty fangs and the golden locks become fiery vipers. Then the
claws of the tigress will tear at my flesh, the sharp teeth bite dreadful,
bloody wounds. Then the flaming vipers will hiss around my head,
crawl into my ears, spray their venom into my brain, whisper and
entice with a fairy tale of savage lust–
Your silken shift has fallen down from your shoulder, your
childish breasts smile there, resting, like two white newborn kittens,
lifting their sweet rosy noses into the air.
I look up at your gentle eyes, jeweled blue eyes that catch the
light, that glow like the sapphire on the forehead of my golden
Buddha figurine.
Do you see, sister, how I kiss them–in the mirror? No fairy has a
lighter touch.
–For I know well, when she wakes up, my eternal sin, blue
lightening will flash out of her eyes. It will strike my poor heart,
making my blood boil and seethe, melting in ardent desire the strong
chains that restrain me, till all becomes madness and then surges the
entire–
Then hunts, free of her chains, the raging beast. She overpowers
you, sister, in furious frenzy. Your sweet childish breasts become the
giant breasts of a murderous fury–now that sin has awakened–she
rends in joy, bites in fury, exults in pain and bathes in pools of blood.
But my glances are still silent, like the tread of nuns at the grave
of a saint. Softer yet is the light touch of my lips, like the kiss of the
Holy Ghost at communion that turns the bread into the body of our
Lord.
She should not awaken, should remain peacefully sleeping–my
beautiful sin.
Nothing, my love, is sweeter to me, than pure sin as you lightly
sleep.

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

“I’ll come,” he said. “You don’t think I’m above
such things. A warm, bright ballroom, festive
women, soft music—there’s much life and splendor
in that.”
He only wished she’d broached it another time.
Helmina watched, knowing his thoughts. It was like
preparing for a wrestling match. They faced off,
probing for weaknesses, ready to seize any opening
with a firm grip. But when evening fell, when will’s
weariness set in and night loomed, their senses
stirred. The urge of their bodies surged, forging peace
to wage battle on another field.
One evening in late January, when Lorenz was
briefly alone with Helmina, he said, “Brother writes.
He won’t wait longer. You must act.”
Helmina paused. “Fine—tomorrow!” she said
decisively. The next morning brought a glorious
winter day. As she sat with the children at breakfast,
she heard snowshoes clatter in the antechamber.
Ruprecht entered, early from outdoors, brimming
with youthful vigor, master of the world’s riches.
“Coming along later?” he asked. “Perfect ski weather
today.”
Helmina agreed, changed quickly after breakfast,
and plunged with Ruprecht into winter’s wonders.
Fresh snow had fallen, its surface crusted by swift
frost. They glided with a bird’s speed, transcending
flaws, reveling in the joyous outpour of strength, the
rushing motion.
Ruprecht let Helmina lead. Her red knitted jacket
sang against the white snow. She leapt down a slope,
legs tight, knees bent, and sped on below. They
climbed a gentle hill. At the forest’s edge, blue
shapes jutted from the snow. “Soldiers,” Ruprecht
said, his eyes honed on South America’s vast
pampas. Indeed, soldiers—four men and a volunteer,
72freezing on outpost duty. All five gaped as Helmina
zoomed past. The volunteer’s awe crystallized into a
cry: “Sapperment!”
But the pair was already gone, vanishing among
the trees.
“Must be a winter maneuver,” Ruprecht guessed.
In the valley furrow beyond the forest, they met
another outpost. Footprints led up the far slopes.
Helmina followed them. Atop the high plain, a
village lay at the end of a rutted, brownish hollow
way. Huddled against the cold, its cottages seemed
baked together for warmth, buried to their windows
in snow. On either side of the hollow way, a blue-
black swarm stirred—an ant-like frenzy. Ruprecht
and Helmina glided along the path’s edge, where
snow was less trampled. Below, troops marched.
They passed countless upturned faces, a river of
gazes. Then came a wide, empty gap, followed by a
knot, a jam. The hollow way was clogged with
soldiers, murmuring, pressing forward. Something
had happened.
Soldiers lined the path’s rims, peering in, making
it hard to pass. Something had happened. At a gentler
slope, Helmina pushed down into the hollow.
Soldiers glanced back, startled. A sharp revolver
crack burst from the dense crowd ahead. Helmina
shoved soldiers aside, thrusting forward with her ski
pole, wading through the throng. A fierce craving
drove her, blazing on her face.
She nearly collided with a tall major. He stared,
surprised, at the lady emerging among the rabble,
then recognized her, saluting with utmost courtesy.
Helmina knew him too—Major Zivkovic, from her
Abbazia entourage.
“What’s happened?” she asked urgently. The
major positioned himself to block her view. “Nothing
for ladies! No—please, don’t look. It’s not pretty…
you might have nightmares.”
A wild glee lit Helmina’s face. “An accident?”
“Yes—a regrettable mishap… no, really, madam,
please don’t look… I couldn’t take responsibility…”
Helmina laughed. “Who do you take me for, dear
Major? Think I’ll faint… or have fits?”
“You’d need strong nerves, madam.”
“I believe you know from Abbazia I’m not
nervous. Let me through…”
Shrugging, the major stepped aside. Amid the
soldiers lay an overturned, heavily laden supply
wagon, shattered. The surrounding snow was
trampled, mixed with mud, streaked red in places.
Nearby, under coarse wagon tarps, two bodies lay in
a blood pool. The three horses were horribly
mangled, legs broken. Two were dead; one still lived,
thrashing so wildly no mercy shot could be fired. A
lieutenant stood by with a revolver, vainly seeking a
clear moment.
The major explained the wagon had been driven
carelessly, too close to the path’s edge, and plunged.
The drivers were crushed instantly, the horses lost.
Helmina unstrapped her skis and approached the
lieutenant. “Give me the revolver,” she commanded.
Ruprecht saw relentless cruelty on her face, a raging
urge to kill. A barbaric instinct erupted from her core.
Stunned, the lieutenant resisted. “But madam
surely doesn’t…”
“Give me the revolver,” she ordered again. The
beardless young man dared no further objection,
handing her the weapon. Horror crept into his eyes.
Helmina gripped the revolver, stood tall, and stepped
smiling toward the horse. That smile was terrifying.
She stood, staring sharply at the animal. Slowly, she
raised the weapon, aimed calmly, and fired the
moment the horse jerked its head toward her, straight
between its eyes. It twitched, convulsed, then
stretched out, dead.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Helmina said, smiling as
she returned the weapon.
“You’re a daring Amazon, madam,” the major
said, paling, his voice dry. He cleared his throat, a
pun surfacing to save the moment. “Truly valiant…
ha… ha!” He was known as an aging wit.
“Christian duty, dear Major,” Helmina replied.
“One can’t let the creature suffer so long.”
“Unlike a man,” the major added, with a gallant
flourish he prided himself on. Helmina introduced
Ruprecht—her retort.
“So you’ve been merciful to at least one man,” the
major said, then inquired with utmost charm about
Ruprecht’s health. Ruprecht smiled. This tall man,
with his habitual gallantries and incorrigible knightly
minstrelsy, harmless as a child, amused him. He
invited him to visit Schloss Vorderschluder.
Helmina strapped on her snowshoes, bid the
officers farewell, and skied ahead of Ruprecht up the
slope they’d descended. The blue swarm of soldiers
soon fell behind. Across the Kamp, the pilgrimage
church of Dreieichen gleamed in the sunlight.
Neither spoke.
Only the soft scrape of snowshoes and the caw of
a large crow, startled from a furrow, broke the
silence. After a while, Helmina stopped, bent, and
scooped a handful of snow. She hadn’t yet replaced
the sturdy ski glove she’d removed. A faint blood
spatter marked her left hand. She rubbed it with
snow, tinging the soft white mass a pale red.
Ruprecht recalled the day Helmina stood by Baron
Kestelli’s corpse, her fingers also stained with blood.
“Oh, yes!” Helmina said, drying her hand with a
handkerchief. “It just occurred to me—I’ve been
meaning to discuss a business matter with you. It’s
rather urgent. You should join a venture I’m
planning. I’m certain Galician petroleum can make a
fortune. The issue is capital. Those oil and naphtha
wells are exploited primitively. A smarter hand could
turn it around. You could double your wealth
overnight.”
“I must tell you, I’ve no entrepreneurial spirit.
You know I prefer safe investments.”
“You’re such a coward in this. To win, you must
risk. I’ve enough enterprise for both of us. You can
trust me when I say it’s a good deal.” Helmina laid
out details, displaying such understanding and
expertise one might think she’d studied for years. She
grew animated, persuading, coaxing, enticing.
The talk clashed with the landscape. Dreieichen’s
tower shimmered across the valley. Below, the Kamp
traced a silver arabesque through blue-black forests.
And Helmina spoke of Galician petroleum.
Ruprecht admired her. She was wholly herself in
all she did—a multifaceted gem, each facet blazing
with different fire. He might’ve been swayed, but
then he recalled her demanding the revolver from the
lieutenant, standing cold-blooded and smiling by the
writhing horse.
“No,” he said calmly, “I’d rather not invest.”
“Oh! You’re not the least bit gallant.”
“Gallantry in money matters, dearest? No! Must I
remind you of our agreement? We’re to keep our
independence, even in this.”
Helmina shrugged. “Your loss if you don’t.”
Ruprecht tried to meet her gaze, but she was
skiing down a slope, ahead of him.
“By the way,” he said, catching up, “I’ll at least
ask Siegl—to show my good faith.”
Siegl, however, had no intention of encouraging
the venture. Reading the banker’s letter, Ruprecht
saw him vividly—the paper’s watermark, firm
letterhead, and florid signature conjured a dancing
pince-nez on a thick nose, a rippling belly in a white
vest, the elegant curve of bowed legs. Siegl wrote:
“Keep your hands off such things. What’s Galician
petroleum to you? How do you get such outlandish
ideas? It’s not for you.” The letter wasn’t typed but
penned by Siegl’s own hand, private and intimate, as
if he spoke with thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.
“You see, Helmina,” Ruprecht said after reading
her the letter, “Siegl’s against it. He’s my oracle. I
must heed him.”
“Then I’ll invest alone,” Helmina replied. “I won’t
let such a chance slip. I’ve had a very attractive
offer.”
“I wish you every success. I won’t envy your
fortune.”
After dinner, when the children were taken away
and Ruprecht had stepped out briefly, Lorenz, serving
tea, whispered, “What did he say?”
“He won’t.”
“Then he’s got to go.”
“I’m just worried it’ll cause a stir this time. We
should wait…”
“We don’t have time.”
“Then at least three days…” Helmina interjected.
“You mean three nights,” Lorenz murmured. “I
said you’re in love.”

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