by I. J. Parker
Nepomuk Stiebel had never been married. He slept above his chambers and kept no servants. His only companion was the small goldfinch who lived in the gilded cage which its master carried daily from bedchamber to work chamber and back again.
In time, Franz became aware of other eccentricities. At first glance, the legal chambers had seemed ordinary enough: six large rooms that occupied the lower floor of the house and were arranged on either side of a hallway that contained only the pale stone floor, dark oak wainscoting, dark oak staircase to the upper floors, and a dark oak bench where callers awaited their turn. The room to the right of the front door was Stiebel’s office. The other two on that side communicated with it and each other and contained bookcases filled with leather-bound legal tomes. To the left of the entrance was a meeting room with a large oak table and six plain side chairs presided over by a carved settle with grotesques snarling from its back and the arm rests. Its dark green velvet upholstery bore traces of the same white powder as Stiebel’s velvet coat. The rest of the downstairs was taken up by a legal documents room and a storage room.
It was the latter that contained an odd assortment of objects that seemed to have no purpose there. A dusty glass case held a dead snake, a moth-eaten owl looked down from its wooden perch, a gilded harp leaned against one wall and a violin against the other, a series of stands held wigs of every description and color, a clothes’ form was dressed in an old-fashioned white silk court suit, the skirt of its coat and waistcoat heavily embroidered and trimmed with tarnished silver. The walls were covered with pictures, some of them oil portraits of frowning old men, darkened with age, and others prints of famous places. The rest of the collection, if that was what it was, resided in a number of carved trunks and two large wardrobes.
Franz had little time to inspect the hidden treasures. He was put to work in the first of the two book rooms, at a chair and table under the window. Here he resided for the next months under the benevolent but strict eye of councilor Stiebel.
He arrived punctually at seven every morning to receive his instructions for the day. At eight, the waiter from the Goldene Löwe across the square arrived with a pot of steaming coffee, two cups and plates, hot rolls fresh from the bakery, and butter. Stiebel produced a jar of jam made from plums or strawberries, and they would share a pleasant breakfast discussing politics or the state of the postal system. Legal business was taboo during meals, and Stiebel did most of the discussing.
When the church bells rang the noon hour, the waiter returned to clear away the breakfast dishes and set out the midday meal. This was always specific to the day of the week and never changed, except for the preparation and seasonal adjustment of vegetables. Mondays was beef, Tuesdays chicken, Wednesdays sausages, Thursdays veal, Fridays fish or Käs’ Spätzle (Stiebel was Catholic), and Saturday pork. Franz used to wonder what his employer did about meals on Sundays, but he was grateful that he did not have to eat at home. It saved money, and he avoided his mother’s chatter.
Matters did improve dramatically at home. The day Franz returned from his first day’s work, his mother not only did not run away but rushed to greet him.
“My dear boy,” she cried, “how proud I am! My son a secretary to the best advocate in our city! His confidential secretary! Oh, it’s a most respectable and promising career for a clever young man.” She embraced Franz, who bore it in guarded silence and looked to Augusta for an explanation of this change of heart. Augusta raised an eyebrow and made a face, but her eyes danced. It reminded him of when they were children and shared a secret. Franz felt almost light-hearted.
When his mother released him, she said triumphantly, “And Herr Seutter made it all possible. He is the dearest of men to be so devoted to me.” She cast up her eyes and pressed her hands to her bosom. “Oh, it fills my mother’s heart to overflowing to know that I have helped my son rise above his terrible affliction!”
Frau von Langsdorff wasted no time in informing all her neighbors of her hand in the miraculous cure of her son’s madness.
Meanwhile Franz was not only fed well at Stiebel’s, but he received a generous salary that was increased when he had learned enough to require little instruction. Most of this money Franz turned over to his mother, except for a little pocket money and something extra for Augusta.
Frau von Langsdorff purchased fabrics and paid a seamstress to make dresses for herself and her daughter. Soon, there was also a very young maid, a farmer’s daughter who wanted to learn housekeeping in a city household.
The fact that he made all this possible went a long way toward allaying the seething anger that had plagued Franz’s conscious hours.
He worked contentedly six days a week, often until late into the night because Stiebel seemed loath to part with him in the evenings. It did not matter. Franz had found some peace at last, a modicum of it at home, and a great deal more in chambers. There, he really did begin to heal. His right leg improved enough that he learned to do without the crutches and used a cane instead. His speech was less slurred also.
But the dreams still haunted his nights, and one or two incidents signaled that he had not left the horror behind.
The worst of these happened soon after he had started work, on a warm summer afternoon. Franz was bent over a legal tome, following the strangely-shaped gothic font of the text with a finger so he would not misread any letters. He jotted down his translation as he read. Near him lay a Latin-German dictionary, though he rarely consulted it. His Latin was very good, thanks to his father’s teaching and the university. Only certain medieval corruptions stopped him.
This work required his utmost concentration as well as a knowledge of legal matters, and so he did not notice that the light outside had changed. He looked up only when a particularly violent gust seized the half-opened window, slammed it inward, and lifted loose papers from his desk, scattering them over the floor.
The sky was an angry charcoal gray. A chestnut tree near his window tossed its branches in the wind, and the first thick drops hit the window pane when Franz forced it closed and pushed the latch in place. A summer thunderstorm. It was nearly dark in the room. He bent to gather up the sheets of paper, pale rectangles against the darkness of the flooring, when a flash of blinding bluish light filled the room as suddenly as if some curtain between time and eternity had been rent. The darkness that followed was denser and more suffocating than he could have imagined, and then the world cracked apart with a noise as of a hundred cannons exploding beside him, above him, all around him.
In an instant he was back on the hillside near Freiberg. All around him men were stabbing, bleeding, dying. Cannons belched smoke and hurled death. Giant hussars appeared, sabers flashing, and braying black horses reared above.
He threw himself down and screamed again and again, long past the final roll of thunder. Then the nightmare of severed heads and hands, of the sight, feel, and smell of blood returned, and he retched and sobbed until the next clap of thunder made him scream again.
He felt the hands first, tugging, shaking. Then he heard a voice. Words filtered through the shell he built around himself with his screams until it cracked and sense leaked through.
“Franz! Franz!”
As the fragments of the shell broke away on all sides, he wondered who Franz was. And then, having found him, he wondered who was calling.
Judgment Call?
He opened his eyes to face an angry God at the very moment when the blue light flashed again and blinded him, just before the divine wrath crashed down, crushing and obliterating him. He sobbed and curled up with a whimper.
But still the voice called and still the hands tugged. He reached out, clutched a hand, and cried, “Stop! Stop! There’s too much death. Too much blood!”
The thundering barrage came again, and in the end, he just held on and wept.
When the thunder finally died away and lightning merely flickered across the murky darkness, Franz came to himself and knew where he was and who held him.
&
nbsp; Stiebel said, “My poor boy. Are you hurt? Did you fall or did the lightning strike you?”
Thunder and lightning were common occurrences in the summer months over the lake. As a child, Franz had watched the jagged fire in the night sky dancing across the water and had found it beautiful. But such sounds and sights, even the slightly sulfurous smell in the air, were now too close to the sights, sounds, and smells of the battlefield where the heavy artillery plowed bloody furrows through the lines of soldiers.
He sat up. His body was bathed in sweat; he was shaking and deeply ashamed. Stiebel still knelt beside him, looking worried. “N-no,” Franz said. “I’m unh-hurt. I b-beg your p-pardon, s-sir. It w-w-was exc-ceedingl-ly s-s-stupid!”
“Not at all. Are you sure you’re quite all right?”
How to explain such terror? Only small children were frightened of thunderstorms, and even they did not make such scenes. He wanted to crawl away and hide in his room at home again, but Stiebel had been kind to him and he owed him an explanation.
“I-it was th-the n-noise. S-so s-sudden and l-loud. L-like the c-cannon f-fire,” he said.
Stiebel was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Ah, yes. I see. Does this happen often? I mean, do loud noises frighten you?”
“N-no!” But that wasn’t entirely true. He had ducked one day when a carter had snapped his whip with a sound like a gun shot outside his window. His heart had raced for minutes after that. And there had been other noises. His sister dropping a kettle in the kitchen had started him shaking, and he had spilled the beer from his glass. A child screaming after a fall had made him see the headless body of the drummer boy Karl again. The memory had been so vivid that Franz had burst into tears and hurried away.
He said more honestly, “S-sometimes. You s-see, what h-happened is always w-with m-me. I h-have n-nightmares.”
“Hmm,” said Stiebel, getting up and extending a hand to him. “That must be very unpleasant. Have you told anyone about it? Consulted a doctor perhaps?”
Franz stood and wiped his face and neck with a handkerchief. The old fear of being thought mad was back. He looked at Stiebel, who merely looked serious but might well be thinking of dismissing him. The thought horrified Franz. He had come to like, no, love his work here. Yes, he had even come to be fond of his employer. “I-I’m n-not m-mad,” he said, pleading for belief. “I’m n-not. D-don’t s-send me aw-way! I p-promise n-no one w-will know.”
Stiebel’s eyes widened with shock. “Send you away? Don’t be absurd! How would I get along without you? No, no, there’s no fear of that. But what can we do? It grieves me to see you like this.”
Franz felt like weeping with relief. “Th-thank you,” he mumbled, turning away.
Outside the rain had slowed. Single drops still landed on the window and made their way downward. The world looked brighter but fractured into kaleidoscopic patches of color.
Stiebel put a hand on Franz’s arm. “Come join me in a small glass of cognac. I feel the need for it.”
They sat in the meeting room and talked like friends—or perhaps like uncle and nephew—sipping fine French brandy from small glasses. The spirits spread a comfortable warmth through Franz’s belly and loosened his tongue enough to talk about that day at Freiberg.
“S-so, you s-see,” he said, staring into his glass and thinking about it with revulsion, “I k-killed so m-many men, h-helpless m-men. And I m-made a terrible m-mistake when I d-didn’t give the order to f-form s-square and the hussars rode us d-down. It was m-my fault C-carl died, m-my fault that all of them died. All b-but the one that gave me the l-letter, but I failed him, t-too.”
“Well, now,” said Stiebel, “your not giving the right order does not seem so
terrible to me. They sent an untrained youngster into his first battle. And what were you to do but kill or be killed? You were wounded yourself. Most likely you were half out of your mind. What did they expect? What’s this about a letter?”
“A captain—I d-didn’t think he w-was s-so badly hurt but he d-died—g-gave me a l-letter to his father. Only I f-forg-got all about it t-till I was ready t-to come home. And then there was n-no one by that n-name in M-mannheim. All that w-weighs on m-my c-conscience.”
Stiebel said practically, “Then you must bring the letter tomorrow and together we’ll discover how to deliver it.”
“You’re very k-kind, sir. I should not b-burden you with my t-troubles.”
“I take it as a compliment.”
7
Max
Calms appear when storms are past,
Love will have his hour at last:
Nature is my kindly care;
Mars destroys, and I repair.
Take me, take me while you may;
Venus comes not every day.
John Dryden, The Secular Masque
Augusta was greatly relieved when Franz took the position in lawyer Stiebel’s chambers and liked his work. She was even more relieved when his employment and his absence from home ended her mother’s wailing fits, and peace as well as some prosperity returned to the family.
But at the same time, her life became emptier that ever. Franz was gone. Her mother spent her time with neighbors or in planning little treats for Herr Seutter or in adorning her person with new caps, curls, and crinolines. Running the household fell to Augusta’s duties, but the little maid Elsbeth did most of the housework, and time hung heavy on her hands. She had never had friends in Lindau and had long since lost interest in such ladylike pursuits as reading romances, embroidery, or painting in water colors. These days, her only amusements were the lessons on the pianoforte at Herr Seutter’s house, and these were more of a burden than the daily housework she no longer did.
For all that Herr Seutter treated her like a dainty figurine made from fine china, she felt awkward around him and embarrassed by the obligations they all owed him. This embarrassment increased with the many small gifts he bestowed upon her—the silk ribbons, lambskin gloves, a set of finely wrought silver buttons like so many tiny roses, scent bottles filled with French perfume, sets of gilt-edged stationery, lace pocket handkerchiefs, and a small china shepherdess that had reminded him of her. The most unnerving gift had been a laced kerchief to be worn around her neck and tucked into her bodice. Herr Seutter had presented her with it shortly after Franz had questioned her modesty on that hot day in the garden.
When Max Bauer walked into her life, it changed. He reminded her of the real world, of how lucky they were and how frivolous she had become. Fate was more cruel to some soldiers than to others. Franz had an education, a family to come home to, and friends who found work for him. Max had none of these.
She fed him some bread and sausages and a small pot of beer, and he blessed her. Then he blessed himself for having had such good luck that day. All this for a simple meal!
When he told her a little about himself, tears had come to her eyes. She could see he was a simple young man, but strong and well-made. With his blond curls and clear blue eyes he made her think of the image of the archangel Michael on the window of the Catholic church. Max had no wings, being quite earthly in most respects, but he had the same shy smile.
She told him about Franz to give him courage and hope and to show him that she understood. He was unconvinced.
“Your brother, Miss, was an officer. There’s a world of difference between officers and corporals.”
“Not so much, Max. We’re all God’s creatures and feel the same pain and fear.”
He bristled at that. “I wasn’t afraid. It’s not the war I blame, nor even the Prussians. From what I could see, they’re the same poor devils as us. It’s what ordinary folk think of common soldiers comin’ back. To them I’m nothin’ but a beggar and a thief. They think I’ll steal their chickens and rape their daughters.”
Augusta blushed hotly at this, and Max apologized, turning beet red himself. Augusta said, “Not all people are so mean. I trusted you right away.”
&nbs
p; Max looked at her and then down at his clenched hands. “You’re an angel, Miss,” he said, his voice choking a little. “Yes, you’re as beautiful and good as an angel. But you shouldn’t have. There aren’t many angels about, and God help me, most men are devils.”
Augusta blushed again but, thinking of the archangel on the church window, she managed a little laugh. She had received very few compliments in her young life. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “It’s strange you should mention angels when you look uncommonly like the archangel Michael yourself.”
He stared at her, bereft of words for a moment, then burst into speech. “God love you, Miss. Me? I’m more like one of the devils.” He jumped up, looking quite fierce suddenly as he towered over her. “Don’t you go invitin’ in men like me, bringin’ them into your kitchen and showin’ them your kindness, Miss. And you all alone and as pretty as a flower. It would tempt a saint. It’s more than a weak and foolish man can bear.” He turned and stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, the front door slammed.
Augusta sat stunned. What had come over him? Then she got up and went upstairs to peer into the small mirror in her room. Apart from being rather pink, her face looked unremarkable. Then she remembered her brother’s anger at her revealing dress and looked down at herself. Was it her body that tempted and infuriated men? This young man, Max, had not been her brother, and yet he had been angry.
She wasted a few more moments considering what brought men and women together, got properly hot and ashamed, and returned to the kitchen to clean up and look after the soup.
The next day, Max returned and knocked at the back door. Frau von Langsdorff and Augusta were in the kitchen with the little maid who was being instructed in darning socks.
Max came in, bowed to Frau von Langsdorff, and said he wished to thank them for their charity and to offer his help with any chores they might have.
