The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  At 6:42 this morning, while the Master still slept and the house was quiet and dark, I heard the cellar door open with a slow, quiet creak. Frau Gruber, frail as she was, descended the staircasegingerly, holding a lighted candle in one hand, grasping at the banister with the other. When she had reached the bottom, she stared at me silently in the dark, the dim orange light flickering on the Master’s diagrams and blueprints behind me.

  “May I help you?” I asked her.

  She approached me slowly, holding the candle several feet in front of her so that her face was cast in shadow. “Karl says you had nothing to do with it.”

  “He is correct,” I replied. “But I was also unable to save her.”

  “My son’s mind is clouded. He doesn’t believe you could ever do such a thing.” She inched closer, so that she was perhaps two feet from me, her gaze never averting from mine.

  “I could not. I am not a violent creature.”

  “I told him to take you apart after Giselle died, but he didn’t listen.”

  One of the Master’s many gifts to me was his insistence that I learn to observe human behavior, that I might learn from it and avoid being taken advantage of when he is no longer there to guide me. Thus, I knew Frau Gruber’s intention was to do me harm. I took two steps back, to place distance between us. “The Master will be angry if you destroy me,” I said.

  “Maybe so,” she said. “But he will understand one day.” She weakly lunged at me with the candle, presumably to set me ablaze. But I am able to move more quickly than she, and I avoided the tiny flame entirely. Several drops of candle wax flew from the holder in her hand and splattered across the workbench and wall. She lunged a second time, but I again evaded her reach. I began to grow concerned that, in her flailing, she might set the house on fire, and I was not confident I could carry everyone out in time. She lunged at meyet again, but lost her balance and fell, catching herself on the edge of the long wooden bench.

  It was at this point that Fräulein Gruenwald heard the commotion, and rushed downstairs, still in her nightgown and slippers. “My God! What is going on down here?”

  Frau Gruber turned to glare at her. “Go away. You are not needed here.” She turned back toward me to make one final attempt to immolate me, but Fräulein Gruenwald immediately rushed down the stairs and seized her by the wrists. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she pried the candle from Frau Gruber’s grasp. “I cannot let you do that. Herr Gruber would never forgive you.”

  “My son will throw you out of this house forever!” Frau Gruber said. She struggled weakly against the younger woman’s grasp before collapsing into tears, clutching at the skirts of Fräulein Gruenwald’s gown.

  “Come on,” Fräulein Gruenwald said. “I’ll take you back up to bed.” She set the candle on one of the empty workbenches and helped Frau Gruber back up the stairs. In the doorway she turned back toward me. “Stay here,” she said, and disappeared behind the heavy oaken door. After I heard their footsteps stop upstairs I stood in the cellar’s darkest corner and did not move.

  Three hours, twenty-seven minutes later, Fräulein Gruenwald came back down to the workshop. “She’s sedated,” she said. “I called a doctor for all of them.”

  “I am glad she is all right.”

  She reached up to touch my shoulder. “I don’t think that had anything to do with you,” she said. “She was angry and grieving.”

  “I suspected as much. I hold no grudge.”

  “I won’t let her bother you again. But while she’s here, don’t remind her you’re down here.”

  “Agreed.”

  She took my hand in hers, as gently as Giselle ever had. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this. I’m so sorry. ” I insisted I would be fine, and bade her tend to the Master’s family.

  22 December 1893

  8:44 p.m.

  I must extend my apologies for the recent lapse in my entries, and hope the usefulness of this account to the social sciences has not been compromised as a result. The family’s current state has been a great distraction and has lessened my diligence.

  Frau Gruber left us this morning at 11:15, promising to come back from time to time to help the Master with Jakob. Thus, my exile to the cellar has ended by default. I came out when she departed, and the Master simply has not ordered me back. If she returns, I will do my best to avoid her.

  Fräulein Gruenwald today enlisted me to help hang Christmas Eve decorations around the house. The Master disappeared into his workshop yesterday evening and has yet to emerge, and does not seem interested in such tasks—these were largely Giselle’s responsibility since her mother’s passing—so she has taken the initiative for Jakob’s sake. She has gone so far as to suggest we cut down a spruce from the Master’s backyard to bring inside, but believes she should ask his permission before doing so.

  This afternoon a police detective came to the house to speak tothe Master. The two men sat in the dining hall while, in hushed tones, the inspector gave him a progress report on the investigation of Giselle’s murder. They had searched the butcher’s house in the Jewish quarter of Frankfurt, and questioned his family members, but found nothing to suggest where he had gone.

  “I don’t want to upset you,” the inspector said, his voice falling to a near whisper, “but he could be anywhere now. We have detectives looking for him at the Polish and Austrian borders. But so many people come through every day—we might still miss him. If he crosses over, obviously there’s not much we can do.”

  The Master nodded. “I understand.”

  “He might still be in hiding. We’re keeping a close eye on his neighborhood. We’ll let you know if we find him.”

  Jakob had been trying to fashion a bird-shaped kite from wax paper and skewers, as Giselle had done for him, when the inspector came. After some time he gave up, wandered into the dining hall to listen, and suggested to the inspector that the police round up all the Jews in Frankfurt and interrogate each one until the murderer was found. The Master seemed subtly alarmed by the suggestion, but said nothing.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” the inspector said.

  “Why?” Jakob asked sincerely. Both men seemed uncomfortable at his question, and neither offered an answer.

  “Go finish your kite,” the Master finally said, and the two men continued talking.

  Later, after the Master retreated back to his workshop, Jakob came to my library cubby. “Father doesn’t know what to do,” he said. “I say we sneak out when he’s asleep, go into the Jewish quarter, andtorture people until they tell us where the killer is. Then, when we find him, you can rip him apart with your bare hands.”

  “I would never do such a thing,” I said. “This is a matter for the police.”

  “They’re not doing a very good job of it. You could just hold him, and I’ll take care of the rest.” He made a stabbing motion with his arm.

  I urged Jakob to have faith that the authorities would bring Giselle’s murderer to justice and escorted him to bed.

  Once the inspector left, the Master retired to his workshop again. He did not come out for dinner, and so Fräulein Gruenwald sent me down with a plate of stewed beef and mashed potatoes. A dim lantern on his workbench provided the only light, and he did not seem to notice my presence.

  “Dinner is ready,” I said. “Fräulein Gruenwald sent this.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He waved me away.

  “She is concerned.” I tried to hand him the plate.

  He turned abruptly and knocked it out of my hand, spattering gravy and wads of potato across the floor and wall. “I said I don’t want it!” I remained for a moment, in case he might require assistance, but his grimace softened and he rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ernst. I’m not angry with you. Just very busy.”

  “Of course. Forgive my intrusion.”

  “It’s all right. Just go. I’ll clean it up myself.”

  As I turned toward the door, I caught a glimpse of the Master’s sket
chpad. Scribbled on the paper in faint pencil were the beginnings of a new project. I recognized the design immediately, as itseemed to closely mirror my own. But the shape and proportions were slightly different: the head, shoulders, and arms of a female figure, each joint and point of articulation precisely labeled. And in the top right corner, a name: “Giselle.”

  I thought it unwise to mention this to Fräulein Gruenwald. Though I admit to a certain unease over these new sketches, the Master’s projects are his own affair, and it has been my custom to trust his judgment completely.

  24 December 1893

  3:53 p.m.

  The Master has not stirred from his workshop in forty-eight hours, taking neither food nor drink. Fräulein Gruenwald took the liberty of buying a few gifts for Jakob, using money from the Master’s expense drawer; she claimed it was important to maintain the family’s traditions, particularly now, though thus far, Jakob has made no mention of Christmas Eve, nor expressed the slightest curiosity about his gifts.

  Jakob has spent much of the last two days in the dining hall or the kitchen, repeatedly trying to fashion a kite the quality of Giselle’s. Though he is continually frustrated—each morning the floor is riddled with crumpled wax paper, twine, and snapped skewers—he insists he must keep at it. I volunteered to help him in his most recent attempt, as I watched Giselle construct several for him, but he said if I helped him, it would not count. I bring him tea and cheese sandwiches from the kitchen, though he is usually too engrossed to notice. Every two hours I return to remove the cold, stale remnants from the table and bring fresh replacements.

  This morning Fräulein Gruenwald crept quietly into the Master’s workshop to ask after him. She seemed quite concerned he might do something rash or self-destructive, though I do not believe the Master would ever intentionally do harm to himself or Jakob, even in his grief. From the cellar came a gasp, and the sound of china shattering; a few moments later Fräulein Gruenwald emerged, her hand over her mouth, her face colorless and taut. “What is happening in this house?” she said, and ran through the kitchen and out the door. I called down to check on him, but he claimed he needed privacy. While I was concerned, I respected his wishes.

  Though the Master’s home has been quiet for the last week, until today it has rarely been silent. It is as if Giselle’s death has drawn all the life from this place. Perhaps I have been too distracted to notice until now. Most oppressive is the attic; the telescope still stands, pointed toward some star or constellation that had intrigued her. I have looked into it only once since her death, and could not comprehend what I was seeing without Giselle to interpret it for me. Using my unique gift of memory, I revisited several of my astronomy lessons with her, noted the joy on her face as she pointed out significant stars and stellar formations, watched her forehead crease as she peered into the lens trying to pick up a comet or meteor. It is a small comfort at such a time as this, though when it is over I am once again made intensely aware of her absence.

  This afternoon I found Jakob asleep at the dinner table, lying facedown in a small puddle of drool. He has not slept soundly in some time; in the Master’s absence he has not kept to his usual bedtime, preferring instead to construct his makeshift kites and testthem in the park, which we did until ten o’clock last night. (Loath as I am to go there, I accompanied him, fearing he would go alone and the Master would lose both his children.)

  I lifted him from his chair as gently as possible and carried him upstairs to bed. He did not stir. Since then I have kept to my cubby, and will remain here until called for.

  It is my great hope that some semblance of normalcy will return to this house, in time.

  27 December 1893

  9:39 p.m.

  Something here is terribly wrong, and I fear I have neither the skill nor wisdom to set it right. Christmas Day passed without mention, and though I gave Jakob the gifts Fräulein Gruenwald purchased for him, he unwrapped them with little interest. He is despondent that he has been unsuccessful in building a bird-shaped kite with the proper proportions and aerodynamics and has taken to sitting in his room and staring out the window.

  Herr Gruber emerged only once, cutting himself a slice of baked ham Fräulein Gruenwald left in the icebox, then disappeared into his workshop.

  I asked if he required any assistance, but he simply shook his head and wandered back down.

  “No interruptions,” he said. “And tell Eva we need more ice.”

  I did not tell him she had yet to return, and that I was uncertain whether she even would.

  My first instinct is to seek help—perhaps to compose a letter to Frau Gruber or one of the Master’s other relatives who might help to deliver him from the self-destructive obsession in which he has become ensnared. But judging from my previous interactions with them, I believe my pleas would simply be ignored. I must, then, take the only other course available to me: maintain the house as best I can, take care of Jakob’s needs, and wait for the Master’s eventual recovery.

  28 December 1893

  4:17 p.m.

  I do not think matters have improved. Early this morning I heard a knock at the front door. I rose from my cubby to find Fräulein Gruenwald standing at the door, a constable at her side, two large men in white uniforms standing behind her, both wielding long, black wooden batons. I welcomed her back, but she raised a hand and silenced me. “We must be quiet,” she said. “Where is Jakob?”

  “In his bedroom, asleep,” I said, and without my invitation she, the officer, and the two white-coated men entered.

  “And Herr Gruber?” she whispered.

  “Downstairs, in his workshop.”

  The constable gave me a grim look. “I’ll have a look first,” he said. “If your story is true … we’ll see to him.” He stepped quietly to the cellar door and knocked loudly.

  “Yes?” the Master said, his voice hoarse.

  The constable started down the stairs. “Herr Gruber, if I could have a word …”

  Some brief, muffled speech ensued; then, a loud crash, and the Master screaming, “Get out of my house!”

  The policeman called upstairs for assistance, and the two men in white quickly descended into the cellar. I followed.

  Before I had even reached the door, I heard the Master’s muffled cries, signs of struggle from his workshop. “No!” he screamed. “She’s not finished!” I had never heard his voice so pained or desperate. As quickly as I could, I made my way down the stairs to find the two white-suited men holding fast to the Master’s arms, trying to pull him from a linen-covered shape on his workbench, the constable begging him to see reason. On the floor was a knee-high pile of crumpled drafting paper, and each awkward step the Master took trying to free himself sent scrunched balls tumbling in every direction.

  “Help me, Ernst!” he said, struggling against their grasp. “They don’t understand!”

  The three men restraining him watched me apprehensively. Though I could easily have overpowered them, and would have done so immediately had I thought the Master was in peril, none of us moved.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked the constable.

  “Is it dangerous?” the younger man said to his colleague.

  “Please,” I insisted. “I mean no harm.”

  “Herr Gruber is unwell,” the constable said. “He needs to be examined by a doctor.”

  With a mighty lunge, the Master slipped from their grasp, sending one of them stumbling to the floor. “No!” He stumbled toward me and took hold of my lapels. I hardly recognized the man whose wide eyes stared into mine. “I can bring her back. Please tell them, Ernst!”

  Though it shames me, I found myself unable to move or speak. I am as yet unaccustomed to fear, and I consider it a less-than-desirable state.

  The two men seized him. He struggled again, but after a momentcollapsed in their arms, panting heavily. “If you’d just let me finish her.” As they helped him up the stairs, they were gentler than before; I followed them and watched as they ea
sed him into the back of the wagon and secured the heavy door.

  “Herr Gruber will be home soon, I’m sure,” the constable said.

  During the melee that ensued, Fräulein Gruenwald had tiptoed up the stairs to Jakob’s room. Once the Master was safely in the wagon, she led the boy, sleepy-eyed and in his robe, slippers, and nightshirt, down the stairs. She carried a lightly packed knapsack over her shoulder.

  “Where are you taking him?” I asked.

  “To his grandmother. He mustn’t see his father like this.” She led him outside, to a waiting carriage. I followed, carrying the bag and placing it next to him. His eyelids were only half open, and he did not seem to understand or care what was happening.

  “Take care of the house, Ernst,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few days to gather his things.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  The constable helped Fräulein Gruenwald up into the carriage, then climbed in himself. He made no effort to acknowledge me any further. He signaled the coachman to move. As the horses drew them away, I caught one final glimpse of Fräulein Gruenwald, in tears, waving to me out the window.

  Once they were gone, I crept back downstairs, taking care to remain silent: the moment seemed to demand it. I walked across the paper-strewn floor and pulled the cloth from the shape on the workbench. Before me was a painstakingly crafted replica of Giselle, hairless, with only the head and shoulders complete and partially-sheathed in some of my castoff suede skin. One of the green marble eyes had been placed in its socket; the other lay on the table. The detail was stunning, and I marveled at the craftsmanship—it was as if I were looking into her face again. I gazed into the single green eye, reached up slowly to touch the suede cheek, but underneath it was hard as metal, and cold to the touch.