Fraulein Frankenstein

by Stephen Woodworth

  He did not rejoin the mourners for the interment at the churchyard. His absence left the rest of the congregants in the awkward position of paying tribute to a woman most of them barely knew. I waited at the rear of the procession, head bowed, hoping the attitude of reverence would keep anyone from noticing me. When Pastor Georg finished the burial rites, I was supposed to arrange the funeral bouquets around the headstone. As the solemn recessional filed away, I moved quickly to place the flowers, eager to return to the safe seclusion of my room in the minister’s house.

  Thinking myself alone, I lowered my hood to keep it from falling over my eyes as I bent over the grave marker. Then I heard the snake hiss of fervent whispering. I glanced up to find two laborers in soil-stained linen shirts and breeches standing near the foot of the grave. I recognized them as the same men who’d used a crude rope sling to lower Elizabeth’s coffin into its rectangular hole.

  The thinner and more industrious of the two now scraped sod into the pit from the mound of freshly turned earth beside him. But the other leaned on his spade and gawked at me with eyes as round as if he’d seen me climb out of the grave instead of walk around it. A fat, unshaven fellow whose double chin and reddish complexion indicated a fondness for drink, he nudged his companion and spoke in a secretive hush, jerking his head toward me to urge his comrade to look my way. The latter grunted in annoyance and kept shoveling.

  I turned my back on them and hastened to finish my chore, but I could feel the slovenly gravedigger’s avid gaze tracing my every movement.

  Could it be that wretch saw me at Castle Frankenstein? Why do I not remember him?

  My anxiety eased when the men remained at their work as I left the cemetery. An hour later, though, I found the fat gravedigger standing outside the Stadtkirche, spade on his shoulder, when I emerged after tidying the sanctuary. His expectant attitude suggested that he had been waiting for me.

  “Who is man?” I asked Pastor Georg as he joined me on the front steps of the church.

  The clergyman cast an unconcerned glance toward the gravedigger. “Meyer? He is only our groundskeeper.”

  He even waved at the fellow, who raised a hand in response. Meyer grinned at me as well, the sickle of his mouth serrated with the gaps of missing teeth.

  Although he evidently had no knowledge of my connection to Victor Frankenstein, I didn’t like the way this man Meyer leered at me and was grateful when Pastor Georg chaperoned me back to the house.

  I remained tense for the rest of the week, cloistering myself in the pastor’s house as much as possible and watching for Meyer whenever I had to go to the Stadtkirche. I caught sight of him from a distance a few times as he trimmed the hedges in front of the church or hauled wheelbarrows of refuse to the rubbish heap, but he seemed not to notice me. Believing the man had lost interest, I soon forgot about him.

  I’d put Meyer so far from my mind that I did not even think of him when, in the dark of my bedchamber one night, someone roughly grabbed me as I slept and shackled my arms behind my back.

  Ripped from slumber, I tried to yell, but my captor’s accomplice stuffed a musty-tasting rag in my mouth. Before my eyes could make out the faces of the two intruders, one of them threw a sack over my head, smothering me with the smell of burlap and old potatoes. I kicked blindly, felt my foot contact a soft and yielding paunch, and heard one of the men thump to the floor with an oof and a string of grumbled profanities.

  The floorboards of the room above us creaked. The noise had roused the pastor and his wife.

  Despite my rolling and flailing, the two brutes managed to clap leg irons around my ankles. Heavy steps clumped down the wooden stairs out in the hall. “Liesl?” Pastor Georg called.

  Slinging my wriggling body between them like a bag of seed, my captors hastily shoved me out the open window of my bedchamber. I thudded onto what felt like a mat of straw that waited in the alley outside. As Pastor Georg rapped furiously on the door of my room, calling my name, I heard the two villains blunder around me. A horse neighed, hooves clattered on cobblestones, and with a jostling rattle of cartwheels, we sped away from the only home I’d ever known.

  I naturally assumed my abductors were Victor Frankenstein’s henchmen, sent to reclaim me for the sinister physician. The chains and manacles reminded me of how the baron had bound me to the slab the night of my birth, and as the horse cart bumped along, I floundered in helpless terror, certain we were headed back to Castle Frankenstein so that he could complete whatever horrid plan he had for me.

  Perhaps I will end up like that pitiful corpse on the dissection table—a headless and naked victim of Frankenstein’s unholy lust.

  The cart clattered on for what seemed like hours—far longer, I was sure, than it should have taken to traverse the few miles to the castle. I never felt the wagon tilt upward to commence the steep ascent of the hill to the ancient fortress. We bounced over ruts in a road, but with my head still wrapped in sackcloth, I could not be sure of anything else about our surroundings.

  When I began to wonder if our journey would ever end, the wagon at last rocked to a stop. I heard the two villains fumbling about, bickering about which of them should carry me. Wherever we were, they must have felt secure in their treachery, for they made no attempt to lower or disguise their loutish voices. Fat hands grabbed me about the waist and hefted me onto a beefy shoulder so that my top half lay upside-down on the man’s back. I twisted and writhed as much as my bonds would let me until the man swatted my flanks as if I were a temperamental mare.

  “Behave yourself, pretty one,” he warned, “or I’ll do far worse.”

  “I’ll do far worse to you if you’ve damaged her, simpleton,” a new voice cut in. A woman’s, harsh and graveled with age. “Now bring her in here.”

  Sensing this unfamiliar woman would defend me from harm, I did not struggle when the man carried me as she commanded, not even when he banged my shin while lugging me through a doorway. Warmth told me we were now indoors. I heard a latch click shut, a key turn in a lock. I was finally set upright in a cushioned chair, although no one yet dared to unfasten the fetters at my wrists or ankles.

  “Well, let’s see her,” the woman snapped.

  “You won’t be disappointed, Fräu Hauptmann,” the churlish man promised with unctuous servility. “She’s worth every pfennig.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Remove the sack.”

  The sheath of burlap sloughed off my face, and I pinched my eyes shut against the abrupt flood of light. When they had adjusted enough for me to open my lids without flinching, I saw I was sitting in a large bedchamber that rivaled Baron Frankenstein’s in the richness and elegance of its walnut furnishings and brocaded draperies. However, the dainty intricacy of lace scarves on the dresser and fireplace mantel and the flowery palette of pink and rose hues of the bedclothes and wall hangings lent the room softness and delicacy—qualities I would soon learn were prized as “feminine.”

  Against this cheerful, sweetly colored background, the black-gowned dowager who stood before me resembled a crow in a flock of flamingoes. The tightness of the bun that trussed her tarnished-sterling hair gave her face an uncomfortably stretched appearance, and the severity of her black brows made her look permanently cross. This had to be the woman who’d sounded so severe and commanding a moment ago, but she now peered at me dumbstruck and palsied with emotion—whether fear or elation, I could not say.

  “Did I not tell you?” boasted the man beside her, whom I now recognized as Meyer. “The very image of her, isn’t she?”

  “No . . . it is her.” The old woman’s imperiousness returned as she recovered herself. “For God’s sake, man, get that thing out of her mouth!”

  Meyer gave her a dubious look. “And the shackles?”

  Uncertainty flickered in Fräu Hauptmann’s eyes as she assessed my hostile glare. “Leave them.”

  Meyer nodded, yanked the rag from my mouth. My tongue tasted of mildew and dust, and I gagged when swallowing my spit. />
  “Where am I?” I demanded.

  Fräu Hauptmann seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “You’re home, Katarina.”

  “My name is Liesl. They stole me from home.” I sneered at Meyer and his thin grave-digging partner, who idled near the bedchamber door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if anxious to leave.

  “Your name is not Liesl,” the old woman said, a schoolmistress drilling a student in her catechism. “You are Katarina von Kemp.”

  Before I could argue, she strode to the hearth of the room’s fireplace. Above the mantel hung a picture, its ornate gilt frame almost entirely obscured by a shroud of black lace that had been draped over it. Fräu Hauptmann lifted the veil and hooked the cloth over one corner of the painting to hold it aside. It depicted a young woman of aristocratic mien, clad in a gown of glossy pink silk that highlighted her ample bosom. The ringlets of her golden hair held in place by a bejeweled diadem, she regarded the viewer with a cool hauteur, yet fiery passion flashed in her sapphire eyes.

  The face was mine.

  CHAPTER 7

  BECOMING KATARINA

  I stared at the woman in the portrait the way I’d first contemplated my reflection in Birgit’s mirror. I shook my head, unable to connect the creature I saw with whom I felt myself to be. “That—that not me,” I stammered.

  “It is.” Fräu Hauptmann touched my cheek in maternal sympathy, but her eyes remained keen, calculating. “You’ve suffered so, you don’t remember, poor thing. But you will soon be yourself again.”

  I gazed at the face in the painting. My face.

  These people seem to know me . . . could I really be this Katarina of whom they speak?

  It made sense that I had some existence before waking up on Victor Frankenstein’s slab.

  If that’s so, why can I remember nothing of my previous life?

  Fräu Hauptmann seized upon my weakening defiance. “Won’t you let us help you?” she implored.

  I had to agree. If this old woman really had known me before tonight, then I could learn from her the truth about my past.

  As soon as I nodded, Fräu Hauptmann motioned Meyer toward me. “Release her.”

  He held out his hand, palm upward, and coughed.

  She grimaced with contempt and fetched a small leather pouch off the dresser, which she thrust into his hand. He gauged its weight, sniffed with satisfaction, and pocketed the bag before unlocking my fetters.

  As I rubbed circulation back into my numb arms and chafed wrists, the instinct for freedom nearly overpowered me. I wanted to claw Meyer’s eyes out and flee from this “home” that I could not recall and for which I felt nothing.

  At that very moment, a mournful wail gusted into the room like a cold draft from the floor above.

  I glanced up toward the ceiling. “What is?”

  “Your husband.” Fräu Hauptmann looked pained as another sob racked the house. “You hear how he weeps for you.”

  Husband? I pictured Elizabeth in her white dress at the Stadtkirche altar, radiant with joy as she spoke her undying vows to Victor Frankenstein. It seemed inconceivable that I could feel such love for a man when I did not even know what love was. The thought that I might already have a husband brought no joy with it, only the queasy dread that I was somehow chained to that unseen, moaning phantom in the room above.

  Yet if this was indeed the life I had before Frankenstein took it from me, I wanted it back.

  “I . . . Katarina . . . von Kemp.” I said the name slowly, trying it on for size as if fitting a new dress.

  An incongruous smile spread over Fräu Hauptmann’s sour face.

  #

  Meyer and his partner scuttled off, fast as rats that had nabbed the cheese from a trap. Once we were alone, the old woman told me that she served as housekeeper to Herr von Kemp. My husband.

  Fräu Hauptmann asked if I needed any assistance readying myself for sleep. In response, I pointed to the nightclothes I had been wearing when I was stolen from my bed. Stung, she curtly excused herself without any further questions. I heard a key turn in the lock as soon as she shut the chamber door.

  Imprisoned, I surveyed the room I had been told was mine. Accustomed to the narrow cot and bare walls of my room in Pastor Georg’s house, I found the excess of luxury around me intimidating, as if I were stranded in a museum where I was not permitted to touch anything. Jewellike bottles of amber liquid clustered before the looking glass of a vanity. A set of bone-handled combs and brushes lay in a neat row on the table, and when I pinched the bristles of the largest brush, I pulled out fine tufts of blonde hair the exact shade of my own.

  In sudden affright, I glanced up at my reflection in the mirror, wan in the light of the oil lamp beside me. The resemblance to the woman in the painting became so overwhelming that I felt as if she were staring back at me . . . into me. I turned toward her picture and again felt those blue eyes boring into my head.

  Unable to stand her any longer, I pulled the black lace curtain back down over that frozen face. Then I extinguished the lamp and buried myself in the downy snowdrift of the massive canopied bed. The weeping from upstairs dripped relentlessly into my ears, and I had to wrap a pillow around my head to get to sleep.

  I awoke late in the day to the strange sky of satin and lace above me. As soon as I stirred, I discovered Fräu Hauptmann had already entered my room and stood waiting beside the bed in her black gown.

  “Good afternoon, Katarina.” She indicated a little table set up near the fire. “It is time to begin our lessons.”

  I sat up. At a nod from Fräu Hauptmann, a young maid stepped forward, her arms filled with the length of a silk gown. “Bettina will help you dress.”

  “But my . . . husband?” The man’s anguished cries still echoed in my mind. I struggled to express myself as correctly as possible with my limited language skills. “He must . . . want me, yes?”

  “You will see him soon, my dear. When you are ready.”

  I hadn’t noticed Bettina’s maneuverings until my nightgown fell to the floor and the maid squealed, backing away as she pointed to my body.

  I looked down. Am I hurt? But I only saw what had always been there: creamy white skin puckered and laced with raw, ridged scars. Where Birgit and Pastor Georg had shown pity, however, this maid expressed only horror. An awful feeling gripped me, as if I had done something terribly wrong. I wanted to hide, to cover myself, but could only stand there while the maid gawped at me.

  Fräu Hauptmann’s lips compressed into a thin line. “You may go, Bettina.”

  The maid fled, her hand over her mouth. Fräu Hauptmann picked up the discarded gown and helped me into the skirt. I gasped as she tightened the lacing on the too-small bodice. She arranged my chemise until I was covered modestly enough for her satisfaction.

  “Not a perfect fit, but we will remedy that.” She led me to the table. “Come sit here, Katarina.”

  On the table waited a pot of coffee and a pitcher of hot milk, fresh bread, cheese, and fruit. I reached for the food only to have the dour woman slap my fingers hard enough for them to tingle.

  “There is plenty of time for that. First we will talk. You must sit up straight and tall, like so.” She put one hand on my back and one on my shoulders, showing me how to stretch my spine, lengthening my torso and thrusting out my chest. It felt strange, but I did not resist. I had to find out what she knew about me—or, rather, about whom I had been.

  The woman settled herself opposite me at the table. “Now, do you remember the last time you saw Herr von Kemp, your husband? Take a moment and try.”

  I did try. Was it possible I had gone through a wedding ceremony, as Frankenstein had with his Elizabeth? Had I once been held and treasured, as she had been? But all I could remember before arriving at the Stadtkirche was the cold slab, my birth-scream, the terrified flight from Victor Frankenstein and my monstrous suitor.

  “No. I not . . . remember.”

  “Hmph! Say, ‘No, Fräu Hauptmann,’”
she muttered. When I repeated the phrase she continued her interrogation. “But you do remember your beautiful life here in this house, don’t you? You mustn’t forget Herr von Kemp’s goodness to you.”

  Fearful of disappointing her, I nevertheless shook my head. “No, Fräu Hauptmann.”

  “Well. We must help you remember then, eh? Let us bless our meal.”

  I folded my hands and closed my eyes, pleased that I could perform the task as Pastor Georg had taught me.

  “Our Father, we thank you for restoring Katarina to the home of her loving and devoted husband. May she be truly grateful, and learn to conduct herself as a good wife should. Amen. Now let us enjoy a fine luncheon.”

  Hunger prompting me, I picked up a piece of bread, preparing to stuff it into my mouth.

  “Not like that.” In response to my confusion, she explained. “Here, we do not behave like the peasants at the Stadtkirche. We break our bread, you see? I will pour your coffee. Let us see how you hold your cup . . .”

  I blundered through the meal, Fräu Hauptmann correcting every breach of etiquette. Though I did not understand why the endless list of rules seemed so important to her, I did my best to imitate the housekeeper’s precise movements. I took tiny bites of bread and cheese, and sipped from the china coffee cup exactly the way the housekeeper did. Finally, she nodded approval.

  “Good. Very good. Herr von Kemp will like you better so.”

  I wondered how he had liked me before, but Fräu Hauptmann had a way about her that made me afraid to ask too many questions. I could not picture myself following her about, babbling childishly, the way I had with Birgit.

  “You did very well,” Fräu Hauptmann told me. To my surprise she led me back to bed, showing me that she wished for me to lie down. “We will have more lessons soon. I will leave you to rest, Katarina.”

  Taking away the silver breakfast tray, she departed, locking the door behind her.

  Given how little I’d slept the previous night, I really wanted to rest. When I lay down, though, a niggling agitation disturbed me, and I got up and paced the room. I knew immediately what I wanted to do but fought the urge until I couldn’t bear it any longer.