by D. W. Goates
“What are you going to do?” asked Ute.
It was after the evening meal with the three of them back before the fire—this time drinking milk.
“I will warn the King. I must pass Munich on my way home in either event. My worry now is transportation.” Elke turned, addressing Oskar. “When did you say I might expect a coach from your town down below? The weather has remained fair . . .”
The farmer lapsed into thought. “Too long. I will take you myself in the wagon tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It will be no trouble, fräulein. And from there you will find your coach to Munich.”
“Thank you. Thank you both very much for your kindness.”
Three nights later, after an uneventful journey from Bergdorf, Elke arrived in the capital of Bavaria. She had heeded Oskar’s advice and spoken not a word yet of her ill tidings to anyone she had encountered.
As her coach made its way through the bustling, gaslit, paved streets of Munich, she felt restored. She was back in her element. Elke Schreiber had, from birth, been a child of the city, and this urbanity of hers had been a source of no small discomfort during her recent adventure.
It was late. Weary from her travel, the teacher secured lodging in a modest inn, resolving to call upon the King and his government in the morning.
After a simple breakfast, Elke donned the best dress her tightly packed trunk held: an ivory muslin affair, expressing a quiet, if dated, elegance. With this she paired her blue pelisse. A leghorn bonnet completed the ensemble, though it required some effort on her part to restore this hat to its former glory; without benefit of a hatbox, it had become somewhat misshapen, squashed in with the rest of her effects.
Through inquiries, Elke learned that she should find the King at his Residenz—a sprawling palatial complex situated north of the city center. As for the protocol for an audience, no one could say; to this, they could offer only odd looks and meddlesome questions. Ignoring these, Elke made her way to the palace, employing a fiacre she discovered on the street to expedite her trip.
King Ludwig’s Palace was a mess: a vast architectural hodgepodge in the midst of a major renovation despite the winter season. Nearby lay stacks of construction materials, poorly concealed by patches of slushy snow that collected also in the shady corners of the façade. Elke was impressed nonetheless; she had never before seen a king’s palace. Something about this edifice—even in disorder—emitted an air of regality, importance.
Discerning what she hoped was an appropriate entrance, Elke invited herself in. She was immediately met by a finely dressed man. Behind him, flanking the room, were two splendidly equipped ceremonial guards in full Wittelsbach livery.
“Grüß Gott. May I help you, my lady?” His accent was most dignified and distinctively southern.
“Guten Tag, my lord. I respectfully request a formal audience with the King.” She added an awkward curtsey, not quite sure what was expected of her.
“The King does not grant public audience of this sort,” said the man, sizing her up. “Are you some sort of tourist?”
“I’m nothing of the sort. I am here with an urgent report!”
“Who are you?” asked the man with a hint of annoyance.
The two guards began eyeing her warily.
“My name is Elke Schreiber, but that is not important. What is important is my message, which I will relay to you if that is the procedure.”
“Where are you from?” he asked, still unimpressed by her urgency.
“Bremen,” she said, meeting his eyes and raising her chin. “The Free Hanseatic City of Bremen.”
“A woman? Ambassador?”
Such crassness—from an official! Elke was deeply offended, but tried her best to hide it. “Of course not! I never claimed to be an ambassador. Look, I just came not from Bremen but from the Margravate of Waldheim—your most Bavarian Waldheim. There has been a murder. I wish to report a murder!”
“Then you must speak with the police.”
“But it’s the Count himself who has been murdered, along with his household. The whole village was complicit in the barbarism!”
“Then you must speak with the police.”
“But—”
“I don’t know what you have in your head, fräulein, but if it is a crime you have to report, then you must report it to the police. Now . . . have you taken an oath of residency in Bavaria?”
“What? No.” Elke glanced from the condescending man to the guards who had resumed ignoring her.
“May I see your travel papers? What brought you here from Bremen?”
“I accepted a teaching position at the school in Waldheim only to arrive and have it refused to me. I am going home, but first I must see to it that those responsible for a great horror are punished.”
Elke tendered her citizenship paperwork, as well as the letters she had received from Schoolmaster Rückert. The man took these to his desk and, while she waited, copied from them into a large notebook. When he was finished, he returned them to her, adding a new page upon which was written an address.
“I want you to go here: to the office of the state police. Tell them what you will. As I said, the King does not receive the public on such matters, nor does he investigate crimes. I don’t know what impressions you have of us, or our government, but I can assure you we are every bit as efficient as you northern types.”
“One thing I am unclear on in that regard is why the King would take such a secondhand interest in a matter presumably so close to his government. Did not the Margrave rate his own seat in the Städeversammlung?” Being a history teacher, Elke knew something of this bicameral state assembly of Bavaria—a body most different from that which governed her home city. She surmised, correctly, that an important landed count would be due a seat in the representation by right of birth.
“Waldheim is represented in the assembly. As for the count, he died years ago, well before our Constitution of 1818. If it is his son you refer to, he might have received a seat in the assembly had he ever shown an interest. He never did, as I understand, and was long ago discredited. It’s common knowledge.”
“Is it now . . .?” said Elke.
“Is what?”
“Is it such ‘common knowledge’ that the late Margrave deserved his disrepute?”
“I don’t know what the man deserved, only what I have heard of him, though if your story is to be believed, it sounds as if he’s arrived at the culmination of his friend-making. Anyway, we all get what we deserve in the end, do we not?”
“In the end? Yes. Yes, I suppose we do,” she replied reflectively. “I will notify the police as you direct. Thank you for your time, my lord.”
“Just a minute . . . What’s your interest in this?”
Elke turned back slowly, facing the man once more. “I guess you could say he was a friend of mine . . . as were the others.”
The state police office was located on a neighboring street. On her way, Elke stopped at a restaurant for a hearty dinner. As she ate her sausage and kraut alone, she wondered how the police would receive her story.
She wasn’t quite sure what she had gone in expecting from her visit to the palace. In hindsight, it was rather far-fetched of her to have anticipated an audience with the King himself; however, she had hoped that her news would receive an appreciation equal to its gravity. After all, mere miles away from the seat of the kingdom, a nobleman and his entire household had been massacred in pre-historic fashion. Surely this warranted more than a note and a casual directive that it be reported to the constable. Such treatment—on a par with petty theft!
The restaurant was busy. Elke couldn’t help but overhear the mundane conversations of the diners seated at neighboring tables. The southern dialect of these people, so quaint and amusing while on her initial journey to Waldheim, she now found coarse a
nd grating. Even the architecture irritated her. The inside of the restaurant reminded her of a hunting lodge—nothing like the modern cafes she frequented in Bremen.
Elke felt drained, overcome by a pang of homesickness, her listlessness made worse by her heavy meal.
Later, at the police office, Elke had her spirits improved. Upon making her report to a uniformed officer, she was surprised and encouraged to learn that an investigator was to be assigned. He would meet with her further that afternoon, and her charges would finally receive their due consideration. Though she waited for hours, she did so patiently.
By organizing the details of the tragedy logically in her mind, she made profitable use of the time; she wanted to ensure that she could relate them efficiently and in their entirety. Elke wanted every offense, however slight, meticulously catalogued to ensure the Bürgermeister and his henchmen would feel the full weight of the King’s justice. She was less inclined to mention Loritz, in spite of his unfortunate involvement in facilitating the murders. She decided that it was the fell culture of the place, with its consequent amoral and monstrous leadership, that was truly responsible, not he who had meant well but acted so foolishly. And she believed his assurances that he had nothing to do with the mayhem at the castle, nor with the actual burning in the square.
It was late afternoon before she was ushered in to a private room to meet with the investigator. He was an older balding man with a bristly, drooping white moustache. Unlike the others, he wore civilian clothing and a heavy overcoat, which Elke thought odd considering the relative warmth of the building. He briefly introduced another, younger man with him who was to sit in on the questioning, but Elke missed his name. Both of them had pens and paper and took copious notes as she recounted the details of her awful experience.
When it was finished, the petitioner felt she had been given full opportunity to vent her concerns. She was confident that the government would deliver justice at last to the wretched village of Waldheim. Elke’s report had been thorough, just—as with Loritz—not thorough enough to include any information about Sascha. The investigator seemed trustworthy, and she hoped the boy would by now be long gone, but if not, she forwent responsibility for potential entanglements. Sascha was in no need of fostering, and certainly not by the likes of these people.
Elke returned from the meeting directly to her Gasthaus with a plan to retire early. She hoped to make the morning coach and had found that she slept poorly in them, if she managed to sleep at all.
Twilight came to the city just as Elke settled into bed, aglow from a warm bath and sated from an evening snack. Her exhaustion and the relative comfort of her modest accommodations gave her every reason to expect the sleep that did not come. Lying awake, she searched herself for the cause of this insomnia.
The early hour, an initial culprit, in time gave way to the true cause of her fitfulness. Staring blankly at the wall, Elke realized that she had neither been asked for, nor remembered to give, her contact information to the investigator. It was not going to be enough that she had reported the tragedy; she would not be satisfied until she knew the outcome of the investigation. Quickly, Elke got out of bed and re-dressed herself. Surely someone would still be available at the office with whom she could leave a message.
A carriage for hire came not so easy as before. Elke walked almost half the distance before she found one and, as a result, it was well dark when she reached her destination. Stepping from the fiacre, she could see numerous gaily appointed revelers arriving at the palace across the street. Great torches had been erected, joining the street lights in illuminating the occasion. Indicative of a masque, each attendee appeared in fine dress costume, and the music had already begun: bouncing, happy notes spilled from the place into the crisp night air. Elke paused to look, but remained to listen; the tune was enchanting—like nothing she had heard before.
It was with regret then that she came to recall the reason for her evening’s foray. Stirring herself from the scene, Elke went on to the police office where she learned that the investigator had indeed already departed for the evening. She had no difficulty, however, convincing another officer to take her message. This man took her information and promised he would have the investigator contact her in Bremen as soon as there was any word on the Waldheim matter. Before she left, Elke also impressed upon this officer her availability; should she be thought capable of any further assistance in the matter, however minute, they were not to hesitate in writing. Thus satisfied, Elke decided to return to the entrance of the palace. It looked to be the best place to hire a carriage, and besides, she wanted to see more of the colorful costumes and to hear more of that mellifluous music.
The party must have begun in earnest during her time with the police, for guests could no longer be seen arriving, though many of their elegant coaches remained outside. The drivers were there too, standing about in small groups, warming themselves with idle conversation.
The music was loud and splendid as before. Bright lights shone like beacons in the night from the towering windows of the palace hall. As a moth to a flame, Elke was irresistibly drawn. Approaching ever closer, she noticed the sparse well-dressed guard contingent appeared distracted by the festivities, and so, took the opportunity to duck within their perimeter.
Elke just wanted to see and to hear. She would do both, sneaking along the outside wall and stealing up the contoured stone steps to a balcony outside the great windows.
The rich curtains had been drawn, offering her the perfect vantage from which to watch it all. Before her was a magnificent dance with hundreds in attendance. At one end of the grand gilded hall a lively orchestra played, and in the main of it were the dancers—dozens and dozens of dancers—resplendent in myriad colors, swirling in time with the music like spring wildflowers in a windy field.
It was the most wonderful thing the she had ever seen. A shadow, in her dark simple dress, Elke was transfixed, gazing from the night like a thief despoiling the dazzling display with her eyes.
Immune now to the cold, Elke felt nothing but the music. Instinctively she began tapping her feet to the distinctive beat, while her eyes flitted from one pair of fine dancers to another. Most women wore extravagant hats, and all of them had dresses that flirtatiously exposed their bare shoulders and décolletage. Ostentation seemed the order of the day, with spectacular flowers, bright patterns, and exotic feathers featuring in even the gentlemen’s attire. And all but the servants were masked; some ladies held theirs to their eyes, while others—mainly men—wore fitted masks. The whole display was such a visual feast that Elke knew not what to look at next, nor if there was even an end to it.
Oh, to attend such a party! There was even some sort of buffet over in one corner of the hall that looked to have all manner of sweets and drinks upon it. Elke was just beginning to imagine what one of those confections might taste like and so missed the great windowed door to the balcony opening beside her.
The match she heard—that distinctive snap then flare of fire. The sound was close—very close! Startled, Elke spun ’round to behold a tall man in black and in white. Unlike the others, his mask was smooth and full, and in the colors of his costume, equally divided: one eye in the light, the other in darkness.
“Good evening,” said the man. Casually, as if oblivious to her distress, he lit the cigarette that protruded from his expressionless mask.
“For—Forgive me, sir. I must be going.” Turning on her heels, the surreptitious observer made to flee down the stair.
“Wait! What’s your hurry, fräulein?”
Elke stopped and turned back to the man with his disconcerting mask. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said meekly.
He took an impassive drag from his cigarette. “Then where should you be?”
“Not here . . . Please, just let me go.”
“Won’t you stay with me for a time? Before you go . . .”
She had
wondered if this nobleman was playing her for sport, but detected now a note of sincerity. “I would, but I hate the smoke,” she said with a gesture at the wisps curling from his cigarette.
He dropped it, crushed it with his polished shoe, and, after a pause, extended his hand, inviting her closer.
Smiling in spite of herself, Elke moved to him, and as he had not dropped his hand, she took it. At that very moment the horns of the orchestra began to play!
He bowed to her gallantly, deliberately, becoming erect again as the woodwinds played their refrain. She curtsied awkwardly in return, only to find herself synchronized with the music. At the horns again, he enveloped her in his arms. Elke was breathless. When the roll of the drum came, the hairs on her neck stood on end.
And then . . . the waltz!
Elke was careful at first to follow his lead; she had never before danced like this. But after a time it came easily, almost naturally. Around and around the broad balcony they twirled, alone beneath the waxing moon. She began to laugh with wild abandon. The whole thing was like a dream.
When the music stopped, she just stood there—for once, not quite sure what to do with herself. He released her but lingered with her hand. Peering up at him, she reached with her other, intent now on unmasking this dashing gentleman, but he arrested her.
“Won’t you let me see your face, my lord?” she asked, her wrist in his gentle grasp.
“That, my dear, would never do. It is a masque ball.”
“What is the occasion?” she asked, in her disappointment trying to change the subject.
“Why Fasching, of course.”
“Ahh,” she said.
Looking at one another—or rather, he at her, and she at his mask—Elke all of a sudden felt quite cold.
“I . . . I should go,” she said, pulling away from him.
