by D. W. Goates
Elke followed to witness as the adjutant frantically searched his desk and the surrounding mess—for what, she could not imagine. Something about his manner prevented her from further engagement. Was he hiding something? She would never know, for later that afternoon she would tender her resignation. It was only her second week—still her first in the classroom.
The last straw came after lunch when Elke was asked to monitor another teacher’s entire class concurrent with her own: twenty-five delinquent children in a room with seating for fifteen. The result was pandemonium. She did her best to modify the lesson but was soon forced into a desperate struggle just to maintain order. Nothing worked, not even the sense of humiliation that teachers were supposed to experience upon losing control of their classroom. All she could feel was hopelessness. Amidst the chaos one student caught her eye; she had noticed him before, the pensive one—neither outspoken nor aggressive. Alone among them he studied her, hauntingly, reinforcing her despondency, as if to say: “I see what you are trying to do, but it won’t work. We are beyond all hope here.”
She was done with this school and its inconsistent consistency.
That evening she wept upon discovering her notebook from the place. In it were the personal notes she had taken on the now-former students from their files—these children who needed so much but were receiving so little. Like her, they had been trapped by foolish circumstance: she could teach nothing in such a school, and they would learn nothing in such a school.
Would the boy who had engaged in petty theft go on to become a burglar or robber?
Would the shy student who had been discarded upon his father’s remarriage grow up to treat his own children likewise?
Was the thirteen-year-old fighter, already scarred from his incessant brawling, someday destined for homicide?
And what of Herr V? Was he but a budding young rapist?
Elke cried—not because she felt she was the only teacher capable of helping these students, but because she felt powerless to do so, and she abhorred the circumstances that made this the case. She had heard that the place had claimed more than its fair share of teachers. She no longer wondered why—how many legions must have preceded her.
Departing that day, she kept her complaints to the principal to a minimum, stating only, “I’ve made a mistake.” She did not finish the statement: “I’ve made a mistake in becoming a teacher in the first place, because no legitimate school will hire me, and those that do, offer me no opportunity to practice the art,” nor did she in any way blame the students.
It had occurred to her that she might make them see her conundrum, but rather than inspire her, this thought only served to further her alienation. It was like those people in Waldheim. They were going to see what they wanted to see, and no amount of convincing would be allowed to the contrary. Those poor students, who so desperately needed a teacher, were not going to get one by Elke telling the patrons, administrator, principal, or even that ridiculous adjutant that they were all wrong. No, she saw it now for what it was: a needless fight—one that she would lose if she fought it, needlessly.
They were all of them stuck: the boys, and Elke with them. The feeling of it hung on her in the night like a suffocating blanket.
What’s to become of them? What’s to become of me?
At least the boys still had their time. She, however, was all used up.
XI
Elke should have arisen early Friday morning and hurried to her old school to again beg for her job, but she didn’t. She slept fitfully, miserably, until a noon-time knocking came at her door.
“Fräulein? Are you all right, fräulein?” It was the widowed owner of the house.
“Yes . . .”
“It is late. You’ve not eaten. Are you feeling ill?”
“I am fine.”
“I could—”
“Frau Krüger, please! Could you just leave me alone?”
The doorway was silenced. Elke remained in bed, feeling only half the concern she might have before at such abruptness on her part. A full minute passed before she heard the widow’s footsteps retreating down the hall.
Try though she might, she could not go back to sleep. She was thirsty; daylight streamed through the shutters, making the room too bright; and her mind was infected with debilitating self-judgments. She could have—she should have—made the best of it at that school instead of cutting and running. What teacher is ever really set up in an ideal situation?
I can count dozens! she screamed to herself, to no avail, against the onslaught of misguided conscience.
The truth of it was that she did not play the game. The one thing all of those well-placed educators at better schools had in common was that they ingratiated themselves socially with the administration and others in power; that, and they played for time—neither of which Elke could bring herself to do. Something simply seemed so sinister to her: how could so many people pretend to be what they were not, while the others remained so willfully blind? It was all most un-teacherlike. Elke could imagine few hallmarks better for an educator than forthright sincerity, yet such traits were so poorly rewarded.
These thoughts, and others, chased Elke from her bed. Encouraged by her hunger, and unwilling to trouble Frau Krüger further, the unemployed educator dressed herself and ventured to the street. The day was fine, unseasonably warm. Birds were chirping merrily in the trees, and it seemed that in every window box decorative flowers bloomed. Making her way through the bustling city, Elke returned to her favorite restaurant by the docks. The dinner hour had passed, affording her the opportunity to choose any table she liked. She wanted to be alone and so selected a seat in a dark corner away from the window. She was abrupt, but not quite rude, when the friendly waitress came to take her order. As a frequent patron, Elke was acquainted with the staff of the place, and had always enjoyed conversing with them, but today was different. At first attributing her curt manner to her foul mood, Elke soon realized, in her lonely pondering, that something else was at work: a certain pointlessness—no, best not to chatter at this woman, better to let her return to her afternoon tasks.
Her port arrived most welcomed. It was one of the reasons that Elke had become a regular customer so long ago. Owing to its location near the harbor, the restaurant catered to an international clientele. Port—a Portuguese fortified wine, and favorite of British traders—was always on stock, and Elke had found her taste for it. Today she had come to drink as much as eat.
Following her rich meal, Elke remained until she had polished off the whole bottle of the stuff. Her spirits improved; her negative thoughts, though persistent, were unable now in the sea of wine to find purchase and instead merely sloshed about in her head, shipwrecked.
The afternoon was getting on, and as the tipsy teacher made to pay for her feast, it occurred to her to make further plans for the impending weekend.
“Do you have any of that whisky?” asked Elke, with an embarrassment commensurate with her late dissolved inhibitions.
“Whisky? You mean the Scotch drink?” replied the waitress, wrinkling her brow.
“Yes. I tried it once. It’s very strong.”
“You like that stuff? I think it’s terrible. I don’t know how they drink it.”
“It’s not so bad . . . Do you, though? Have any . . .”
“I’m sure we do. I’ll go check for you.” The woman went to the counter, and returned with an opened bottle of the amber liquid. It was mostly full. “Would you like some of it?”
“Could I buy . . . the bottle from you?”
“The bottle? But this one’s been opened. It would be much better for you to buy one unopened from the traders directly.”
Elke realized her mistake. Offering no answer, she just sat there feeling as she appeared: sad and more than somewhat pathetic.
There was an uncomfortable pause before the woman again spoke. “Are you all right,
fräulein?”
“Yeah . . . How much do I owe you for the meal?”
Receiving the amount, Elke paid it, soberly, before preparing to go. On her way to the door, she was summoned with a gesture from the waitress who had returned to the nearby counter and quickly wrapped the bottle of whisky in paper.
“Here,” said the woman, extending her offer.
“How much?” asked Elke, downcast.
“Just take it . . . Take it and feel better.”
Elke was touched, and found empathy in the waitress’s eyes. Though she had shared nothing of her present circumstance, it was as if this woman somehow understood her. She took the bottle, said “Thank you,” and then she was gone.
Elke stayed in her room most of the following day, drinking from the bottle. She took but one meal with the widow Krüger—a late breakfast—and was careful then not to reveal herself.
Sunday morning she greeted with a headache, both thirsty and hungry. Her bottle was empty, though she had largely sorted herself out. It was too late to go to church, and when asked about it by Frau Krüger, she feigned illness, or rather owned her ill feeling. Mindful that she had not so successfully evaded the Lord God, Elke resolved to hold for herself a private service in her room. Alone and diligent with her Bible, she hoped to allay at least some of the disappointment God had no doubt experienced amid her recent behavior.
Choosing at random, Elke selected the Book of Ecclesiastes to serve as her focus of study. Beginning her lesson, it became apparent how long it had been since she last ventured into that older testament: at least since before her trip to Bavaria. There was something now about this book that reminded her of the late Margrave and his words. She remembered their strange conversation that night by the fire in his library. What was it that he had spoken of? The Tao . . . Reading them anew, Solomon’s ancient words seemed almost Taoist to her. A fascinating similarity was at work, though she could not quite put her finger on it. She wished now that she had preserved some of the Count’s writings beyond his student reader, and felt fresh pangs upon remembering that those fools had burned them all.
With Monday came a renewal bearing no resemblance to her previous state. Elke felt refreshed, more discerning; her eyes had been opened. With a mercenary heart, she reported to her old school, prepared to go back to work assisting in the classroom.
Again she was rehired, but not before enduring a lecture on her folly for having tried and failed at the reform school. Of course, she couldn’t expect to always have a job here. She would have to be more duteous in the future. What she needed was a good grounding—to know her place.
All of this blather now landed on deaf ears. Elke had changed. On the preceding afternoon she had made the conscious decision to put even her dear chosen profession up for auction. Henceforth, the determined young woman would take the best job opportunity she could find while still remaining in God’s good grace. If this meant one day leaving teaching entirely, then so be it. The rest be damned.
A week and a half passed with everything as before. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Fräulein Schreiber did her best to help the students individually, but this was rare by design. Assistants were relegated mostly to the mundane—duties that she accomplished in yeoman fashion. During this time, she also began realigning her engagements with coworkers. No longer would she bother consorting with staff members who were trite, insincere, overbearing, or calculating. In this, Elke’s universe contracted considerably, yet was finally peopled with heavenly bodies altogether more hospitable to man.
At least she still had her books to escape into at the end of each day. Elke was most grateful for Bremen’s libraries and book shops, and had missed them terribly during her exile in Waldheim. On this day, in fact, she had just learned of a new book written in English. A fellow teacher well-versed in the tongue had recommended it. The plot of the novel sounded so interesting to her that she was inspired to resume her long-suspended study of the language. It was on her trip to the bookseller after work, intent on purchasing a German-English dictionary, that she came to first notice an alarming presence.
Leaving the shop, on her way to an evening meal at a local Kneipe, Elke confirmed that a man was following her. She did not know him—a tall fellow with a drawn, sunken, expressionless face. He wore a black cape over his black suit, and upon his head was a top hat equally devoid of color.
The reason she was sure he was following her stemmed not from her short stop-off at the bookseller’s. Elke had seen him near the school well before it. He had taken the same route from school to the shop as she, and while that did seem an odd coincidence—with its three turns and as many streets—for him to have stopped and then started again in time with her itinerary, and again in the same direction, was now beyond any alternate explanation.
Fortunately, the pub was close. Ducking inside, Elke looked immediately out the window to see if the man in black would pass. He didn’t. She selected the best available table for watching the door, and when it became clear that he was not coming inside, she relaxed her guard. Over supper, she grew still more comfortable, perusing her new volumes—or rather trying to read her novel and finding herself resorting to the dictionary more often than she had expected.
Nearly two hours passed before Elke was ready to leave. Full from a meal of sauerbraten and her mid-week tipple, she made for home along gaslit streets sparsely peopled.
The setting of the sun seemed to have consummated the consciousness of the cobblestones, awakened them from their drowsy day. Clacking and clattering, they copied every errand upon them. The little tattles that told first of Elke’s goings, told next of her neighbors’ comings, and they did not stop there; upon his return, they betrayed even her shadow.
She sped up, and then so did he;
she made a turn, then two, then three;
at last, at four, she whirled to see
how near upon her he did be.
Not close, nor far, but just enough
to give her cause to try her bluff.
She asked him then, “What reason do
follow me this stilled evening you?”
He did not answer, gave no why,
but stood there mute with no reply.
Filling with fright, she ran on home
and locked her door, no more to roam.
By gaslight he remained outside
until ne’er more did he abide.
Elke slept little that night. Her unknown stalker unnerved her so that she found herself driven out of bed—on more than one occasion—to check the lock on her door and to peep again out the window at the desolate street below. When she had finally gotten home, he had not lingered long outside, only just enough for her to have developed a real terror at his motivations.
At school the next day she was careworn, without focus; so feckless was she that at lunch her coworkers—normally quite content to ignore the aloof teacher—felt compelled to ask about her condition.
“Is everything all right, Fräulein Schreiber? You seem to be having some difficulty today.” This was the mathematics teacher, Herr Keil, a thin man with tiny glasses and greased-back hair.
Elke looked up from her plate in surprise. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t seem fine . . .” added Frau Kassmeyer. “I expected you’d have those essays back to me by now.”
“That was just yesterday,” replied Elke. “You don’t usually give them back for over a week.”
“I know that,” snorted Kassmeyer. “I need time to review your work.”
You mean the work of yours that I’m doing. It wasn’t worth it. Elke had been too rattled last night to read those essays. Besides, irrespective of what she had done in the past, it really was too much to expect that an entire class’s essays be graded in one night. “Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Some man was following me after school.”
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“Oh my . . .” said Kassmeyer.
“Oh!” interjected Fräulein Sommer, a clerk in the school office. “There was a tall man—all in black—asking about you yesterday.”
Elke’s heart skipped. “What? Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I’m sorry. I was going to, but just after he left, the principal dropped a stack of ledgers on my desk.”
Elke knew the girl was as overworked as she, if not more so, but shot her a wounded look nonetheless.
“I’m sorry, Elke. I had to get it done. He wasn’t going to let me leave . . .”
“Well, what did this man have to say? I’ve never seen him before.”
“He just asked if you worked at the school. I told him ‘yes’, but that you were in class. That’s all. He described you, and I confirmed it. That’s all I told him.”
What followed was an outpouring of sympathy—with varying degrees of sincerity—as Elke shared the details of her fright. Their compassion was cold comfort. Though she would have preferred to eat in peace, there was one other use in it to her: she learned from this exchange more about how the others truly saw her in their small school society.
Once stimulated by Elke’s story, they no longer needed her to continue talking, intimately, about her business. Deliberating at their long communal table, these busybodies solved the case before finishing their lunch. Elke was afforded plenty of time in the class that followed to think on their words as the presiding teacher had the students reading quietly to themselves.
Evidently to the others she was a rather seltsam—odd—character. They apparently enjoyed playing a game amongst themselves at her expense, and had done so for quite some time. In this gossip, they would posit different suitors for her. The trick was in finding someone as equal to her in his physical charms as he was to her in his eccentricities. In rendering their decision concerning the events of her late evening, the natterers strayed not far from these lines of thinking: though the man in black fitted not the formula of their game, in him the poor girl must have developed an admirer.
