The Dark Meadow

by Andrea Maria Schenkel

  ‘Oh, leave me alone, you lying lot!’ she mutters to herself.

  Albert looks enquiringly at his mother.

  ‘Not you, darling, I didn’t mean you.’

  Afra picks Albert up in her arms. He is holding the hard crust of bread in both hands, chewing it.

  ‘There you are, something nice to suck.’

  She bends her head and kisses him on the forehead.

  When there is a knock at the door, she is afraid for a split second that Hetsch has come back. She holds the child more tightly, as if she could shield him from some misfortune, and then opens the door. In the doorway stands one of the two journeymen who have been roaming the countryside.

  ‘The door wasn’t locked, so I came right in. Just wanted to ask if we could wash out there at the well? And maybe you’d have a mug of milk or a bite to eat? A crust of bread would do for us.’

  ‘I can give you some curds, and a slice of bread. I’ll bring it out to you.’

  ‘May God repay you.’

  ‘Where are the two of you off to, then?’

  ‘Everywhere and nowhere.’

  ‘That’s no kind of destination. Meanwhile, you can go back to your friend, I’ll bring the curds and bread out to you.’

  Afra turns away, still with the child in her arms. Albert has put the hand holding his gnawed crust of bread round her neck, and he is clinging to her collar with his other hand. However, the stranger stays where he is, making no move to go. The child pulls gently at his mother’s earlobe. She turns.

  ‘I said I’ll bring it out. No need for you to stand around the kitchen.’

  Afra looks distrustfully at the stranger. Until Albert begins whining and struggling, and attracts all her attention to himself. He writhes in her arms, wanting her to put him down on the floor.

  ‘And maybe you’d have a little mug of warm water for shaving?’

  ‘Yes, if that’s all.’

  Afra puts Albert down and goes over to the kitchen stove. She opens the lid of the hot water compartment and scoops some out into a small mug.

  ‘Did you two find a place to sleep last night?’ She hands the young man the water. ‘This’ll have to do. I haven’t quite filled it, so you can add a little cold. Got everything else you need? A mirror, or shall I get you my father’s?’

  ‘We don’t need a mirror, but thanks all the same. I’ll bring your mug right back.’

  ‘No hurry. When I’m finished in here I’ll bring the breakfast out to you. I have to go into the yard, there’s washing still hanging on the line, and it looks like the weather won’t hold for long.’

  The young man is still standing in the same spot, now with the can of water in his hands, not moving. Afra is unsure of herself, doesn’t know what to do. To persuade the visitor to leave, she goes over to the window and looks out.

  ‘It won’t break just yet. I don’t think it’ll rain in a hurry,’ she hears him say. He waits a moment longer, holding the can of water, as if he would like to add something more, but then turns and goes over to the door.

  Afra, who has turned her back to him, hears him close the door behind him.

  ‘That fellow didn’t know what he wanted, did he, Albert? As pushy as Hetsch.’ And then, ‘Oh, my word, Albert, I have to sweep up the little broken vase still lying on the bedroom floor. Wait here and Mama will soon be back, all right? I’ll just get the dustpan and brush and go over there. I won’t be long, and stay away from the stove, Albert, or you’ll burn your fingers.’

  But Albert wasn’t listening to her; he was sitting on the floor playing with his bit of bread, making little pellets of bread dough mixed with his spit and rolling them back and forth.

  From the statement of Matthias Karrer, pedlar and knife-grinder, eighteen years after the events concerned

  Right after the war I left the Unterlichtenwald area. Under the Nazis my father hadn’t been allowed to go around with his licence trading from door to door. He was always telling me what that free way of life was like. My folk have always been on the road, it’s part of us, like air is part of breathing; it’s in our blood. My father came into the world beside the family’s caravan, on the road, just like that. Same as his father before him and all our ancestors before that. Our folk went on the road with horse-drawn caravans, with bag and baggage, ducks, geese, pigs, everything, all their household goods. We had our usual places and we went there. Everyone knew when we was coming. We was honest folk, not gypsies, we were Yenish.

  Must have been the spring of ’47 when I set out. I packed my rucksack and left. The first Karrer to go off on his own, not with the whole tribe, but I knew I’d always find some of us on the road. And so I did. Our folk know each other by their talk, it’s a mixture of cant and Bavarian and Yiddish; in fact a bit of everything, just like us.

  So then I met two fellows in autumn that year, Otto and Wackes. I don’t know what the right name of Wackes was. He was just called that because Wackes is our word for a Frenchman. He was always saying he’d make his way through to the French and join the Legion. That’s the kind of fellow Wackes was.

  I let the pair of them persuade me to do a few silly things, nicking something here, walking off with something else there. But at that age things look different, and you want to impress your new friends. When you’re young you’re stupid too. It don’t do in the long run.

  And in Alling, Otto and I got caught climbing into the bakery. We’d had nothing much to eat the day before, only a few apples still almost green and a crust of stale bread. All that time I was kind of confused, what with hunger and the air inside my belly going to my head.

  It was just dark when we came to the village. All day Wackes wouldn’t leave us in peace. He said how simple it was to climb into the baker’s shop, and he knew his way around it ‘like he knew his own waistcoat pocket’. He’d been put to work there in the war, and he still had accounts to settle from those days. The baker had been a real slave-driver, and it wouldn’t hurt if he had to pay for that a little now. And he’d do it himself, said Wackes, if we didn’t dare, but his hand hurt and wouldn’t heal. So as I’d believe him, he stretched it out to me, and I could see that he had a deep cut over the ball of his hand, with the skin gaping open and the flesh standing proud.

  ‘What’s more,’ he said to me, ‘it means you can show if there’s really anything to you, or if you’re just talking hot air while you shit your pants. We can do without a mate like that, eh, Otto?’

  Otto nodded as if he agreed. As a young lad you don’t wait to be asked twice, so it was agreed. We’d nick money and bread or whatever else we could find.

  The Frenchman was to be on watch in front, and Otto and I would get into the bakehouse through the back window.

  The baker had his bedroom right above the bakehouse. Wackes hadn’t told us that. Maybe he didn’t know. And when I’d broke the window next to the door it must have woken them upstairs. It made such a noise, the breaking glass would have woken the dead. The window was gone and we climbed into the bakehouse. And then it all went very fast. We didn’t even have time to look for money or anything else. The baker took us by surprise. If there’s someone holding a shotgun under your nose then you know it’s time to keep still. Before we’d even looked around, the police were there and taking us away. That bastard Wackes was gone. So it was only Otto and me ended up in clink.

  Hetsch

  The conversation with Afra had not gone at all well. Hetsch was marching through the wood, angrily complaining to himself. He was annoyed: why wouldn’t she take him? She’d gone with that Frenchman, hadn’t she? Was it just because of his short legs? He had one of the largest farms in the village, a woman like Afra could think herself lucky: in the usual way she’d never make such a good catch. But it was his own fault, he’d gone about it the wrong way. However, with every step his resentment grew. Who and what did she think she was? A Frenchman’s floozy! A girl with nothing to her name, and with a child into the bargain. If she was going to be the single mother of
a bastard, it ought at least to be a local bastard. But in this case? Afra was nothing but a tart. A cheap woman of easy virtue. And he’d been stupid enough to let himself be intimidated. He’d listened to her talking big, and he’d run away like a little schoolboy. Because he was shit-scared of Zauner’s wife. He was a fool, an idiot. Not that he’d even seen Theres. And if he had, so what? What could she have against it? They were paupers, miserable little cottagers, they should be glad he wanted to take Afra, bastard and all. Theres would have one worry less. Anyone could see how badly off they were.

  Hetsch hurried on through the wood. The air was oppressive, sweat was running down his back. From time to time he mopped his forehead dry with his handkerchief. He ought to have tackled the thing differently, quite differently. Next time he wouldn’t let himself be sent off like that. He’d do the job properly. But who knew when there’d be another such opportunity, and when he’d pluck up his courage again? It could be a long time yet, so why wait? He’d go back, now. It couldn’t be postponed, he wanted to know now. Now, on the spot.

  Hetsch stopped, wanting to go back to Finsterau. He’d get Afra to explain herself, he’d stay until she said yes, had to say yes. And if she didn’t, then she wouldn’t know what had hit her. A man like him wasn’t going to turn up again. What did she want, anyway? She should be glad he was courting her. He’d soon show her that he couldn’t be treated like that. Not him! Yes, that was exactly what he’d do.

  Afra

  The broken pieces of the vase are lying in the bedroom all over the place, including under the bed. Afra bends down and sweeps them up with the little brush. In her thoughts she is still with the child in the kitchen; she is afraid that in spite of her prohibition he might get up and run over to the stove. She keeps one ear open for any sound.

  Where can her father be? It’s late, he ought to be home any time now. She hears footsteps in the corridor, a little rustling, and then the kitchen door is opened. Afra is sure she recognizes her father’s footsteps. She is relieved; that means that Albert isn’t alone in the kitchen, her father will keep an eye on him.

  Suddenly she hears the child crying. She leaves everything where it is and runs into the kitchen as fast as she can go. Hand still on the door handle, the door half open, she sees the little boy crouching on the floor beside the bench in the corner. Snot and tears are running down his face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Albert? Have you hurt yourself?’

  Afra hurries towards him, bends down to comfort the crying child. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the person who is in the room with them. It is not her father. She turns her head to one side, sees the other travelling journeyman standing with his back to the dresser, the young fellow who reminded her of Albert’s father yesterday. Afra doesn’t understand what is going on, she thought she had recognized the sound of her father’s footsteps, and then she sees the open doors and drawers. She straightens her back, stands up, takes a step towards the young man.

  ‘What are you looking for there? Go away, go on, get out of here!’

  He doesn’t seem like someone caught out in a guilty act; he is calm, he even grins at her.

  ‘What do you think I’m looking for? Money, something to eat, and whatever else I can find.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be found here. We don’t have anything.’

  Afra plucks up all her courage and goes on walking slowly towards him.

  He moves a little way aside, and for a moment Afra thinks he is making room for her. Only then does she see the knife. He is holding it in the hand that had been hidden behind his back.

  ‘If I were you I’d sit down on the bench here in this kitchen and keep quiet. Then nothing will happen to you or the child either.’

  He says it with a smile, but his eyes and his voice are cold.

  Afra hesitates, but then she goes on walking slowly his way.

  ‘Put that knife away. You don’t frighten me, I’ve dealt with worse than you before.’

  She quickly darts at the young man, trying to seize his arm. He turns away, pushing her back with his shoulder. Afra tackles him. He takes her hair in his free hand. She tries to scratch him, bite him. He moves to fling her off. She clutches him, kicking out and trying to hit his shin. Finally she gets a grip on his arm.

  For a moment they are both holding the knife in their hands; the young fellow won’t let go and is trying to wrestle Afra to the floor. They collide with the kitchen dresser. The china in the cupboard clinks, the dresser doors slam back against its frame. Albert is screaming and crying. He scrambles up and runs to his mother. She finally succeeds in getting the knife away from the young man, cutting his hand as she does so.

  ‘You just get out of here!’

  Afra clutches the knife in both hands. She stands with her back to the kitchen door, never taking her eyes off the young man, holding him in check. Meanwhile, Albert is clinging to her skirt, a heavy weight.

  ‘The bitch stabbed me! Look, I’m bleeding! You just wait, I’ll show you!’

  The journeyman is hardly more than an arm’s length away from her. All she hears is Albert crying, she doesn’t notice the second man until he swings back his arm and hits her over the head with a bottle. The knife falls to the floor. Afra staggers, is just in time to catch hold of the table. She tries to get back on her feet, struggles up, but then a second blow strikes her. The child’s voice is breaking desperately as he tries to get closer to his mother. One of the two men grabs Albert, pulls him away, flings him carelessly into a corner like a rag doll, and he lies there whimpering. Afra clutches her attacker’s legs. He kicks out at her, pushing her away. Strikes her again. With the last of her strength, Afra drags herself over to the sofa, clings to it with both hands and tries to pull herself up. Blood is running down her face.

  She sees it only dimly when one of the two attackers pushes her down on the sofa and hits her yet again. Then everything goes black in front of her eyes.

  From the statement of Matthias Karrer, pedlar and knife-grinder, eighteen years after the events concerned

  When I realized that Wackes had escaped the police, and there was only Otto and me left to take the rap, the whole thing rankled. I resented that Frenchman. First he talks big, then he dumps us in the shit. Makes off because he knows what’s what – the hell he does! And a man like that talks about the Legion day and night, and how we need guts! I told Otto what I thought of his friend, I thought he was a bad lot, a windbag, not an ounce of honesty in his body.

  ‘He let us down when we needed him, that’s not right! That’s a rotten thing to do.’

  That’s what I told Otto.

  At first Otto wouldn’t listen, told me to keep my mouth shut, but after a while he let out his own resentment of Wackes. He started telling me other things he’d done along with the Frenchman, how it wasn’t the first time they’d climbed in somewhere, and how glad he really is to be rid of him.

  ‘Wackes is a bastard. Tell you what, though, it has its good side that they caught me now, or I could have ended badly. So he’s gone off, but you have to watch every word with him, every damn thing he says. He’s fine one minute, the next he has a knife in his hand. You weren’t the first to find that out.’

  That’s what he said to me.

  And then, bit by bit, he told me about everything, all the time he was going around with Wackes. At first I didn’t quite believe him, because when you’re in the clink you hear all kinds of stories, and most of them aren’t true.

  We were in the same cell, see, and in the night, when Otto couldn’t sleep, he kept on talking, telling his stories, specially the one that wouldn’t let him rest, and that’s how I found out all about it.

  ‘Before we met you we came to that house, and that’s where it happened. Over in the neighbourhood of Finsterau. At first it was like what we’d always done. I went into the house and asked if we could wash at the well out in the yard, and whether we could have a bite to eat. Of course I really went in to see what was to be had there. I
’d be lying if I didn’t say as much. So I went in on a pretext, to see who was in the house. But there was only the young woman and the child, I told Wackes, and then he went in after me. He still thought a woman like that is easy to intimidate, and if they had anything he’d get hold of it. Only he had to work fast in case anyone came along.’

  Otto himself, he’d been supposed to wait outside the house by the well and keep watch in case anyone came. He didn’t go in until he heard the noise they made scuffling.

  ‘The child was yelling as if he was on the spit, and the woman stood there with the knife in her hand. Wackes had shouted that she’d cut his hand. So I didn’t hesitate, I got hold of an empty bottle and I hit her with it. What else could I do? She dropped the knife and she just managed to catch hold of the table. Then Wackes took two or three steps towards her and pushed the knife away. But she kept going, she staggered up again, and then it all went very fast and Wackes hit her again. First with the bottle – he’d snatched it out of my hand – and then with a little hoe. How he came by that hoe so fast I can’t say. I just stood there, I didn’t move. Until Wackes yelled at me to get out and keep watch. Because if someone else comes along now, he says, we’d be for it. I went out into the yard and packed up our things. A couple more minutes and the Frenchman was out of there again, and we were off.’

  Later, he said the Frenchman told him he’d fucked the woman again. And he hit the child with the hoe.

  ‘On account of he wouldn’t stop whining and whimpering.’

  But Otto didn’t want to hear that.

  It wasn’t worth it either, all they brought away was a dried sausage, a few marks and a pocket watch. He’d found the money and the watch in the bedroom after he hit her.

  I couldn’t forget that story. I wanted to know whether there was any truth in it, and if so what, or was it just all rubbish? And I wanted them to go looking for that bastard Wackes. That’s why I told one of the warders about it. But he didn’t believe me, he thought I just wanted to make trouble for someone else the way folk do, thinking I’d look better myself and have better cards to play when the bakery case came to court. And Otto, what a coward, of course next minute he said he knew nothing about it. He wouldn’t even have owned up to knowing his own mother if they’d asked him. If he’d told all he knew he’d certainly have been for it.