Read Online Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin by Annelie Wendeberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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were the tranquil and clean upper-class areas. Beautifully dressed and well-behaved ladies and gentlemen could stroll through the parks without being bothered by the poor and dirty. Here, even the trees and bushes were well groomed. People had enough to eat, though their servants often did not.
Every day, my way to and from Guy’s Hospital took me through these contrasting areas of London’s rich and poor. Every day, I saw the transformation of the city, beautiful villas to filthy bottom-of-the-pit hovels with garbage bags or battered hats as replacements for missing windowpanes.
And so did I transform, from the fake male bacteriologist and epidemiologist Anton Kronberg to Anna Kronberg — fake widow and fake medical nurse. I knew that changing identities had its risks, but I gladly took them. In Boston I had lived as Anton only, and after three years my own body had become a stranger to me. The lack of a penis was highly bothersome and my breasts were useless and ugly appendages that, at some point, I hid even at night. After many weeks of tightly bandaging my chest, I got a breast infection that threw me down with a high fever and excruciating pain. I spent a week in bed, naked. After that I could not hide my female identity for much longer than a day. I needed to be Anna, to not lose myself.
~~~
Trying to avoid a meeting with the landlady, I ran up the creaking stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut before she had opened hers. The stench in the hallway told me she had had too much gin and too little time to discard the contents of her chamber pots. Almost every day I was glad they had no children. The crying of neglected youngsters on top of their shouting wars would have been unbearable.
I cut the bread and cheese, made tea and took an early supper while standing at the open window and listening to the odd mix of drunkard sing-song, children’s play, dog yowls, and laughter.
Then, I fetched the bucket and walked down to the street to get water from the pump. Back in the room, I poured it into the washbasin and started washing the Macassar oil out of my hair and the dissection odour from my body. Contemplating over how to dress — a rather new experience for me — I stood in front of the wardrobe and settled on something more appropriate for an upper-class woman. That left me with only one piece to choose from. I put on a camisole and laced the black sateen corset, put on a petticoat and my best dress made of dark blue silk.
Looking at myself in the milky glass at the wall, I saw a woman I barely recognised. The expensive fabric poured from a too slim waist down to ankles stuck in tightly laced boots. My black velvet hat was adorned with a single raven feather, shimmering blue and violet in the evening sun. Black curls peeked out, almost reaching my chin. My short hair was definitely too progressive and onlookers might think I was on my way to a Suffragette meeting.
But it wasn’t only my hair. Everything about my face screamed oddity at me. Constantly bold and determined, sharp eyebrows, set chin, long nose — I appeared more like a bird of prey. As a woman I looked too masculine; as a man, too feminine.
I shook my head, thinking that I might not have too much time left. A black-haired man in his thirties or even forties, who doesn’t have a hint of a beard, simply did not exist. Being in my twenties I could perhaps go on with this charade for another ten years. But then I would have to find an alternative. But how could I possibly live without science?
Frustrated, I kicked the wall, then snatched the package off the table, took a small handbag, and started south. Just as I turned a corner, I heard the flap-flap-flap of naked feet on the pavement behind me, hushed voices and whispers of children. They started splitting up to get to me from two different sides.
‘Oi! Is that you guys or a swarm of cockroaches?’ I shouted over my shoulder.
The splattering of feet came to a sudden
Every day, my way to and from Guy’s Hospital took me through these contrasting areas of London’s rich and poor. Every day, I saw the transformation of the city, beautiful villas to filthy bottom-of-the-pit hovels with garbage bags or battered hats as replacements for missing windowpanes.
And so did I transform, from the fake male bacteriologist and epidemiologist Anton Kronberg to Anna Kronberg — fake widow and fake medical nurse. I knew that changing identities had its risks, but I gladly took them. In Boston I had lived as Anton only, and after three years my own body had become a stranger to me. The lack of a penis was highly bothersome and my breasts were useless and ugly appendages that, at some point, I hid even at night. After many weeks of tightly bandaging my chest, I got a breast infection that threw me down with a high fever and excruciating pain. I spent a week in bed, naked. After that I could not hide my female identity for much longer than a day. I needed to be Anna, to not lose myself.
~~~
Trying to avoid a meeting with the landlady, I ran up the creaking stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut before she had opened hers. The stench in the hallway told me she had had too much gin and too little time to discard the contents of her chamber pots. Almost every day I was glad they had no children. The crying of neglected youngsters on top of their shouting wars would have been unbearable.
I cut the bread and cheese, made tea and took an early supper while standing at the open window and listening to the odd mix of drunkard sing-song, children’s play, dog yowls, and laughter.
Then, I fetched the bucket and walked down to the street to get water from the pump. Back in the room, I poured it into the washbasin and started washing the Macassar oil out of my hair and the dissection odour from my body. Contemplating over how to dress — a rather new experience for me — I stood in front of the wardrobe and settled on something more appropriate for an upper-class woman. That left me with only one piece to choose from. I put on a camisole and laced the black sateen corset, put on a petticoat and my best dress made of dark blue silk.
Looking at myself in the milky glass at the wall, I saw a woman I barely recognised. The expensive fabric poured from a too slim waist down to ankles stuck in tightly laced boots. My black velvet hat was adorned with a single raven feather, shimmering blue and violet in the evening sun. Black curls peeked out, almost reaching my chin. My short hair was definitely too progressive and onlookers might think I was on my way to a Suffragette meeting.
But it wasn’t only my hair. Everything about my face screamed oddity at me. Constantly bold and determined, sharp eyebrows, set chin, long nose — I appeared more like a bird of prey. As a woman I looked too masculine; as a man, too feminine.
I shook my head, thinking that I might not have too much time left. A black-haired man in his thirties or even forties, who doesn’t have a hint of a beard, simply did not exist. Being in my twenties I could perhaps go on with this charade for another ten years. But then I would have to find an alternative. But how could I possibly live without science?
Frustrated, I kicked the wall, then snatched the package off the table, took a small handbag, and started south. Just as I turned a corner, I heard the flap-flap-flap of naked feet on the pavement behind me, hushed voices and whispers of children. They started splitting up to get to me from two different sides.
‘Oi! Is that you guys or a swarm of cockroaches?’ I shouted over my shoulder.
The splattering of feet came to a sudden
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