Read Online The True Story of Hansel and Gretel by Louise Murphy - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Murphy
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Confession.”
“I don’t remember those things.”
“If you want to live, you had better remember, sister.”
“You teach them.”
“I can’t come here every day. You must do it.”
“They never allow services. Who will see them worshiping?”
The priest laughed. “Perhaps that is why God led these children here, sister. Perhaps it was to make you faithful at your devotions. Here—” He drew from his jacket a small book. “I brought you this. You can say morning prayers. Noon prayers. Prayers at night. The Lord’s Prayer. The devotions. And—”
He put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out a string of wooden beads. “The rosary. They should know it. Say it every night until they can do it in their sleep.”
“No.”
“Teach them or die, sister. Teach them or kill everyone—the villagers—” He paused and then went on. “Nelka. All of us.”
She took the beads reluctantly. “I’ll teach them enough to answer the need. I’m not trying to make a priest and a nun.”
“Perhaps they were sent to save you!”
The children said nothing. Hansel hung up his picture, and Gretel, after some thought, did the same. If people came in, both pictures should be there. She hung her picture on the wall but didn’t like to look at it. The blurry eyes and the pale face over the well-fed body made her uneasy.
“It’s like that fat girl ate me up,” she told Magda.
Magda thought for a long while, rocking as usual, and then she spoke. “Let her eat you up, Gretel. There are worse wolves than that waiting with sharp teeth. Let the child have you.”
Gretel hated it, but she knew Magda was right, so she forced herself to stare at the picture until she could no longer tell if it was her or not. She let the fat child devour the child she had been. After all, there were no pictures left of herself at that age or at any age. She had no pictures of her house, or her mother, or father, or the Stepmother.
The chair the fat girl stood beside, the lamp on the table with its shiny glass base, the carpet and the wall behind, and the physical fact of the child herself, this was what Gretel had for a past. She was uneasy, but she accepted it. Any picture was better than nothing.
The Mechanik
T o live he had to find the motorcycle, but he could only think of his children, lost in the snow. The father, newly christened the Mechanik, moved steadily, concentrating on erasing his son and daughter from his mind. If he was caught, he must not think of them.
His feet began to sink in a bog of moss and mud, and he circled around it, moving slowly now, but steadily. The ooze of swamp had not frozen, and mist lay deep over the wet heart of the forest.
He saw a movement to his right and fell to the ground. Pushing his face into the snow-covered moss and leaves in his terror, he lay still. He caught no sound, and then, near him, the snort of breath released and a whickering.
He barely raised his head and saw the wild ponies in the trees. Four of them stood and stared at him, and only the jets of steam that their breath made in the cold air betrayed their presence.
“Too small for German horses,” he muttered.
Their gray winter coats hung low under their legs, and he couldn’t see their eyes for the shaggy hair that grew over their faces. The ponies didn’t move until he stood and walked toward them, and then they disappeared into the trees and the white mist with only the squelch of hooves in the soft mud.
He stood resting, looking at the mist hanging in the air where the horses’ breath had been, and smiled. The German horses. Huge and impossible to feed in the Russian winter. They had all been eaten by their masters. The Mechanik plodded through the woods. He chanted to himself, and it almost became a song as he walked on.
“The wrong horses, the wrong oil, the trains full of Jews they have to kill. No winter clothes. No oil for your tanks. No trains full of food. No trains full of oil. Just Jews. Jews. Jews.
“I don’t remember those things.”
“If you want to live, you had better remember, sister.”
“You teach them.”
“I can’t come here every day. You must do it.”
“They never allow services. Who will see them worshiping?”
The priest laughed. “Perhaps that is why God led these children here, sister. Perhaps it was to make you faithful at your devotions. Here—” He drew from his jacket a small book. “I brought you this. You can say morning prayers. Noon prayers. Prayers at night. The Lord’s Prayer. The devotions. And—”
He put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out a string of wooden beads. “The rosary. They should know it. Say it every night until they can do it in their sleep.”
“No.”
“Teach them or die, sister. Teach them or kill everyone—the villagers—” He paused and then went on. “Nelka. All of us.”
She took the beads reluctantly. “I’ll teach them enough to answer the need. I’m not trying to make a priest and a nun.”
“Perhaps they were sent to save you!”
The children said nothing. Hansel hung up his picture, and Gretel, after some thought, did the same. If people came in, both pictures should be there. She hung her picture on the wall but didn’t like to look at it. The blurry eyes and the pale face over the well-fed body made her uneasy.
“It’s like that fat girl ate me up,” she told Magda.
Magda thought for a long while, rocking as usual, and then she spoke. “Let her eat you up, Gretel. There are worse wolves than that waiting with sharp teeth. Let the child have you.”
Gretel hated it, but she knew Magda was right, so she forced herself to stare at the picture until she could no longer tell if it was her or not. She let the fat child devour the child she had been. After all, there were no pictures left of herself at that age or at any age. She had no pictures of her house, or her mother, or father, or the Stepmother.
The chair the fat girl stood beside, the lamp on the table with its shiny glass base, the carpet and the wall behind, and the physical fact of the child herself, this was what Gretel had for a past. She was uneasy, but she accepted it. Any picture was better than nothing.
The Mechanik
T o live he had to find the motorcycle, but he could only think of his children, lost in the snow. The father, newly christened the Mechanik, moved steadily, concentrating on erasing his son and daughter from his mind. If he was caught, he must not think of them.
His feet began to sink in a bog of moss and mud, and he circled around it, moving slowly now, but steadily. The ooze of swamp had not frozen, and mist lay deep over the wet heart of the forest.
He saw a movement to his right and fell to the ground. Pushing his face into the snow-covered moss and leaves in his terror, he lay still. He caught no sound, and then, near him, the snort of breath released and a whickering.
He barely raised his head and saw the wild ponies in the trees. Four of them stood and stared at him, and only the jets of steam that their breath made in the cold air betrayed their presence.
“Too small for German horses,” he muttered.
Their gray winter coats hung low under their legs, and he couldn’t see their eyes for the shaggy hair that grew over their faces. The ponies didn’t move until he stood and walked toward them, and then they disappeared into the trees and the white mist with only the squelch of hooves in the soft mud.
He stood resting, looking at the mist hanging in the air where the horses’ breath had been, and smiled. The German horses. Huge and impossible to feed in the Russian winter. They had all been eaten by their masters. The Mechanik plodded through the woods. He chanted to himself, and it almost became a song as he walked on.
“The wrong horses, the wrong oil, the trains full of Jews they have to kill. No winter clothes. No oil for your tanks. No trains full of food. No trains full of oil. Just Jews. Jews. Jews.
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