By Craig Loomis

“Which witch?”

“Sorry?”

“Which witch?  After all, there is more than one, you know.”

It is springtime in the Black Forest, and behind me is a small valley with hamlet and if you listen carefully you can hear its church bell, depending on which way the wind is blowing. Yet, she tells me that when she stops whatever it is she is doing and steps out onto the porch–what she calls a veranda–and tilts her head birdlike to the right, she hears all. That’s where we are now, on the veranda, and although it is a warm milky day, she is wearing a sweater.  We are alone because her husband is busy somewhere in the woods. That is what she said, “Out there somewhere,” motioning into the deep bluegreen, “visiting neighbors, forever chopping wood, hunting; he’s a wonderful hunter, you know.”  She offers me tea, and when I say no thank you, she asks, “How about coffee?”  When I say fine, she stands, goes inside and almost immediately returns with a cup of hot coffee.  It is so quick, even magical, that I think it must be some kind of joke, as if someone were waiting just the other side of the door to hand her the cup. I want to ask her how she did that but on second thought decide not to.  We continue to talk the small talk that has nothing to do with the interview, not really: how during the winter the snow piles up shoulder-high against the cottage, how the VFB Stuttgart side is not what it used to be, how hikers are always walking out of the forest asking for directions, which way to the nearest road, café. ‘Can we use your telephone?’ 

“There’s more than one witch?” I ask.

Tapping her chin with a long gracious finger, she considers before saying, “There’s that old woman who fell off the mountain, breaking her neck, they say; that was in the newspapers, something about poison apples and running about the forest frightening people who had lost their way.  Said it was all a big mistake and nobody was to blame, not really. Poor woman. So that’s one….” And she goes back to tapping her chin, sipping her tea and now lifting her head as if there’s something to hear.

“The other?”

“Yes,” sighing, as if she knew it had to finally come to something like this.  “Yes, well, there’s that white White girl, the one who’s been living with them all this time.”  She suddenly stops, looking as if there is something behind me, in the trees.  “I mean, think of it, what do we call this, . . . this girl? A nanny?  A housekeeper? Some kind of den mother?  Living with seven men.  In a small cottage like that? This girl who lives with seven men.  It’s uncanny, to the say the least.  The stuff of cults and communes gone all wrong.” Although she looks away, I can see the redness in her face, around her cheeks.  “My little Wolfgang never had a chance, I tell you.  Not a chance.”

I hold the coffee cup to sip but am really more interested in watching her than drinking.  “When was the last time you heard from him, Wolfgang?”

“Oh, he calls.  Mostly on Sundays.  He usually talks to his father and by the time it’s my turn he’s not so talkative. Maybe all talked out.  Of course he tells me he’s fine, that everyone is fine, even the Doctor, who, by the way, is nothing like a real doctor, who they all worry about because of his high blood pressure.” 

She is, when the light hits her just right, not unattractive.  Her hair the color of honey, with a soft afterthought of white.  That, and she is slender, almost skinny but you don’t notice it once she sits down, her lap, the slender porch of a springtime dress.  My pencil is ready, my pad open but I have only scribbled one word, ‘Wolfgang.’

“Of course he has never been the out-going type, never much good at football or swimming.  He could not ski.  In the beginning, his father didn’t like it, not one bit. ‘No son of mine will….’ but our Wolfgang wasn’t meant for that kind of thing.”   Eyes half-shut, remembering something that has nothing to do with me.  “Staying indoors or around the house was for him, building some kind of fort in the woodpile, some sort of secret boyish hiding place down by the creek.  But that’s what boys do, right?”  

When a small piece of late afternoon quiet arrives, I can hear chopping from the forest.  I think it must be her husband, but nothing is said, and I cannot help wondering about this husband of hers, Wolfgang’s father.  He has never been interviewed, no one has seen him, not even a photograph. But never mind, because I have already decided he is big and oh so German, red-faced and a little too loud.

“When was the last time you saw him, your Wolfgang?”

When she turns to smile at me, for the first time I notice her teeth, they are strangely tiny, almost bead-like.

“Why do you ask?”

I shrug and say something about it’s my job to be curious.

But she is not pleased and when she stands to refill her cup, I can only think that the interview has come to an abrupt end.

When she returns, her teacup steaming, she resits, her tiny teeth trying their best to be friendly, and asks, “Sorry, what was it you wanted to know?”

“Wolfgang, do you see him often?”

“No. He’s thataway, you understand?” Aiming a finger into the distance mountains.  “Two, maybe three hours from here.  But no, I haven’t seen him for quite some time.”

I am prepared to say more, ask more, when she says, “At the very beginning they told us there was a problem, you know.  The day Wolfgang was born, the midwife, she was the first to say it.”

Their dog is old with fur almost the same color as her hair, and I can hear him coming, his nails clicking across the wooden veranda, as he circles once, twice before placing his shaggy head in her lap.  She places a hand on top of his shaggy head.

“She was such a wonderful help, that midwife, Greta or Grendel, something like that, a strong, confident woman.  She knew her stuff.  When Wolfgang came it was surprisingly simple, one grand starburst of pain, and there he was, in her hands and she snipped and carried him to the bright light behind me, all along murmuring something I couldn’t hear, except for the one word, ‘frage’, problem, So there you have it, she was the first.”

She is doing in again, looking over my shoulder, aiming her words into the forest behind me.  “But he was such a good boy.  Did his chores as well as he could.  Always playing with the dog. Loves animals–always has. Squirrels would eat out of his hand. Deer are not afraid of him. Then came school.” She frowns.  “The teachers were mean to him. It is as simple as that. Never understood him, never even tried, and so they let the others tease him, play tricks on him, even pushed him into the mud that rainy September day.  My poor little Wolfgang.  That’s when all this name calling started, that terrible name.” 

She asks if I would like some more coffee and I say no. “We are almost finished, just a couple more questions if you don’t mind.”

“By the way, I know they insist on him being mute, but it’s only one of those vicious rumors that the fat Happy one likes to spread, or maybe the one who’s always angry.  It’s hard to say, both are gossip-mongers.  So, quiet?  Yes, my Wolfgang is all of that.  Mute? Absolutely not.”   

The dog, having had enough of her hand on the top of his head, slips away, the clicking of his nails disappearing around the corner of the cottage.  I write ‘mute? No.’

“My editors insist that I talk with the father, your husband.  Nobody has seen him, let alone spoken with him since this whole thing started.  Why is that?”

 “Yes, well, my husband, Wolfgang’s father, like I said enjoys being alone, in the woods.  He’s a very private man.  Sometimes he will leave before sunrise, returning at night.”  Her eyes dart from me to the forest and back again. 

“Do you have a photograph?”

“Photograph?”

“Of your husband, Silas. Am I right?  Silas?  Do you have a photograph?”

“On no, nothing like that.  He doesn’t believe in things like that.”

“I see.”

“Yes, well.”

“Why did Wolfgang decide to live with the others, the other six?  I mean, why leave, . . .” motioning towards the front door, “Why leave all of this?”

She looks at me like it is an old, tired question that she has answered many times before.  She smooths her lap, picking off a tumble of dog hair, sighing, as if remembering makes her tired.

“One day in October there was a half-page advertisement in the newspaper, some kind of traveling circus was headed this way, coming from Cologne.  That’s what they called themselves: ‘Traveling Circus,’ and they were looking for special people.”  She grins, or grimaces.  

“Special people?”

“Yes, special people, that’s what the ad said, and so we talked about it and in the end gave them a call.”

“We?”

‘Of course, Silas and me, the two of us.”

“At first Wolfgang refused to think about it, locked himself in his room, he and the dog. Said he was not hungry, had no interest in being special, and so on.”  Smoothing her lap even flatter, smoother. “In the end, he unlocked the door, started eating, and of course I made him his favorite, pumpkin pie.  Pumpkin pie and strudel, his two favorites. Takes after his father, you know.  Always has.” 

There is another hush, as we both sip. When she sets her cup down on the tabletop, there is the smallest of clicks.  “My poor little Wolfgang.  Well, there was money to be made.  There, I’ve said it.  Money to be made and we were all for that—all three of us. Even Wolfgang could understand that.  Of course, as he got older the military was not an option; they didn’t want him, and he wouldn’t have gone even if they did.” Her nostrils flare and she turns to glare at me, as if I am responsible.  When the church bell starts she drops her glare.   “In the end it didn’t work out; that’s all I can tell you—it didn’t work out–and he left the carnival. In fact, they all left at the same time, somewhere around Munich. A wage dispute they tell me.  All about money; that, and the Happy one coming up with the idea of mining, if you can imagine.” She turns, refolding her hands, half-surprised that I am still there.

“Mining?”

“Yes, mining. The Happy fellow’s idea.  But who ever heard of such a thing in these mountains?  I blame the White girl too.  Mining for diamonds and gold, and who knows what else.  Pure fantasy. Nonsense.  It’s all part of her silly dream world—of princes and castles, and whatnot.”

Twilight in the Black Forest.  The treetops are rosy, even golden in places, while the mountains glisten huge and bright, but among the trees and valleys it is already gloomy.  When I get up to say good-bye and thank you so much for your time and coffee, I take her hand. Her flesh is cold, her long fingers folding over mine. I am surprised and look into her face to see, to see….  But she smiles, saying, “Yes, thank you so much and I hope this helps, this clears up some of the silly gossip and half-truths.”  Turning to step off the veranda, the dog suddenly appears and walks beside me.  That’s when there is a rustle on the pathway. Someone is coming.  All of which makes her say good-bye faster, harder, as if hurrying is suddenly important.  Someone is coming up the path and whoever it is stops, and veers animal-like into the high grass.  Someone small and nimble, maybe a boy, and with the dog still there, even leaning against my leg, I hold up a hand, asking, “Who is that?”

Arms folded across her sweater, she says good-bye and thank you for coming.  I take a step back toward her, saying again, “Who was that?  Your husband, Silas?”

The twilight fades, only the mountaintops are golden.

“Yes,” she says, “My husband.”

 I can only think how terribly small he looked, . . . Can that be right?  Small but fast.

“Yes, well, good-bye, she says in a strange, hurried way.  Dropping her arms, no longer caring about her sweater, she takes a step closer, grinning so big that her cheeks and eyes are stretched tight.  Now looking me up and down as if there’s some measuring to be done. 

As I head down what now has become a murky path that leads to the valley with hamlet, three things happen, one right after the other: first, the dog returns to stand firmly on the veranda, by her side, head up, guard dog-like, watching me go; second, the church bell tolls; and third, as I get to the shadows I stop, look back and wait, and sure enough it isn’t long before a short stocky figure moves out of the forest; he is wearing something like a baseball cap and carrying an ax that is as long as he is tall.  The dog wags its tail while she patiently waits for him to step into the cottage glow.

Litro Magazine