An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (16 page)

It was quite a while before the boy could pluck up courage to open the farther door, but he did. Here was Rosemarie’s little room and the cupboard in which she kept her things. The key was in the lock, and the more he hesitated, the more his heart throbbed. He listened—not a sound. Then he shook himself, stepped briskly
up to the cupboard, opened it. All Marie’s clothes and linens lay there in neat little piles; but what should he take? Otsche had sisters, but he had no notion what girls wore. Stockings—well, stockings must be right, and he grabbed four or five pairs. One dropped, he bent down to pick it up, and saw—not half a yard away—the sinister and grinning countenance of Paul Schlieker.

His heart stood still.

“Nice of you to come and look us up, Otsche Gau,” grinned Paul Schlieker from behind the half-opened door. But the next instant his mockery turned to anger. Schlieker gripped the trembling boy with both hands and flung him against the cupboard, seized him and flung him back again, again, and yet again.

“You filthy little brute! Thief and son of a thief! I’ll knock your brains out!” he raged, thinking of his poisoned cow.

As Schlieker buffeted the lad’s head back and forth, it clung to one thought: “I won’t be afraid. . . . I won’t be afraid of Schlieker. . . . I won’t. . . . I won’t. . . .”

In which Rosemarie comes into possession of a large sum of money, and Otsche runs for his life

T
HE THREE PEOPLE
in the shed passed this fateful day in peace and quiet sunshine, little knowing what had been said of them or how their fates had been decided.

The Professor was still calmly asleep when Heini Beier marched up with a basket, and unpacked such provisions as he had hurriedly been able to collect during the night: eggs and lard, butter and salt, bread, bacon and sausage, coffee and a thick slice of ham. A can of milk had not been forgotten, but the container had to go back at once or the Strohmeiers would miss it, Albert had said.

He took it back, and with it the fatal message about Rosemarie’s clothes.

So when the Professor awoke the reassuring smell of eggs and bacon greeted him. He welcomed his busy little friend with great good humor, actually kissing her on the forehead, and saying: “Good morning, child. I slept well, and I feel quite strong and fresh. And you?”

“Yes, thank you. We’ll be having breakfast in a minute.”

It did not occur to the Professor to ask how a breakfast had been conjured up in that secluded shed, and they sat down to a leisurely meal, Philip a little apart on a chopping block outside. The Professor proposed to go and consult the Guardians after breakfast and set everything straight with God and the authorities.

Rosemarie objected. It was three hours’ journey there and three hours back, and Godfather surely deserved one day of rest. Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow.

She did not mention her resolve to wait and see what happened to Schlieker, nor Hütefritz’ news that the Professor had proposed to depart and leave her in the lurch. By moonlight it had seemed quite possible to ask the old man for an explanation, but in the daylight all was different. Many who swear allegiance to the truth fail to keep their word.

She did not say where the eggs had come from, nor that she knew of the Professor’s flight; she did not mention Paul Schlieker’s arrest, or her own plans and purposes.

She and Philip carried an armchair out into the sun for her godfather, and tucked him up comfortably in a warm rug. She gave him his Bible, and then set herself to clean the shed thoroughly. Meanwhile, she glanced at the old man from time to time—something else was on her mind, but even so simple a question seemed hard to ask now.

The Professor sat contentedly in the warm sunshine reading the Revelation of St. John, which seemed as fresh and noble as it always had from the very first. Now and then he dropped the book to gaze meditatively at the beech forest—not, of course, that he recognized the trees as beeches, he only knew that what he saw was a forest. He
could have dilated on cedars of Lebanon, he could even have described them—he knew them from pictures and books—but of the trees in a German forest he knew nothing.

Sometimes he realized how far outside the world he lived, as, for instance, when Rosemarie—after an hour’s hesitation—said: “Can you give me a little money, Godfather?”

“Yes, indeed,” her godfather replied, laying his Bible carefully on his knees as he slipped both hands under his rug and into his pockets. “How much do you want?”

“Say three marks,” said Rosemarie awkwardly. “I want to send Philip out to buy some food.” She added rapidly, “And we want oil for the lamps.”

Her godfather produced a pocketbook stuffed with paper money and a purse full of silver, nickel and coppers. These he placed on his Bible.

Then he eyed the little pile rather helplessly. “Rosemarie,” he said slowly, “it is so long since I have had anything to do with money that I have forgotten all about it. What is this coin, for instance?”

“A thaler, Godfather.”

“Good. I see you know a great deal more than I do, and I never remember to pay. How would it be if you took charge of my money affairs for me?”

He swept it all up and held it out to her in both hands.

A faint flush came into Rosemarie’s cheeks. “Oh, Godfather,” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean to trust me with all that money?”

“I’m quite sure you’re well able to look after it.”

“All right,” cried Rosemarie. “I’ll count it all up and give you a receipt.”

She stood before him with his money in her hand, very happy and grateful. This would have been the moment to speak out, but it passed. He nodded to her, picked up his Bible, and she walked away.

Sitting down at the wooden table in the shed, she counted the little hoard, and when she had finished once more broke into the old gentleman’s meditations. “It comes to two hundred and seventeen marks and eighty-three pfennigs, Godfather. Here is a receipt. And may I buy some blacking?—there isn’t any here.”

“Pray do, my dear,” he said absently, slipping the receipt between the pages of his Bible.

Her heart throbbed as she sat contemplating the little pile. The largest sum of money she had ever possessed was fifty pfennigs. Herr Vogel had given it her on her birthday, but Frau Gau had promptly impounded it.

She sat and pondered. To him, money was a matter of indifference, indeed he was glad to be rid of it; to her, it meant so much. She fingered the notes and thrilled to hear them crackle.

Then she laid five marks on the table, and hid the remaining treasure in her bed. Philip was summoned and received his instructions; then she provided him with money, a written message and an oilcan. He was not to go to Unsadel or to Kriwitz, but across the forest to the Prussian village of Lüttenhagen. And even there he must look out, as he was as likely to be locked up in Prussia as in Mecklenburg.

Then Rosemarie went down to the lakeside, and looked across at the path which ran along the edge of the forest to Unsadel. No one came; it was dreadful to sit here in idleness with her farm and her future at
stake. Later she prepared lunch—eggs, this time with ham, and bread and coffee. Afterward the Professor lay down to sleep for an hour, as was his custom.

But he could not have slept long when he heard a soft voice calling. He opened his eyes; it was Rosemarie.

“I must hurry away now, Godfather, but don’t worry, Philip will be here in an hour, and I shall be back before it’s dark.”

He saw she was excited, and tried to question her as best he could in his half-awakened state, but she hurriedly cut him short, “No, Godfather, I must go now. I’ll tell you all about it later.” And she slipped out, closing the door on Bello who whined to be allowed to come too.

There was no more hope of sleep for the Professor; he lay on his bed for a while, then got up and walked up and down the shed, thinking. And the more he reflected the more fantastic it all seemed. How he came to have taken refuge in the Vogels’ summer place still remained a mystery.

It was rather dark in the shed, but outside the sun was shining brightly. The Professor opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. Bello dashed out after him, darted to and fro across the grass with his nose against the ground, and then with a volley of joyous barks vanished along a narrow forest path.

The Professor watched him, shook his head, and fell to pacing up and down again, but the sunlight threw no more light on the situation. Presently Philip reappeared with his supplies and seemed surprised and disturbed to find that Rosemarie had gone. He tried to question the Professor, but as the Professor did not know where she
had gone, and could barely understand Philip’s broad Low German, the lad’s anxiety remained.

However, he moved the Professor’s chair back into the shed and kindled a fire, after which he seemed to make up his mind and plunged into the forest at a brisk trot exactly where Bello had vanished.

The Professor called after him, he even walked a little way along the path, but there was no sign of the boy, and twilight was descending quickly. Professor Kittguss made his way slowly back, and sat down in his chair by the fire to await the truants.

Hours passed, the fire collapsed, and the Professor, absorbed in his troubled meditations, forgot to put on any fresh wood, forgot to light the lamp, forgot to get himself any food. He pondered and began to feel very old and useless and desolate. He could depend on no one now. In the early hours of morning he fell asleep.

Rosemarie and Ernst Witt ran at top speed along the path to Unsadel. As soon as she heard that Paul Schlieker was back and Otsche Gau had vanished, she thought of that unlucky message about the clothes, and knew exactly what had happened. And so they ran, silent and heavy-hearted, along the forest path to Unsadel.

Because Rosemarie could not, of course, appear in Unsadel, the rendezvous of the league consisted of a little sand pit about three hundred yards from the Schliekers’ farm, from which they could see the yard gates and the house.

There her retainers met her, even including Hütefritz—at such a crisis he had actually deserted his cattle. There was also one newcomer, the eldest Gau girl, Evi,
two years younger than Rosemarie—they knew each other very well.

“She won’t blab,” said Hütefritz. “I sent for her so that we can know what went on at the Gaus’.”

The two girls shook hands coolly, with a “Hullo, Evi” and “Hullo, Marie”—that was all.

Otsche Gau had kept watch from twelve till two. He missed his dinner by picking a quarrel with his choleric father, who had promptly kicked him out of the parlor and locked him into the woodshed. However, with the aid of Evi, who was in on the secret, he had escaped two minutes later. The Gau parents did not know this yet, and even if they did find out they wouldn’t start fussing at once. “But,” Evi went on, “if Father knew he was shut up in the Schliekers’ house because he went to fetch your clothes, I don’t know what he’d do to you and Schlieker and old Mali too.”

No one answered, they all stared at the silent farm.

“Since two o’clock, when I was to relieve Otsche, there hasn’t been a sign of life,” put in Hübner eagerly. “They’ll have to feed the cattle some time.”

“It’s nearly five now,” Evi Gau burst out, sobbing. “And they’ve had him in there for four hours at least, torturing him for all we know. Perhaps they’re beating him to death!”

“The Schliekers are capable of anything,” said Hübner sagely.

“Shut up, fathead,” snapped Hütefritz.

“Well, we shan’t get him out by standing here and staring at the farm,” cried Evi. “Look here, Rosemarie. It’s your fault he got caught; I dare say the Schliekers think he was trying to steal something.”

Rosemarie’s heart was heavy, but she said with an effort: “I had better go and say I sent him. Then they’re bound to let him go.”

“And they’ll hold on to you instead!” cried Hütefritz.

“I dare say I shall manage to escape,” said Rosemarie, rather gloomily.”

“Not you!” said Fritz scornfully. “After what you did to the Schliekers they’d sooner bury you under the dung-heap than let you go again.”

They all eyed Rosemarie in silence.

“Oh dear!” she said dolefully, for she was really afraid. She turned to go but stopped. “You’re quite right, Evi, I can’t let him down. I’ll go to the farm at once, and if Otsche isn’t out in half an hour, you run along to your father and tell him everything. And you, Hütefritz, and the others, see that Philip keeps out of the way for the next few days. And there’s the Professor too. . . . Oh, dear, oh, dear, Hütefritz, he gave me his money to look after, there’s two hundred and twelve marks and eighty-three pfennigs left. It’s under my pillow in the cowshed, see that you give it to him. And tell him he can’t help me, and he’d much better go home. . . .”