Katharina Luther Read online

  “Who were the guests?”

  “Oh, the gentry from round about. The von Schlippenbachs, the von Bettelheims, the family from Gimborn Castle; the other von Boras, your cousins from across the valley. They rolled up in their coaches, the horses would be led off into the barn then the coachmen came into the back hall for soup, they’d spend the evening sat by the fire gossiping. No shortage of food then, you know, my parents worked in the kitchen for three days non-stop preparing; I remember once they did a roast swan wrapped in its own wings, its head and neck put back on, it looked so beautiful, the guests all clapped when it was brought to the table. Then they did a carp this big decorated with cherries on a bed of lampreys in aspic. A suckling pig glazed in honey. You wouldn’t believe the banqueting table, how fine it looked, all the best silver, before they had to sell it, that was.”

  Stepmother wanted Cook and Elsa to leave, she said she had her own servants and they were ‘surplus to requirements’. But this was one thing on which my Father stood firm.

  “No, dear, Cook and Hildegard belong in this house and they will stay, they’re part of our family.” So stay they did.

  Stepmother was a rich widow. She saved us from penury, whatever that meant. She brought with her a carriage and pair and a good draught horse. She had three brindle cows too, one of them with a calf at foot. With her came Greta her maid and a gardener-cum-coachman; they all turned up one fateful morning with a wagon full of furniture and drapes and boxes of china and pictures and things. My Father’s new wife, Margarethe von Bora,, set about putting our house in order.

  My mother, Katharina von Bora, had died a year before at Whitsun; it happened very quickly; one afternoon – we had been out hoeing the beet and spinach – she said she felt unwell and took to her bed. Father sent for the physician; I saw him as he came out of her room, looking grave. She lay in a white nightgown, propped up on pillows, her face pale, her voice quiet, her hand small and limp on the sheets. A week later she was dead.

  We had scarcely buried her when the cattle began to die; it was the Pest. So in my child’s mind the two disasters ran one into the other as if they were connected. One by one our poor cows and oxen collapsed onto their knees, keeled over onto their sides and died with horrible groans. It wasn’t just our own cattle, all the beasts in the village and beyond succumbed. The corpses lay in the fields, their legs sticking out stiffly, their eyes and mouths open, their tongues swollen and black. Very soon, the stomachs swelled up and the stench was overpowering. Some of the poor people managed to salvage bits of meat which they salted and cured, but most of it went to ruin, the cadavers were left to rot in the fields; crows and birds of prey circled overhead, dropped down and tugged at the flesh; at night we heard the howling of lynx and wolves and foxes as they prowled among the corpses tearing out the entrails, squabbling over the spoils. That summer the flies were everywhere, they clustered in glistening blankets, settling on all our meagre food, torturing the horses and dogs. Of course after the Pest we had no milk or butter or junket or cheese and the price of meat shot up. The poor were reduced to eating beavers and moles.

  We went to church and prayed very hard, because God must be angry with us, sending down so much difficulty and sorrow.

  “I’m going to have to sell the house, Kathe. We can’t afford to stay here.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “I don’t know. Lippendorf has been in our family for hundreds of years. Now it falls on me to let it go.”

  “It’s not your fault, Father. It’s just the way things are.”

  “You’re a good girl, Kathe. Where would I be without you?”

  He was fond of Irmingard and the baby too, but it was me he came to for advice or encouragement. I was older and I realise now I looked like my mother. I reminded him of his beloved wife.

  So my Father set about trying to sell the family seat. But who wanted a crumbling fortified manor house with dusty attics and a silted up moat? The roof was full of holes and only twenty acres of land remained, my grandfather having sold the rest thirty years before. In the end we were saved from losing Lippendorf. Our Stepmother’s wealth saw to that.

  About six weeks after my mother died, after the shock of Cattle Pest had worn off, I had the most vivid dream of my life. Even now, as a grown woman, I can picture it as clear and bright as a real memory. My mother was up in the sky with two angels. The angels had white wings like swans and they wore blue flowing frocks, like the angels on the roof of our church, except they weren’t blowing trumpets. My mother was between them, holding their hands and the three of them were running with slow loping steps above puffy white clouds; watching from below I realised what was happening: they were teaching her how to fly! They were picking her up and swinging her, like grown-ups sometimes do with small children, so that their legs swing up in front, and the child says “do it again!” They were laughing as they ran and my mother looked so beautiful in her long linen nightgown, her head uncovered, her long brown hair loose and flowing, her feet bare. She looked as I had seen her for the last time, but not so pale. I shouted up to her as loud as I could, cupping my mouth with my hands: “Mother!” But she didn’t hear me – I think she was concentrating too hard on flying – then all of a sudden they came to a break in the cloud and I thought she would fall but just in time she found her wings. All three of them launched into the air, I heard the ‘free free free’ sound swans make when they fly overhead and you drop whatever you’re doing to watch them go. The three of them flew up and away getting smaller and smaller so I gave up shouting. I felt sad because Mother had disappeared but happy too because I knew she was in heaven with the angels. She didn’t have to worry about the poor dead cows, or Father having to sell the house. Father and I were sitting by the fire, it was late and the other children were in bed.

  “Father, I dreamt about Mother. She was with the angels. She was flying above the clouds like a swan.”

  I waited for him to respond, but he said nothing and the silence stretched between us, the only sound being the crackling of the fire. He sat motionless, but I could tell he was weeping. Then he said:

  “I killed her. It was my fault.”

  “What do you mean, Father? She died in her bed, surely. Was she expecting another baby, was that it?”

  “Yes. But she should not have had another, the physician told us she must not have another. It was my fault.”

  I did not understand why it had been his fault, but I tried to comfort him. I found it difficult, after that, to speak about my mother, because he seemed to prefer not to talk about her. Grown-ups were strange, it was hard to understand the things they did and said and thought. I would have liked to talk about her more often, so she wouldn’t disappear from us so fast.

  I realise now that my father had simply given up, without my mother he lost heart. Three unkempt children; a small castle, with its own moat and keep, but in a crumbling state, with very few servants. Pails placed here and there to catch drips from holes in the roof. Some of the floorboards upstairs were rotten but we always knew which ones not to tread on. The windows in some of the rooms were broken and pigeons had moved in: when you opened the door the whole room exploded into a flapping frenzy as the birds clamoured to escape; the floors were thick with stinking bird-lime.

  On the outside of the house, lead downpipes and guttering hung loose, and ivy tendrils crept across the windows so that if visitors called – which they seldom did after my mother died – the house appeared to them to be falling asleep.

  But as it was, Father did not have to sell the Castle and we did not go hungry. Stepmother came in like a whirlwind, bringing wealth so that tradesmen could be paid, a gardener and stable boy hired, and fodder bought in. She engaged builders to mend the windows and gutters and floorboards. We were deloused and re-clothed, she cut our nails and put unguents on our sore patches; she made us drink syrup of fumitory for the tetters.

  On the face of it our lives improved. But for me a shadow fell. She engaged a tu
tor to teach me and Irmingard, and made us wear shoes and behave in a manner befitting young ladies. I suppose I was jealous and felt displaced by her. My father now looked to her, not me, for support and company; he became removed from me, not exactly cool, but distant, as if his attention could no longer focus on me.

  Stepmother warmed to the other children. Little Hans, still only a toddler, could do no wrong in her eyes, he was ‘my naughty little bear cub’. She would hug him and play the game Hier has du einen Taler, tickling his palm. She made a fuss of Irmingard too, brushing her blond hair as it grew back, measuring her feet for new shoes, playing pat a cake pat a cake. Irmingard knew how to please her, calling her ‘Mummy’, and simpering up at her in a babyish voice. But I was sullen and aloof, lurking in the shadows, keeping out of her way as much as possible. At mealtimes she avoided addressing me directly, but spoke about me to Father in the third person as if I was not there.

  “Katharina spends far too much time with that peasant boy Sebastian. I’m surprised at you, dear, for allowing it, she’s becoming so uncouth in her speech and deportment.” Or: “Should Katharina not be learning to play an instrument, or improve her singing and sewing, instead of loitering about in the stables? How shall we ever find her a husband if she continues to run about the farmyard like a feral cat?”

  In response to these and similar remarks my father rubbed his chin, made a sort of humming sound and looked at me with a mixture of puzzlement and pity; but he seemed unable to make any suggestions on how to manage me. From time to time Stepmother and I met each other face to face; then she spoke to me directly, with tight lips and coldness in her eyes. Once I stood my ground and stuck my tongue out at her, and she slapped me on the cheek. Sebastian and I put slugs in her boots; then I was rude to the tutor and he complained to her.

  “The child will have to go, Hans.”

  “Go? You mean, to boarding school?”

  “Yes, to a convent school. And then into the convent. We’ll never find her a husband, she’s quite unmarriageable.”

  “She’s only nine years old, I think we’ve got a bit of time yet.”

  “You saw how she behaved yesterday with the von Staupenfelzens. They were mustard keen to make a match, and their son’s a charming boy. But it was quite plain, that when they left they’d changed their minds.”

  “Why was that do you think?”

  “Why? My dear Hans, are you blind? Honestly, you can be so obtuse. She’s like a wild cat, your ‘Käthchen’ as you call her. She knew we had an important visit, that she was supposed to make a good impression. Greta washed her hair the day before and braided it up. I laid out her best frock and new shoes and stockings. I told her to come down to the parlour in her best and be ready to receive our guests. But the carriage arrived and we welcomed them in, then where was the girl in question? Nowhere to be found!”

  “I think she was in the stables, dear.”

  “Of course she was in the stables. Greta brought her in looking quite dishevelled – straw in her hair, and muck on her new shoes.”

  “I know, I was there, dear.”

  “I’m sorry, Hans, but there it is. I can’t cope with her any more. I’ve tried, God knows; I have no trouble with the younger two, they are sweet and biddable, but try as I might I can’t tame that little kitten. No-one will take her on with that wild look in her eyes.”

  “She’s a good girl really. She misses her mother.”

  “She’ll be a good girl if we get her to a convent and they drum a bit of discipline and godliness into her.”

  “Isn’t she a little young to leave home?”

  “You don’t understand, Husband. I’m not prepared to do it. You leave it all to me, the discipline, the spiritual guidance, supervision of the tutor. You’re quite happy to let your children run wild in the forest like… like little wolf-cubs. It won’t do.”

  “So you’re saying send her to school now?”

  “Yes. My nieces, you know my brother’s daughters, they all went away at six and they did very well. Isn’t your sister the Abbess in a Cistercian house?”

  “No, my sister Magdalena is a nun at Marienthron, in Nimbschen. But the Abbess of that house is a cousin of Käthchen’s mother.”

  “In that case, she is the child’s kinswoman; if you wrote to ask she would probably grant her a place there.”

  “You’re probably right, dear. I’ll miss her, though. But yes, it would be for the best. I’ll write to her today. I will write to my sister too. The child has grown rather wild, and her aunt Magdalena would be kind to her, I think she teaches in the school.”

  “She’ll be much better off there. She’ll build on the lessons she’s been having here, her Latin and music and Scriptures. She will become, one hopes, a bit more ladylike and devout too.”

  “And she’ll be safer, in these uncertain times. Remember to ask what dowry they require.”

  “It’ll be less than a marriage settlement, that’s for sure.”

  The Abbess wrote back offering me a place to start in September. It was then July, so I still had the summer at home. The days were long and hot and Sebastian and I ran free. Stepmother, relieved at my imminent departure, became less cold and censorious. We learnt to swim in the millpond. We played in the woods. We helped with the harvest and killed rabbits as they ran out of the standing corn. We danced at harvest festival, and climbed up into the strawstacks and slid down onto heaps of straw. It seemed as if the summer days would last forever; but one morning a hint of frost was in the air and they came to an abrupt end, and so did my time at home.

  My bag was packed, my hair cut short and it was time to say goodbye.

  “Father, can I take my owl to school with me?”

  “No, my love. Eule belongs here, he wouldn’t want to live in Nimbschen. Leave him here. I’m sure Irme will give him scraps if he needs them.”

  It was a Thursday morning; Father brought the trap round to the front, and everyone came out to see me off: Stepmother, with Irmingard and little Hänschen, Greta, the dog Ebony; finally, Cook and Hildegard, and as I hugged them they both burst into tears. Then Irmingard and Hans started bawling too. I did not cry. As we bowled away down the drive I looked back at the crumbly old castle where I had been born, and the people standing there waving goodbye.

  As we approached the gate house at the end of the avenue Sebastian saw us coming and ran out in front of us, waving at Father to stop. He climbed onto the running board and handed me something. It was a stuffed mole. I wanted to thank him but couldn’t find my voice. As we drove on, he ran after us in his bare feet until he couldn’t keep up any longer. Then he just stood very still in the middle of the road, getting smaller and smaller, waving. Until we rounded a corner.

  Chapter 3

  A Schoolgirl at Nimbschen

  Wenn das Alter stark und die Jugend klug wäre, das wäre Geldes wert.

  If old age were strong and youth were clever that would be worth its weight in gold.

  Father stopped the trap in the market square, and we sat in it waiting for the coach to appear. My heart thumped heavily like a leaden ball and I felt sick. The church clock struck eight.

  “You’ll like it at school, my sweet. They’ll teach you Latin, and you can learn the lute and singing. You’ll meet other girls of your age and class. You’ve been too isolated here at Lippendorf.”

  “What does isolated mean?”

  Of course I knew what he meant, but I just wanted to keep talking.

  “It means cut off from other people.”

  “But I’m not cut off from you or Sebastian or the horses or Ebony or…”

  “No, dear girl. It means you’re not in contact with the sort of company you should be keeping, people from whom you learn and grow.”

  “So will I grow at school?”

  “Spiritually, yes. And you’ll grow tall as well.”

  “I’ll miss you. And Conquest, and Irmingard and Hänschen and Sebastian and everyone. Will you miss me too?”

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sp; “Yes, dear girl, I’ll miss you too. I’ll write you long letters telling you all about the animals and the farm and your brother and sister. And when they get older they’ll write to you too.”

  “And Eule, Father, will you tell Irmingard to feed him mice and bits of cheese when he flies into my room in the evening? Will you promise?”

  I never heard his answer, because at that point the coach arrived with a great clattering of hooves and wheels and shouts and whips and jingling of harness. Ostlers hurried out from the Spread Eagle, leading a fresh team to replace the hot horses, who were unhitched, their flanks heaving, and led away to the inn stables. Some passengers alighted, the postilion handing down their bags, and other passengers, like me, were waiting to board. Father led me to the coach and looked inside. He spoke to a woman and she nodded and looked down at me.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the child, I’m going to Grimma myself. Don’t you worry, she’ll be quite all right.”

  And before I knew it, I was lifted up to join the other passengers, the door slammed shut and the coach was lurching away, through the town gates and onto the highway.

  “My case, where’s my case?” I wailed.

  “It’s up on the roof with the other luggage, dear. Don’t you worry.”

  She patted my knee with a jewelled hand. I felt squashed, sitting in this confined space with eight grown-ups who I didn’t know, mostly men. They smelt funny, a mixture of perfume and stale sweat and bad breath. I dug my nails into my palms until it hurt, and swallowed hard. Then I remembered the stuffed mole in my pocket, and stroked its velvety fur secretly. Trees, houses, woods, streams and bridges swept past as we rumbled along, lurching from side to side. At first I recognised the skyline but gradually the landscape became unfamiliar. When the road was very bumpy, we passengers kept being thrown back and forth against each other.

  I needed to relieve myself. Would we ever stop? Should I say to the lady, please, I need to get out. But thankfully, quite soon we drew into a little town to change the horses; we had half-an-hour for a rest and refreshments at the inn, so I found the privy, what a relief! My auntie bought me a beer and a piece of sausage and a slice of bread. After that, once we were underway again, I fell asleep. I think we all slept. And so the journey went on. Driving for two hours, a short rest, more driving, then a longer stop.