The blackness lightened to grey. Exterior sound impinged on her awareness. Bloody sparrows, Herta thought, still half-asleep. What a dream, she thought. Imagine, me inheriting a pigpen full of vampires. She rolled onto her stomach and awoke abruptly. Instead of burying itself in her pillow, her nose smashed painfully into something hard that smelled of lemons and wax. She groaned. It hadn't been a dream. She had inherited a pigpen, although the vampires remained to be seen.
She rolled over, opened her eyes and gasped. She backed away from the apparition in the window, but ran out of room. As she dropped the metre or so to the floor, she remembered that her bed was actually a table. The sudden stop at the floor stunned her for a moment. She twisted around in the sleeping bag and slithered out of it. She rose to her feet, intending to find out what had been at the window and was running even before she was fully upright. She charged out the front door, leaping over an unexpected obstacle and stumbling down the two steps of the porch.
Which way? Without thinking, she turned to the right and skidded around the side of the house. Nothing. Undaunted, she continued around to the back, coming to a halt when she saw that nothing moved in the clearing behind the house.
Herta stepped back against the wall and dissected the area with her eyes. The early morning fog didn't hide the edge of the forest beyond. There was nothing but silence.
First one bird, then another restarted their morning song. Herta drew a deep breath and let her tension out with the exhalation. Whoever it was had gone.
It suddenly dawned on her that her feet were sore and cold. Looking down, she saw that the fleece shirt she wore was just barely decent and the ground at her feet was both graveled and littered with wood chips. An old Swede saw leaned drunkenly against a stump. She sighed and limped back to the front door.
Herta stopped at the bottom porch step and stared. The object she'd almost tripped over earlier was still there, a heavy cardboard box. It was right in front of the open door. Cautiously, she stepped closer. It held several paper-wrapped parcels and half a dozen filled bottles. She knelt down and took one out. Unscrewing the lid, she smelled kerosene. Twisting around, she scanned the drive and the rest of the clearing. The house sat in the middle of an almost perfect circle, she noticed, about a hundred metres in diameter. The rutted lane that served as a driveway hung like a comma, looping off one side toward the main road.
Nothing stirred that she could see. She could hear the birds, but couldn't see them. How then, she wondered, had someone known that she'd brought a camp stove but airline regulations forbade her bringing the necessary fuel - kerosene? A lucky guess or...?
She stood up and stepped over the box into the house. Her 'office' had been turned into a temporary bedroom because the table was the only surface that looked like it would hold her weight. She had no intentions of sharing her bed with the rats that were sure to be abundant. Another thought occurred to her. Had the face in the window been in the house while she slept? Had they pawed through her things? She shuddered and steeled herself to enter.
In the dim light, the sleeping bag lay in a tangle where she'd left it. Under the table lay the suitcase and barracks box she'd brought with her, lids still closed and clasped. Her clothes of the day before lay neatly folded on the barracks box, seemingly undisturbed.
Herta absently picked up the sleeping bag, folding it neatly before it would be stowed away until nightfall. Her hands stilled as she remembered something. The table! It was clean! She ran one finger over the polished surface and remembered the scent of lemons. Her eyes moved to the open window, the one she couldn't close the night before. She went cold all over and hugged the sleeping bag. Who? Why? When? She shuddered again. Or what?
A breeze fluttered the tattered drapes and swirled around her legs. She shivered violently and the involuntary movement freed her from the paralyzing fear.
She took a deep breath and nodded her acceptance of the challenge to the open window. "Nice try," she whispered. "But not good enough. I'm here and you're stuck with me and trust me, boyo. We'll have words shortly. Whether you want to or not." She chuckled at her fancies, finished folding the sleeping bag and got dressed.
Four hours later, Herta heard the sound of a car. Gebhardt! "About time," she muttered, taking a quick glance at her watch. It was just after nine. She rose from the steps of the back porch, taking her current project with her as she went to greet her guest.
Gebhardt's hand froze on the parking brake handle. A figure had just appeared around the corner of the house. A smiling figure ... and carrying a wicked looking axe!
"Good morning!" the figure called.
Gebhardt stared. "Fräulein Tanner?" he managed to squeak out. Yesterday she had appeared to be a capable business woman, dark brown hair in a French braid, the lines of her dark blue pantsuit were soften by a frilly blouse and her feet had been neatly shod in patent leather pumps, sensibly low-heeled. Above all, yesterday she had appeared young and in need of his protection.
The young woman of yesterday had been replaced by something entirely different. She wore a neon pink sweatshirt, emblazoned with the single word "Toronto!" and faded blue jeans tucked into...' Were those really combat boots?' he wondered. Her hair had been pulled back into a quick twist, held in place by a single, bright orange hair clip. Wisps of hair fell across her grimy face, to be pushed back absently with the back of one hand. The hand that held a grey brick, he noticed with relief, and not the one with the axe. Thankfully.
"Good morning, Gebhardt," Herta repeated. "Did you sleep well?" She backed up as the clerk slowly got out of the car. He eyed the axe warily. "Come on in," she invited. "The coffee should be just about ready."
Coffee? Gebhardt wondered. She has coffee? He shook his head in disbelief.
Herta led the way into the kitchen, more to keep from laughing at Gebhardt's thunderstruck expression than from a real desire to have a coffee with him. She really wasn't in the mood for a lecture this morning. Or to have him apologizing for some imagined error. If he wasn't so darned irritating, she'd have felt sorry for him.
The front part of the house hadn't changed much, Gebhardt noticed as he followed his hostess. Hostess! As if this were a real home and he an invited guest! How absurd!
He stopped dead at the entry to the kitchen and his mouth fell open.
Herta turned from putting the axe and the sharpening stone just outside the back door, and chuckled. "Bit of a change, isn't it?" she asked.
"A bit? Fräulein, you must have been up all night to have worked such magic," he gasped. The floor, while not perfectly clean, had had at least one serious meeting with a mop. The wood stove had lost its furry mantle of dust, and sunlight streamed in the sparkling windows. Even the walls and shelves had met with soap. The door to the pantry lay wide open.
Herta looked around with pride. Between the WD-40 she always had in her 'survival kit' and the block of paraffin wax she'd found in her 'care package', she'd managed to unstick the pantry door, allowing her access to the bathing room and what few supplies were in there. She'd found an old aluminum washtub leaning up against one wall. Two pails, one of which was rusted through, held a string mop that had seen better days and a scrub brush. A broom with only half its bristles was propped up in one corner. It wasn't the greatest of starts, but it would do.
The broom did well enough, however, getting the worst of the dust, dirt and garbage onto the chunk of cardboard box she used as a dustpan. She'd found an old barrel out back that would do for garbage and the ashes from the wood stove. For now.
The pump had needed some serious priming from one of the bottles in the care package. Aside from the kerosene, there had been three bottles of water and one of vinegar, as well as a round loaf of bread, a block of soft cheese, half a dozen apples and... She grinned at the memory. Two bars of carbolic soap neatly wrapped in waxed paper, the kind of soap that had to be shaved down for washing dishes or laundry. Cripes that stuff stank! Unlike her plain dish soap, though, it would disinfect the place a bit, as well. The box had been lined with newspapers and, underneath them lay a small stack of neatly hemmed cloths, big enough for either cleaning or drying. Between the unexpected gift and her survival kit, she had enough to get a good start on at least one room in the house.
The first spurts of water from the pump had been rusty and ill-looking, but it proved to be only temporary.
After she'd gotten the pump working, she'd made a pot of coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal for breakfast. While she ate, she'd had water heating on the camp stove. After they'd returned from the village, she planned to make some soup for lunch. But first she'd need more kerosene, if nothing else. She'd used most of it to heat several potfuls of water for cleaning. Between pails of hot water, she did some minor repairs, fixing the hinges on the pantry door so that it would open and close more or less properly, reattaching the leg on the kitchen table, and getting the windows opened to let in a breeze. Between the dust and the smell of carbolic, it reeked in the kitchen. One stool had needed a new leg, a project for another day, but the other only needed a washing.
Her coffee break had consisted of her taking the axe out to the back porch for sharpening. After she discovered that it wouldn't have cut mustard, never mind a log. If she was lucky, she could find a chimney sweep in town and he could check the flues for both the stove and the fireplace in the parlour today. If she was lucky.
As Gebhardt marveled at the changes, Herta poured coffee for them both, using the tin cups from her survival kit. She added sugar and whitener to her own, leaving Gebhardt's black as he'd requested, and joined him at the table. He sat on the good stool while she balanced on the other.
"Gebhardt, how soon can I access the accounts?" she asked when he'd thanked her for the coffee and commented on it.
He looked up. "I had planned to take you to the bank today to arrange matters, Fräulein. I have some money with me for expenses if you cannot wait that long."
Herta shook her head ruefully. "I'm going to need a few things, Gebhardt. I've made a list of what I'd like to have, but my immediate needs are a chimney sweep, a carpenter and I'd like to have the water checked to make sure it's drinkable. I'd also like to pick up some more cleaning supplies, some ice for the icebox and some groceries." She sipped her coffee thoughtfully.
Gebhardt waited.
After a moment, she continued. "As much as I'd like to get both, I'd like the electricity turned on at the very least. Although, I suspect that the wiring will have to be checked first. The phone can wait for a bit."
Gebhardt shook his head in disbelief. "Are you sure, Fräulein, that you wouldn't consider..."
Herta interrupted him. "No, Gebhardt. Thank you. I'm staying."
He sighed. "Very well. I believe this can be done in the village. We can get a list of people from the bank, I should think."
After a quick wash and change into slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, for which Gebhardt blushingly and steadfastly refused to stay in the house, they were off.
The trip didn't take long and Herta watched as the trees gave way to neat fields and tidy barn yards. The village itself enchanted her. Tall stone buildings loomed over the narrow cobbled streets and many parks. Everywhere she looked there were flowers - in window boxes, in planters on the sidewalks and around the street lamps, cut out of the wood shutters of the windows or painted on canvas awnings and glass windows. It was a riot of colour that warmed the cold stone of the buildings and made her smile in spite of herself.
The funny thing is, she thought as she stepped from the car, the funny thing is that the people don't look any different that what I'd find in 'Smalltown, Ontario'. She smiled at her naive expectations of dirndl skirts and lederhosen.
The bank was a large brownstone building on the corner of Hauptstraße and Kircheplatz. It looked like it had been there for centuries. "Main and Church. It figures!" she murmured.
"You said something, Fräulein?" Gebhardt asked as he held open the heavy door for her.
She shook her head. "Nothing but my own follies, Gebhardt. Oh!" The exclamation was involuntary. While the bank looked ancient from the outside, the interior was entirely late twentieth century. Chrome and glass sparkled in the light streaming through high windows. The main customer area had granite floor tiles while she could see thick grey carpeting in at least one office. Every horizontal surface that wasn't involved in banking business held some sort of plant, either lush fern or brilliant flower.
Gebhardt led her to the end of the counter where a discreet sign announced "Die Neuen Bankkonten" - New Accounts. Next to the counter was a small gate. From inside his jacket pocket, he produced a business card and presented it to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. In a brief spate of German Herta was too preoccupied to follow, Gebhardt asked if anyone one spoke English as his client, Fräulein Tanner, spoke little German.
At the sound of her name, Herta dragged her attention away from the high ceilings, the ornate stone carvings and the other architectural wonders of the bank, and turned to smile at the woman.
"Welcome, Frau T..." The woman's voice stopped abruptly. She stared at Herta, eyes wide with fear. "Der Reizen?" she whispered, and toppled sideways off her stool.
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