Herta's head throbbed. She sank back in the chair, eyes closed, and tried not to relive the nightmare of the last few minutes.
The other tellers had rushed to help the fallen woman. Herta knew basic first aid, but an elderly couple just leaving the back area erased all thoughts of the teller. The man, nattily dressed, had only glared at her, but his wife, at least that's who Herta assumed the woman by his side was, had drawn her skirts contemptuously aside to avoid coming to close to Herta. It was the expression on the woman's face, however, that most shocked Herta. This total stranger hated her! Why? Herta watched them stalk away.
A much younger man stood behind her. He took one look at her, sneered and spun on his heel. Almost as if in afterthought, he swung back and spit in her face. Herta turned to Gebhardt, looking for an explanation, as the man walked away without a word, but the clerk only shrugged. Stunned, Herta had let a security officer lead her to an inner office without protest.
She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. And they hadn't been the only ones to show their animosity. Several of the staff had deliberately turned their backs as she and Gebhardt had passed them. Their contempt and hatred was obvious. Why? What had she done to earn this... this... malevolence? She thought back to the events of the early morning. Had her visitor been one of these people? Who could hate her so much? She shivered. And Gebhardt wasn't much help, either.
She raised her head to stare at the clerk. He had blanched at the teller's comment and avoided even looking at Herta ever since.
A man in a dark, three-piece suit entered the office, closing the door behind him with careful deliberation. Herta shivered again at the coldness in his eyes. Gebhardt went to greet him, hand outstretched. The contrast between the two was striking. Gebhardt, easily twenty years younger, towered over the newcomer. But where Gebhardt was fair, this man had a brooding darkness about him. His greeting was perfunctory, as he strode around the huge desk and sat down.
"Well, Fräulein Tanner," he began in an accusing voice, "Your first visit to our bank has not been uneventful, has it?" He steepled his fingers and glared at her over them.
His tone of voice both startled and angered Herta. Did he blame her for what had happened? Yes. He obviously did. This man, she realized, hated her. It was tempting to ask why, but Herta didn't think she'd get an honest answer. And Herta had had experience dealing with that tone of voice before, courtesy of a college professor who didn't believe that women could write more than syrupy poetry and saccharine romances. She did now as she had done then, lifted her chin defiantly and met his coldness with mockery.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Herr...?" She tipped her head in seemingly polite inquiry.
His eyes narrowed, but he spoke pleasantly enough, a radical change from his original greeting. "My apologies, Fräulein Tanner. I am Helmut Zwitzer, the manager of this bank. How may we be of assistance to you?"
Herta heaved a sigh of relief as they left the bank. She glanced over at Gebhardt. He'd been most proper in his behaviour and voice during the interview with Herr Zwitzer. Well, almost. The two had discussed her finances and arranged to have a chequing account opened in her name. The conversation had been entirely in German, except when Gebhardt had spoken to her directly, which wasn't often. Herr Zwitzer hadn't spoken to her at all. Not that that had prevented her from understanding most of the conversation.
"Gebhardt, do you mind if we stop for a coffee?" she asked. "I'd like to know more about my banking arrangements before we get started on the list."
Gebhardt flushed at the implied criticism. "Certainly, Fräulein." They made their way to a nearby coffee shop in silence.
After their order had arrived, Gebhardt cleared his throat nervously. Herta took pity on him. "Gebhardt, that word the teller called me? Der Reizen? The literal translation is 'charm', isn't it? What did she mean by that?"
Gebhardt had been toying with his silverware, not meeting her eyes, but he looked up then.
Herta smiled. "I do understand some German, Gebhardt. What's going on?"
"Fräulein, I... That is to say..." he stuttered.
"Gebhardt, I don't bite. Honest."
He paled further at that.
She frowned. "You don't believe that vampire nonsense, do you?"
"Certainly not, Fräulein," he said quickly. "It's just that..." He gulped and looked down at his coffee cup.
Herta waited with growing impatience. Enough was enough!
Gebhardt sighed and shook his head in defeat. "Fräulein, your family's reputation is..." He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead with it.
"The men are vampires and the women are their consorts?" she asked dryly.
"Not exactly," he whispered. "Even in München, in Munich, there are stories about..."
"About my family," she prompted after a long silence.
"Ja. It is said that..." He looked at her. "Fräulein, please believe me. I do not listen to such tales, but..."
Herta's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't know, Gebhardt. You haven't told me what they are."
"It is said," he told his coffee cup, "That the family has power, control over..."
"Nosferatu?" she asked. He nodded. She understands, he thought.
Herta rubbed the side of her nose, trying to hide her laughter. How silly can you get, she wondered? "Is there any truth to the stories?" she finally managed to get out.
Gebhardt's jaw dropped. "Fräulein, you don't understand! The truth doesn't matter. It's what people believe."
His sincerity convinced her. If Gebhardt could believe that her family was the reigning monarchy for the Undead, it shouldn't surprise her that others would think the same. If you believed in vampires, of course.
"So what you're saying is that I'm not likely to win any popularity contests with the townspeople." It wasn't a question. "Am I going to have to go back to München to get some help with the house?"
"On the contrary, Fräulein, you will have much help from the town. As much as you ask for." He shrugged. "During the daylight hours, anyway."
"Who dares defy 'Der Reizen'?" she asked dryly.
Gebhardt nodded unhappily.
Herta considered it. On one hand, it was nice to know she wouldn't be besieged by well-wishers and other hangers-on. She didn't doubt that news of her arrival would be common knowledge by nightfall, if it wasn't already known. It meant that she could get to back to work without interruption.
On the other hand, having to deal with animosity every time she needed to come into the village could turn her into a hermit. Fast. The alternative? She sighed. Go back to Toronto and listen to her sister sneer at her for not being able to last. No guts, she'd say. No bloody backbone. And far less politely, too.
Part of her was amused at the medieval fantasy of it all, and part of her wondered if it was worth the aggravation. Independence was fine, but there was such a thing as too much of it.
"So, a lifelong friendship isn't likely to happen," she murmured.
Gebhardt shook his head. "I am sorry, Fräulein, but no. Any friendship with the townspeople is entirely out of the question."
Herta bristled. Why shouldn't she make friends? There was no law against it, was there? The bloody nerve! Putting her cup to her lips, she discovered it was empty. She glanced around for the waitress, found her, and found herself staring at the woman's back as she deliberately turned away. Herta scanned the faces of the other customers. She knew immediately which ones knew and which ones were ignorant of her existence.
"Gebhardt," she demanded, "In all the time, short as it is, that you have known me, have you known me to do anything to deserve such treatment?"
Gebhardt stared into his coffee cup.
Herta straightened, not realizing that her features had taken on the same cold arrogance for which her great-grandfather had been infamous.. "I see." She stood up. "There is nothing more to be said then, is there? Shall we complete our errands?"
The old man shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips as he watched the two leave. She had the Theiner temper, all right. And the pride.
He caught the eye of a young man seated at another table. His eyes swung to the departing couple. The younger man nodded once.
The visit to the power company offices was less eventful than the trip to the bank, but the results were similar. Word had gotten around obviously. Herta and Gebhardt had been ushered into a private office, some of the other customers and a few of the staff had shown their displeasure at the sight of her, and, again, Herta was ignored as the conversation was conducted in German. The clerk had all but fallen over himself to be helpful.
When Gebhardt mentioned that Fräulein Tanner desired to have the wiring checked before the connection was established, the clerk had immediately offered to take care of it. The Fräulein, of course, understood that there was a connection fee for the power? Company rules, unfortunately, but there would be no charge for the inspection.
The whole episode had taken less than fifteen minutes.
Herta had maintained her silence throughout that time. She didn't dare open her mouth for fear she would scream out her hurt anguish to the world. She was hated! She terrified these people! The injustice of their prejudice hurt. More than that, though, was a feeling of almost overwhelming loneliness. She wanted to cry. But not now, not here. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction, she vowed.
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