My Version of Beauty and the Beast pt. 2

Fifteen years later…

“I’m so scared, mama,” Ruth whispered.  

“Hush, Ruthy,” Rosalind breathed.  She pulled her little sister closer and hoped that none of the other children would make a sound.  

“Rosalind?” Jacob’s voice seemed to have barely been exhaled from him and Rosalind had to strain to catch the words.  “Why were we born Jewish?”

The question made Rosalind gasp before she remembered to remain quiet.  As long as she could recall, Jacob had never been scared of anything in his life.  It was he that had always been her source of confidence and strength, although she were two years the elder.   She remembered the time several years ago, out in the meadow, when they had stumbled across a snake nest.  She had been rooted to the spot with fright, but Jacob had been quiet and calm.  Softly, he had told her how to back away as unobtrusively as possible, and Rosalind remained convinced that he had saved her life that day.  But now, when she needed him most, Jacob was scared.  She turned and looked at him.  He gazed back, the question burning in his eyes.   She looked away.  “Only God knows,” she whispered.

Psssttt!  Their father signaled at them to stop talking.  From the street above, they could hear the sound of running feet.  Rosalind bit her lip and thanked God that most of the younger children had not woken up when the family had made their hasty descent into the dugout hidey-hole under the house.   She huddled with Ruth and Jacob.  On the other side of the small stove stored there, Mama, Papa, and Sofia held the littlest ones: despite the tension and fuss, Elina, Daniel and Lionel remained peacefully asleep, blissfully oblivious to the doom that devoured everything above them.  On the floor were stretched Anna, Joseph and Felix, also asleep.  Across the cramped and dirty chamber sat Grandma and Grandpa, clinging to family heirlooms and relics.   It seemed as though the walls themselves would suffocate if someone didn’t start breathing soon, but they didn’t dare let their breath out.  The tension was tangible, strangling them as they waited.  The silence was audible, screaming at them to make a noise and be sent to their deaths.  Ruth began to cry.  She was just ten years old and had not been able to sleep like the others.   Her sobs were becoming obtrusive.  Quietly, Jacob reached into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief with he passed across Ruth’s nose and mouth.  “I’m sorry, Ruthie,” he whispered.  In a couple of seconds she lay limp and quiet in Rosalind’s arms.  Jacob glanced at her horrified face.  “It’s only chloroform,” he assured her softly.  “It should keep her quiet until the present danger is passed.”  They lay Ruth out on the floor and covered her with a blanket before huddling back in their corner.  Jacob reached for Rosalind’s hand, and they sat in the darkness, comforted by the knowledge that they had each other, if nothing else. 

Suddenly, they all jumped.  There were footsteps on the roof of the dugout.  The soldiers were in the dining room.   They waited and listened.  Rough voices seemed to pierce the boards and expose them to the hungry eyes of the men upstairs.  They all froze when one particularly heavy step fell on the door of the dugout.  Papa was a clever carpenter and had fixed the boards so that even though Rosalind knew the door was there, she could hardly see it if she looked.  But it creaked.  There had been nothing Papa could do about that creak, and now, they all sat in the dark, hoping no one else had heard it. 

“Quiet!”  roared a voice from the dining room.  The foot fell again, and again came a distinct creak. Tears rolled down Rosalind’s face as she realized their time was up.  Footsteps from all directions came and started stamping on the spot the first voice had pointed out.  The tip of a knife poked down the gap of the door.  Then, slowly, the door was lifted open and a malicious face peered down at the family cowering inside.  

“Ha!” He crowed, mockingly triumphant.  “Got ya, didn’t I?”  He continued to laugh at us as we sat.  The little ones woke up – only Ruth remained unconscious.  “A whole nest of you too!”  He grinned a terrible, horrible grin.  “If you’d be so kind as to step out here so I can examine you.”

My Version of Beauty and the Beast, pt. 1

I recently learned of a lovely competition in which entrants must retell the story of Beauty and the Beast.  If you are interested, HERE is the website.  (The prize is publication in a book of collective novels called Five Enchanted Roses).  I am not sure as yet if I shall enter, but I thought it would be fun to write it at any rate.  So, without further ado, here are the first few paragraphs of my version f Beauty and the Beast  (just to get you curious... :P )

Germany, 1925

School’s out!  The cries ring through the streets as children, eager to get home and begin the holidays, dash crazily though the square and alley ways.  I charge through the thick of them with my comrades all around me.  We are the gang of the school and although we are only ten, the entire neighbourhood recognizes our prestige above any other gang to ever exist in the town.  We are not a malicious bunch, and will run to the aid of an ailing widow or a helpless shy school girl if we thought we could do any good.  No, we are not spiteful or mean, but we often end up in trouble from lack of fore-thought in our activities.

We run through the square and down the lane that leads to my house.  Like all German families in the twenties, my family has suffered a good deal of financial loos, but we are fortunate in that Father had some stable investments.  While those investments are not worth much now, we are somewhat better off than most.  That is why Mother promised us cookies and lemonade when school was let out for the year.

We break off into two groups halfway down the lane – those who hurry and those who creep past Dame Kansvier’s house.  We are all rather frightened of her, although we have no cause to be.  Perhaps it is the way she stands at her window and gazes out at the happenings of the neighbourhood.  Day in day out, she stands and stares.  We children firmly believe that she neither eats nor sleeps, and last week Emilia Hooseburg told us that her bother said Dame Kansvier was one hundred and fifty-seven years old, and that she hadn’t eaten or slept since she was ninety.  All this flashes through my mind as I slowly drag myself nearer the ‘witches hut’ as Hans Gruttel calls it. 

As I approach, I steal a glance at the window.  I stop in surprise.  The dame isn’t there.  I am not sure what to think, but by now, my fellow creepers have passed the house entirely and are trooping confidently down the road as though they have never been afraid of anything in their lives.  I pick up my pace and go to follow when a voice, distinguishable as neither male nor female, and gnarled and creaky with age stops me in my tracks.  “Come here, a moment, lad – I have something I must tell you.”  Slowly, I turn and find myself face to face with the dame herself.  My first impulse is to run and vomit the hideous picture from my mind, but I seem to be rooted to the spot.  Dame Kansvier reaches out and grasps my hands in a cold, knobby clasp.  I try to pull away, but her grip is surprisingly stubborn. 

“Listen here, Karl Austerlitz,” she says, and I wonder how on earth she knows my name.  “I don’t like the look of the weather, Karl.” 

It looks perfectly fine to me – a perfect summer’s day. 

“There’s a storm coming – a mighty storm – a storm like what no one in history has ever seen, or will ever see again, Gott will.” 

I am truly frightened now and struggle harder to free myself, but the dame holds on.  With one hand, she pushes the hair off my forehead and peers into my eyes with an expression I can never forget.  It is akin to wistfulness, sorrow, tenderness, and – oh! – such extreme pain.

“Listen to me Karl.  You will be swept up with the storm, but whether you survive is entirely up to you.  Hatred is an incurable disease, Karl.  Nay – there is but one cure.  Love, Karl – only love can conquer hatred.  If you cannot love, hatred consumes you.  It eats you from the inside out and turns you into a despicable monster.”

I stare at the dame in astonishment.  Not only is it a perfect summer’s day, but I am ten years old.  I love my mother, but that’s all I care about the subject.  Dame Kansvier is not finished.  She pulls out a scrap of paper from her pocket.  For the first time, I notice that she is dressed in little more than rags.

“This will be your sign, Karl.  You must learn to love before it falls, or you will remain an infamous monster for the rest of your life.”

I take the paper and gaze at it.  I have never seen anything like it before.  I look up to ask Dame Kansvier what it means, but she is nowhere to be seen.

The next morning, I awaken to the sound of church bells. Dame Kansvier has died in the night.