The crowd bunched closer together. “Fire!” shouted several young fellows, hoarse and loud and long, to give the volunteer fire brigade the alarm. Aunt Adelheid staggered towards her house. She was weak at the knees, she collapsed and then stood up again. Segebrecht, the pub landlord, came towards her, limping in a stiff, slow way, black as the Devil with soot. People stood back to form a rigid, silent alleyway. Aunt Adelheid and Herr Segebrecht were approaching each other from opposite ends of this alley. Segebrecht was carrying something black and crumpled. There was a little rag of singed, blue wool dangling from the black thing—Aunt Adelheid tottered, and all the women suddenly screamed in chorus.
Little Franz had lit the fire. He was proud of knowing how to do it. People had rescued him from a blazing room, and while Segebrecht carried poor dead little Sebastian towards Aunt Adelheid, Franz stood there outside the burning house, hands clasped in front of the fire, eyes shining with happiness.
Nobody loved Franz any more. Not the people in the village, not his mother. In her desperation, she just wouldn’t believe that if it was anyone’s fault it was hers. Why had she left two tiny children on their own? She wanted someone to take the blame, so it had to be little Franz. As time went by, Aunt Adelheid idolized dead little Sebastian more and more, constantly weeping and praying by his grave.
If Franz was going to be loved too, even a tiny little bit, he’d have had to die as well. He went very quiet, and stayed that way. He didn’t learn to talk early, or have any fun learning, because nobody wanted to speak to him. People avoided him, and he had to get used to being silent and lonely.
I didn’t like Franz myself at first. And then I came to like him because Aunt Adelheid didn’t. I wanted to be nice to him; it was so sad and horrible to see the way Aunt Adelheid tormented him. Franz had to put flowers and leaves round the photograph of little Sebastian before dinner every Sunday. Aunt Adelheid gave him the flowers and leaves to be arranged separately, and then sat on a chair in silence watching Franz’s hands, which sometimes shook and let the flowers drop. And then Aunt Adelheid would look at him sternly, without a word, and Franz went red and bent down to pick the flowers up. “I am surprised, but glad, that you can bring yourself to eat,” she sometimes said in a slow, chanting sort of voice, at which Franz would put down his knife and fork, with hopeless despair in his eyes, his arms hanging long and thin by his sides.
One day I couldn’t stand it any more. I shouted at Aunt Adelheid. She was so surprised she couldn’t answer back. I don’t remember exactly what I said, except that the drift of it was the accident was her own fault, hers and not Franz’s, he’d only been a tiny child at the time without any idea what he was doing. And it was her fault little Sebastian was killed, and her fault Franz was unhappy. And if little Sebastian was an angel in heaven now, he’d be very sad about his mother and he would love Franz very much. Aunt Adelheid never forgave me for saying all this, but there was a happy look in Franz’s eyes.
I did want to be nice to him, but then I made some friends and went out dancing with them in the evening now and then, and I felt embarrassed when Franz came to see me home, with his silent face and his patient ape-like arms and his ridiculous red scarf. We’d be sitting in the middle of a lot of noise, and he was tranquil. He would sit there at our table, grave and friendly. He did nothing to trouble us, and yet it was troubling. So the others laughed louder and louder in their annoyance, as if to smother him with their laughter. They made jokes about him which didn’t bother him a bit, because he didn’t understand the jokes. Then they laughed even more angrily. Once they tried making him drunk, but he didn’t get drunk.
There were some very smart and
Little Franz had lit the fire. He was proud of knowing how to do it. People had rescued him from a blazing room, and while Segebrecht carried poor dead little Sebastian towards Aunt Adelheid, Franz stood there outside the burning house, hands clasped in front of the fire, eyes shining with happiness.
Nobody loved Franz any more. Not the people in the village, not his mother. In her desperation, she just wouldn’t believe that if it was anyone’s fault it was hers. Why had she left two tiny children on their own? She wanted someone to take the blame, so it had to be little Franz. As time went by, Aunt Adelheid idolized dead little Sebastian more and more, constantly weeping and praying by his grave.
If Franz was going to be loved too, even a tiny little bit, he’d have had to die as well. He went very quiet, and stayed that way. He didn’t learn to talk early, or have any fun learning, because nobody wanted to speak to him. People avoided him, and he had to get used to being silent and lonely.
I didn’t like Franz myself at first. And then I came to like him because Aunt Adelheid didn’t. I wanted to be nice to him; it was so sad and horrible to see the way Aunt Adelheid tormented him. Franz had to put flowers and leaves round the photograph of little Sebastian before dinner every Sunday. Aunt Adelheid gave him the flowers and leaves to be arranged separately, and then sat on a chair in silence watching Franz’s hands, which sometimes shook and let the flowers drop. And then Aunt Adelheid would look at him sternly, without a word, and Franz went red and bent down to pick the flowers up. “I am surprised, but glad, that you can bring yourself to eat,” she sometimes said in a slow, chanting sort of voice, at which Franz would put down his knife and fork, with hopeless despair in his eyes, his arms hanging long and thin by his sides.
One day I couldn’t stand it any more. I shouted at Aunt Adelheid. She was so surprised she couldn’t answer back. I don’t remember exactly what I said, except that the drift of it was the accident was her own fault, hers and not Franz’s, he’d only been a tiny child at the time without any idea what he was doing. And it was her fault little Sebastian was killed, and her fault Franz was unhappy. And if little Sebastian was an angel in heaven now, he’d be very sad about his mother and he would love Franz very much. Aunt Adelheid never forgave me for saying all this, but there was a happy look in Franz’s eyes.
I did want to be nice to him, but then I made some friends and went out dancing with them in the evening now and then, and I felt embarrassed when Franz came to see me home, with his silent face and his patient ape-like arms and his ridiculous red scarf. We’d be sitting in the middle of a lot of noise, and he was tranquil. He would sit there at our table, grave and friendly. He did nothing to trouble us, and yet it was troubling. So the others laughed louder and louder in their annoyance, as if to smother him with their laughter. They made jokes about him which didn’t bother him a bit, because he didn’t understand the jokes. Then they laughed even more angrily. Once they tried making him drunk, but he didn’t get drunk.
There were some very smart and
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