The Waiting Bell

Your children innocent and charming as the beasts

— W.H. Auden

“Nein! protested Hadelin Guttmeyer, sobbing as the village doctor, Ruland Bruhier, declared her nine-year-old daughter, Elfi, dead. “Nein! Look at her. The blush is yet in her cheeks.”

“I am so sorry, Frau Guttmeyer, but her heart has ceased to beat. She has no pulse,” replied the doctor, sympathetically.

“But why?” asked Ludwig Guttmeyer, clutching his wife. “Elfi was not ill until days ago and then only weak? Why so sudden? Surely God would not do this to us.”

“I cannot explain her illness. Something drew her strength away. There are many things that defy medical understanding, even in these modern times,” answered the doctor, abashedly. “But, alas, dead is dead … regrettably.”

“You said that about others during the plague and many were buried alive,” snapped Hadelin—caressing the forehead of her daughter.

“That is nonsense! How do you know of such things thirty years later? Rumors. All foolish gossip,” countered Dr. Bruhier indignantly while closing his medical bag. “I'll have the undertaker come for the body.”

“She is not even cold. Life is still in her. Nein, we will take her to the Waiting House in Freiburg,” answered Mrs. Guttmeyer, looking at her husband for support.

“Look!” blurted Ludwig Guttmeyer, pointing at his daughter's twitching hand. “You see Herr Doctor, Elfi is with us still.”

“That is a post mortem muscle spasm,” observed the doctor coolly, as he donned his overcoat. “Believe as you wish, and do as you must. Whatever gives you peace, but I tell you she is gone. Good day, Herr Guttmeyer … Frau Guttmeyer.”

As the doctor departed, the Guttmeyers lifted their daughter's inert body in their arms and softly wept as they plied her pale face with kisses.

“Ludwig, feel. She is warm. She is not with God yet,” uttered his wife.

“In the morning we will take her to Beckenhauer's,” responded Mr. Guttmeyer gravely.

“Yes … yes, and she will return to us,” added Hadelin Guttmeyer, pressing her daughter's limp hand against her father's tortured face.

That night Elfi's parents maintained a prayer vigil beside their daughter's bed as she lay in repose, and at the first sign of dawn, they carried her to the dining room table where her mother prepared her for the ride to Beckenhauer's Waiting House. As Mr. Guttmeyer readied the carriage, his wife dressed Elfi in her favorite frock. Images of her daughter waltzing merrily about the cottage in the new pink and white dress she'd received for her birthday just weeks earlier made her chest heave in sorrow. Yet the belief that her daughter might still be alive kept her from complete collapse.

“Mein liebling, come back. We love you so,” whispered Hadelin into her daughter's ear, and in that instant she was convinced Elfi's eyelid moved. “Liebste, we wait for you with all our heart.”

In the dim morning light, Mr. Guttmeyer placed his beloved child in the back of the carriage. Wrapped in a thick family quilt, her small face was barely visible as the family horse began to move down the dirt road leading from their cottage to their somber destination. Along the way, neither Guttmeyer uttered a word, lost as they were in their own precious memories of their only offspring.

The November wind created vortexes of the dried leaves that lay in deep layers along the winding road to the Beckenhauer's Waiting House, and by the time the Guttmeyers reached it, their modest carriage looked as if it had been deliberately adorned for the Autumn Fest that coincidentally was in progress in nearby Freiburg.

“What has happened to the Waiting House?” inquired Hadelin to her husband as he tightened the reigns on his horse to bring them to a stop. “Oh, Ludwig, what is going on?”

It appeared that the once formidable structure was being dismantled. The elder Mr. Beckenhauer approached them from the pile of recently removed lumber beside the Waiting House, tossing his ax to the ground.

“Guten tag! May I help you?” he said as the Guttmeyers climbed from their carriage.

“We bring our sleeping daughter to your Waiting House, Herr Beckenhauer,” they answered in unison.

“It is no longer operating. You can see it is being torn down to make way for a dairy barn,” replied the senior Beckenhauer.

“But why? Our daughter is not dead, though the doctor says she is. We wish her to wait here until she comes back to us,” said Hadelin Guttmeyer, clutching her fists to her breasts.

“Es tut mir leid. It is too late. There have been no patrons in three years, so we must find another means of income. Once the waiting house was full, but now people do not seem worried about burying their loved ones before they are truly dead. Now we must get by on Mrs. Beckenhauer's birthing work.”

“Please take in our daughter. We will pay what you ask. It will not take long for she will return soon. Ja, Ludwig?”

“Jawohl, Elfi will soon be with us. Please let her rest here until she does, Herr Beckenhauer,” pleaded Mr. Guttmeyer, reaching for the old man's hand. “The law will not allow us to keep her at home. As you know, when the doctor declares someone dead, they must be buried within two days.”

“I am certainly familiar with that ordinance,” replied Beckenhauer. “In fact, if a corpse is thought to be infectious, it must be disposed of immediately. Your daughter was not contagious, I presume?”

“Of course, not,” answered Hadelin, indignantly. “Look for yourself. She does not appear to be dead, and there was no known cause for her affliction.”

Mr. Beckenhauer lifted the blanket from Elfi's body and moved his face close to the little girl's.

“Children do not putrefy as quickly as the old. They may look asleep when, in fact, they are quite dead. She has no air from her mouth and no pulse,” said the old man holding Elfi's wrist. “So she is more than likely in the Lord's care.”

“Look at her face, Herr Beckenhauer. It is as it was just days ago when she peeled the apples for the strudel I made. It was her favorite goody. She was so happy.”

“But I have begun to destroy the waiting house, as you can see,” protested Mr. Beckenhauer.

A small girl about Elfi's age approached and clutched Mr. Beckenhauer's hand.

“Opa, who is there?” she asked, standing on her toes to catch a glimpse inside the carriage.

“Please go back inside, Guita. I will be there shortly,” said her grandfather tenderly.

“It's a little girl like me, opa,” noted the child with curiosity.

“Yes, it is, sweetheart. Now go to your oma,” replied Mr. Beckenhauer, giving her a little push toward the house.

“Is she asleep, opa?”

“Yes, she is asleep,” answered Mrs. Guttmeyer, smiling sweetly at the little girl.

“Can we play together when she wakes up?”

“But, of course, you may play with my Elfi when she awakes.”

“Please, go to the house now, Guita,” said Beckenhauer more firmly this time, and his granddaughter reluctantly obeyed.

After a pause, he returned his gaze to the small body in the carriage.

“Very well. We will take her for the week. That is all that is necessary to determine beyond any doubt her status,” said Beckenhauer, resignedly.

“Bless you, sir,” responded Hadelin Guttmeyer, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Take her to what is left of the waiting house,” directed Beckenhauer. “If she comes back, I will notify you immediately, but you should not expect such a call.”

“Jawohl, Herr Beckenhauer. We will await your call about our little Elfi,” said Mr. Guttmeyer, taking the reins of his horse and moving the carriage to the building where his daughter would be stored.

After placing her still body on one of a row of tables inside the waiting house, the Guttmeyers kneeled beside her and prayed. They then reluctantly left her for their trip home.

“Auf Wiedersehen, my sweetheart,” said Hadelin, waving to her daughter. “We will see you soon.”

That afternoon, as the Guttmeyers returned north to their small farm, Beckenhauer restored several of the wood planks he'd removed from the waiting house to make certain Elfi's body would be shielded from the many wolves roaming the surrounding woods. Once, long ago, they had gained access to the waiting house and fed on four bodies in repose there. It had been a horrible experience for Beckenhauer as relatives of the mauled demanded monetary compensation for their trauma, almost ruining him. He had carefully reinforced the building to prevent it ever happening again.

“It is like a fortress,” his wife had observed.

“Exactly. Only God should take the flesh from those inside,” Beckenhauer had replied, stoically.

It was nightfall when he was satisfied that the building would protect its contents. The only thing remaining to do was connect the young Guttmeyer to the waiting bell. It seemed a fruitless task to Beckenhauer, but he had promised the child's parents he would provide the services of his waiting house and he would not do otherwise.

When he entered the building, he was surprised to see his grandchild standing beside the table on which the Guttmeyer child rested.

“Guita, what are you doing here? This is not a place for you. Please return to the house. It is late and it will soon be time for supper.”

“But opa, I heard her call my name,” replied the girl.

“Nonsense. She cannot call your name. She doesn't know you. She cannot talk. Now I must connect her to the bell,” said Beckenhauer, removing a spool of string from beneath the table.

“What are you doing, opa?”

“Tying her finger to the bell in case she comes back,” replied the old man wrapping the end of the string to the bell that dangled a few feet above Elfi.

A thin wire ran from the bell to the house and connected to another bell that would also ring should the occupant show life.

“Come back, opa? But she is here,” said Guita.

“Nein, my Guita. She is not here. Now go to the house.”

“Let me tie the string to her finger. Please, may I?” pleaded Guita, in the way that melted her grandfather's resolve.

“Yes, okay, and then you must go. Here, now, place it around her forefinger and make a tight connection.”

“But not too tight, opa. It will hurt her,” rejoined Guita, looping the string into a bow.

“That will do. Thank you, Guita. You helped your opa. Now go the house and tell oma I am on my way.

“Yes, opa,” said Guita, as she scampered from the building.

That will not do, thought Beckenhauer, as he untied the bow replacing it with a strong knot on Elfi Guttmeyer's thin finger.

“Gute nacht, little one, muttered Beckenhauer as he doused the candle and went for his supper.

This particular November had been milder although far windier than usual, and on Elfi's first night ever away from home, hard gusts pounded the Benkenhauer compound, which included their cottage, two storage sheds, a privy, and the waiting house. Yet it wasn't the powerful blasts of air that suddenly awakened Guita. She was drawn from her dreams by the faint sound of a bell, or what she thought was one. In her dark bedroom she strained to detect another toll and was rewarded as a series of jingles rode the surging Autumnal tempest through the shuttered window to her ears. The chimes were accompanied by the barely discernable words of a child.

“Giuta, come. Let's play,” beckoned a faint voice, and Guita slipped from her bed and made her way out of the house in the direction of the sounds, which led her to the waiting house.

With no sense of foreboding or fear, she entered the building and was greeted by Elfi, who stood atop her sleep table smiling. Until the stars faded and the eastern horizon brightened, they frolicked about the forest, dancing, singing, and playing. Guita had never felt such joy or fulfillment. After the loneliest year of her life, following the accidental drowning of her parents on the river, she now had a companion her own age and she felt great happiness.

Just before dawn, she slipped back into her grandparents' house and returned to bed, quickly falling into such a deep sleep that her grandmother had to call her several times in order to awaken her an hour later.

“Sweetheart, you are so sleepy. It is time for breakfast,” cajoled Mistress Beckenhauer.

“Oh, oma, I have the most wonderful friend,” said Guita, rubbing the sleep from her heavy eyes.

“Who did you dream of?” inquired the old woman to her granddaughter.

“No, not a dream. A real friend,” replied Guita, climbing out of bed and into her slippers.

“Now, who could that possibly be, child?”

“The little girl in the waiting house … Elfi. We played in the forest,” answered Guita.

Mistress Beckenhauer's eyes widened and she took a step back from her grandchild, alarmed by her strange statement.

“What do you speak of, Guita? You had a dream,” responded the woman, who then noticed several dried leaves clinging to her granddaughter's dressing gown. “How did you get these on you? You were outside?”

“Yes, oma, outside with Elfi … in the forest. It was such fun. Did you not hear the bell? She was calling my name.”

“A dream, mein liebling … only a dream. Now come for your breakfast, ”said Mistress Beckenhauer, gathering the dead leaves from around Guita's feet.

“Good morning, Guita. You are very sleepy today … ja?” said Beckenhauer with his nose in his plate of sausages.

“Good morning, opa,” replied Guita, kissing his cheek.

“Ah, cold lips need a hot breakfast. Sit liebling and eat your wurste before it cools.”

Normally Guita could not get enough of her grandmother's special sausage, but this morning she felt oddly repulsed by the sight of it on her plate. Noticing her lack of enthusiasm, Mrs. Beckenhauer took one of the two sausages on Guita's plate and plopped it on her husband's.

“Sometimes young girls must watch their figures, Ludwig. Isn't that right, Guita?” winked Mrs. Beckenhauer to her granddaughter.

“Oh, I see. So you have a suitor? Well, he better not be over ten years old or I'll take the horse whip to him,” joked Mr. Beckenhauer.

“Opa, I have a new friend,” said Guita suddenly energized.

“A new friend?”

“Yes, I told oma, but she thinks I had a dream.”

“And who is this new friend? A wood nymph?”

“It's Elfi … in the waiting house. She called to me with the bell last night. Did you not hear it either, opa?”

After a long silence, Mrs. Beckenhauer chimed in.

“She has an imagination like her poor dear mother had. Anja was always telling stories about imaginary friends and how they would play.”

“But we did play, oma and opa. We chased the animals in the forest and climbed high in the trees to find the bird nests,” protested Guita.

“Well, it is a good thing you did not fall from the treetops and bruise that pretty face of yours,” replied Beckenhauer, shrugging his shoulders to his wife. “But I do not want you in the waiting house while that poor girl awaits burial.”

“But opa, she is alive … ”

“Please, let's not have any more of that nonsense. Now help oma clear the table. You will go into town with her today for supplies, and I think something special,” said Beckenhauer, winking at his wife.

“Yes, mein liebling, we will purchase you a new jumper for the church dinner on Saturday. Come now,” said Mrs. Beckenhauer, removing Guita's untouched plate.

“Like Elfi's with pink border?” asked Guita, brightening.

That evening, Guita went to bed early complaining of an upset stomach after barely touching one of her grandmother's special dishes. Besides dessert, there were few things that Guita loved more than Leipziger Allerlei, a thick soup made from a combination of vegetables and potato cubes and beef chunks.

“Poor child. Some hot chamomile tea and sleep and you will be your old self,” assured her grandmother escorting her grandchild to her room.

Guita was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep almost instantly. When she awoke, the sun was peeking through the wood shutters.

“Hello, dear grandchild,” greeted Mrs. Beckenhauer. “Breakfast is on the table. Come join grandpapa.

When she removed the quilt from Guita, she was startled to find dried mud on the girl's legs and sleeping gown.

“How did this get on you? Did you roam outside during the night?”

“No, oma … I don't think so”, answered Guita, puzzled by the dirt clinging to her. “I did not wake up once, and I am still tired.”

“Perhaps you went outside instead of using the chamber pot. That is what you did and don't remember. Here let me wash your feet and we'll have a good breakfast. Opa is waiting,” said Mrs. Beckenhauer, pouring water from a vase onto a corner of her apron and wiping the stains from Guita's ankles.

“May I sleep a little longer, oma?” asked Guita leaning on her elbows.

“Certainly not. You had a long rest. There are things to do. We must add lace to the hem of your new dress for the church dinner. Come, mein liebling, responded Mrs. Beckenhauer, leading Guita by the hand from her room.

“My princess, good morning,” greeted Mr. Beckenhauer, “No more strange dreams, I hope?”

“No opa, I had no dreams at all,” answered Guita, taking her place at the table.

As on the previous day, the sight of food did not have the usual positive effect on her. In fact, she could feel her stomach tighten at the sight of the steaming victuals.

“Mutter, can you imagine the rat traps were empty? Not a single carcass anywhere. Not even in the waiting house. They all had cheese. Nothing was nibbled on. It is the first time since the plague that has happened. Then, all the rats were killed to end the sickness. But they soon came back and have always taken the bait. Very odd, don't you think? The cats are nowhere to be found either. But I'm sure they will all … the rats, too.” reported the elder Beckenhauer, chomping his sausage.

“Is Elfi still sleeping, opa?” asked Guita.

“Ja, my love. I'm afraid so. She will stay asleep. Friday her parents will take her home for burial.”

“But opa, I do not think she will stay sleeping,” replied Guita.

“I wish otherwise, too. She was a beautiful child, but she has lost the glow in her young flesh and her lips have thinned as they do in the dead … but do not fret, liebling. She will be one of God's favorite and be with the angels in heaven. Now eat your breakfast before it is cold.”

“I am not hungry, opa,” said Guita, and her grandmother removed her dish.

“Very well. We cannot make you eat. You must still have the stomachache. Some more hot tea will give you strength. Now go take the dirty sheets from your bed, and I will bring you clean ones.”

“Yes, oma,” answered Guita.

When Mrs. Beckenhauer brought the fresh linen to her granddaughter's bedroom, she found the girl fast asleep atop the soiled sheets. Later in the day, Guita had revived enough to help her grandmother trim her new frock. For the first time in two days, she began to feel her appetite return, and she pleased her grandparents by emptying most of her plate of goulash.

“It is good to see your appetite back, but you probably have no room for oma's cake,” joked Mr. Beckenhauer

“But I do, opa,” protested Guita.

“Very well then, a large piece of marmorkuchen for you,” announced Mrs. Beckenhauer, placing a wedge of the chocolate and marble cake before Guita, who suddenly felt nauseous and vomited her undigested goulash onto the table.

“Oh, liebchen!” cried Mr. Beckenhauer, leaping beyond the range of her eruption. “Look, mutter, I think some blood … yes?”

“Perhaps, papa. We will get the doctor if she does not improve,” replied Mrs. Beckenhauer, taking hold of Guita's arm and leading her from the room.

She bathed her granddaughter and put her to bed, concluding her stomach malady had worsened.

“Sleep, young one. In the morning you will be well,” said Mrs. Beckenhauer reassuringly. “Children soon recover from what ails them.”

“Yes, oma, I will be well in the morning,” said Guita, who soon slept deeply.

The wind blew with even greater intensity than it had in recent days and the shutters on Guita's room rattled loudly, but it was not the wind that awakened her in the middle of the night. It was the ringing of the bell in the waiting house, accompanied again by Elfi's voice beckoning her.

“Come, Guita. Let us play,” urged her nocturnal companion, and Guita rose and slipped from the house recalling she had done exactly the same thing the night before when they had chased the grey wolves from their den across the moonlit forest and merrily spun with the leafy whirligigs across frost covered fields.

For the next two nights, Guita joined Elfi as their playing turned to hunting, and they tracked and slew rabbits, red squirrels, and hedgehogs. Guita had never felt such joy and could not wait to retire for the night to rejoin her friend for their exhilarating romps.

To prevent her grandparents from becoming more suspicious of her behavior, Guita rose before them and removed any evidence of her excursions. She also did everything she could to show interest in her meals, although she always arrived in the dining room feeling as if she'd already partaken of the full table. While her fatigue deepened, she was able to take naps since her grandmother had taken to visiting a neighbor who was about to give birth. Mrs. Beckenhauer had long served as a midwife to the farmers in the area west of Freiburg.

“The Guttmeyers will be here later to take their daughter home,” announced Mr. Beckenhauer at breakfast.

During Guita's nightly predations with Elfi, the Guttmeyers' daughter had told her she would continue to exist regardless of whether she was buried or not, but Guita was intent on preventing her interment, fearing she would never see her again.

“Please opa, let her stay longer in the waiting house. She is not dead,” implored Guita.

“But she is, liebling, and she must return to her mama and papa for funeral,” replied Mr. Beckenhauer, leaving the house to prepare Elfi for her ride home.

“But I have heard the bell ring each night,” protested Guita.

“Impossible, my child. I removed the string from her finger two nights ago when I was certain she was gone. Now I must go.”

“May I go with you to say goodbye to Elfi,” pled Guita.

“No, the waiting house is no place for a living child. Please help oma prepare the pastry for the Guttmeyers' arrival.”

“But, opa …!”

“Quiet, now,” snapped Mr. Beckenhauer, trudging from the room.

Two hours later the Guttmeyers arrived for their daughter. They remained in their carriage until Mr. Beckenhauer greeted them and invited them into his house for tea and cake before fetching their daughter. Mrs. Guttmeyer held a handkerchief to her face and sobbed softly as they sat around the dining room table.

“I am sorry that she did not come back, Frau Guttmeyer, but she is with God now, and that is the better thing,” said Mr. Beckenhauer, breaking the awkward silence.

“Please, Herr Beckenhauser, we would like to take our Elfi home now,” said Mr. Guttmeyer, rising from the table.

“Of course, bring the carriage to the waiting house entrance,” replied Mr. Beckenhauer. “She is ready for her final journey.”

When the Guttmeyers and Beckenhauers left the house to retrieve the body, Guita followed.

When Mr. Beckenhauer opened the waiting house door they froze in shock. Standing before them in her tidy pink frock was Elfi Guttmeyer smiling—her arms outstretched to her parents.

“God has given you back to us! It's a miracle!” wailed Hadelin Guttmeyer, running to her child and embracing her.

The Beckenhauers watched the scene in disbelief. How was it possible, wondered Mr. Beckenhauer? He had just checked her before the Guttmeyers arrived and she was quite dead. Perhaps it is truly a miracle.

“Elfi, you are back!” cried her father, wrapping his arms around his restored family.

“Hello dear mama and papa,” said Elfi, turning to greet the Beckenhauers' granddaughter. “Guita, my friend … hello.”

“But how do you know …?” uttered Mr. Beckenhauer.

He did not complete his inquiry. A miracle, yes, it must be a miracle, he concluded, although he had never put much stock in the possibility of miracles.

“Come, my treasure, we will take you home,” said Mrs. Guttmeyer, still clutching her revivified daughter.

As the Guttmeyers climbed into their carriage, Elfi smiled and waved at Guita, who returned her farewell with a knowing smile.

On the ride home, swirling ribbons of decaying leaves crisscrossed the dirt road and the wind pounded the sides of the carriage in which Elfi sat between her grateful parents.

“Oh, mein kleiner schatz, you are cold,” observed Hadelin Guttmeyer, cuddling her beloved as their carriage moved through the gloomy twilight forest.

As Elfi gazed at the coiled trail ahead, one thought took possession of her mind:

How nice it would be to see them bleed.

#

Michael C. Keith's short story collection—Hoag's Object—is forthcoming. He teaches communication at Boston College.