Papa surprised me yesterday with another gift. It was, as I expected, a doll. But not any ordinary sort of doll—this one looks exactly like me!
It has long blond braids and wears a pretty pink dress quite similar to the one Aunt Cordelia has sent me from Boston. The round cheeks and sharp nose carved into the pale wood are mine—even the lower lip juts out a little too far, just as Frau Heinzelmann claims mine does. But the most incredible of all the doll’s features are its eyes.
Papa made them himself. He told me that he began with a white glass tube and a torch. He held the tube over the flame until the glass was soft enough to separate just the right amount. Holding the piece over the flame, he blew gently to create a bubble.
He holds his finger up and blows on it to demonstrate.
Next, he says, he heated a rod of pale blue glass and inserted a glob to form the perfect iris. To this, he joined layers of silver and gray twisted canes for depth and sparkle and to give the iris a lifelike color and quality.
He points to his pale gray eyes, which are identical to mine. I gaze deeply into them and see the silver folds he is talking about. Then he makes a silly face, startling me. I laugh out loud and he laughs as well. Once we catch our breath, he continues.
Using a narrow dense black rod, he tells me how he fixed the pupil. He says this was the most difficult task. If he did not get the pupil exactly in the center, my doll would appear cross-eyed. He crosses his eyes and puffs out his cheeks. We both burst into giggles.
When Papa leaves for the glasshouse the next morning, I examine the large sparkling eyes—almost too large for the dainty little face. They seem so real—so lifelike—I’m certain they follow my every move. Unfortunately, the doll is far too large for the dollhouse, but Papa says he will have some smaller dolls made soon.
“What does a kobold look like?” I ask Frau Heinzelmann, setting my doll on the kitchen table in front of me.
“Why, whatever it fancies, of course.”
Frau Heinzelmann pounds slices of pork into thin, tender pieces. Each time her wooden mallet descends, the whole kitchen shakes. “It can appear as a cat or a marten. A child. Or even a candle’s flame.”
My doll hops with each assault of the mallet, but I catch her before she topples to the ground. I run a finger along her braids. “And where does it live?”
Frau Heinzelmann dips the pork pieces into a bowl with raw egg and then drags them across a plate of bread crumbs, which stick to the cutlets.
“Under the threshold of doors, beneath old steps, behind the stove, or in the fireplace…”
“I want to see it,” I say, eagerly eyeing the shadowy corners of the room.
Frau Heinzelmann melts a slab of lard in a large cast- iron skillet. She will fry the breaded pork into crisp schnitzel. After that she will make an apple strudel using apples kept crisp in our root cellar.
There are many pickles and preserves in the cellar as well. Frau Heinzelmann has prepared them all in lovely glass jars Papa made especially for her. Papa is getting used to her cooking, which he claims has added inches to his waist.
We bring Mama’s food to her room, but even when she feels well enough to eat she only nibbles a bite here and there. Mama has grown so pale and gaunt, Papa and I worry terribly for her health.
“Kobolds do not like to be seen,” Frau Heinzelmann says, tossing a cutlet into the sizzling lard. The meat hisses and snaps, the lard frothing up on its sides. “But if you catch one, it might do as you please. Perhaps tidy your room for you. Or polish your shoes. Or grant you a wish.”
I sit up straighter. I would very much like a little creature to do my bidding. I would wish it to play with me and sing songs to me and keep me company.
“I’m going to catch it,” I tell her with a fierce resolution.
Frau Heinzelmann smiles at first, but then her smile turns to a frown. She wags a finger heavily crusted with crumbs. “Mind you, don’t anger it. I warned you, they can be malicious little demons, those kobolds, if they become angry.” She plunks a basket filled with potatoes in front of me. “Now, until you have a kobold to do your bidding, peel!” she orders. I pick up the paring knife and reluctantly oblige.
That night, I sit in the parlor near the fireplace pretending to play with my dollhouse. Frau Heinzelmann has retired to her room above the carriage house for the evening.
Mama lies in bed sleeping, and Papa is in the dining room eating a late supper. I listen to the whispering in the chimney and I think. And I am curious.
Before I left the kitchen that morning, I sneaked a fistful of bread crumbs into my pocket. I withdraw them now and make a neat line leading out of the fireplace toward where I sit. I wait and watch for the longest time, but nothing stirs.
Papa calls to me and tells me it is late and I should be in bed. Reluctantly, I agree to go to my room, but before I do I have a thought. I want to catch the kobold. I want to see it. So I sneak back into the kitchen and locate a pot of molasses.
Without Papa seeing, I pour some of the thick, sticky syrup onto the floor where the line of bread crumbs ends. Then I place my dollhouse in front of the mess so Papa won’t see. I join him in the dining room to bid him good night.
“Good night, little bird,” he says, having adopted Mama’s pet name for me. “May your dreams be sweet wishes, and may your wishes come true.”
I glance over my shoulder at the line of bread crumbs leading to my dollhouse. I nod at Papa and smile.