Papa has brought me the loveliest gift!
It is a dollhouse identical to our new home. One of his glassblowers—who had previously apprenticed with a woodworker—has crafted it. It has such exquisite detail and, of course, real glass windows! Papa has even included the carriage house, above which Frau Heinzelmann lives.
Naturally, I brought my dolls, Emmaline and Alexandra, with me from Boston, but Papa says he will have another surprise for me shortly, and I am delighted, for I suspect it will be a new doll.
Though Papa still feels somewhat like a stranger—after all, I only saw him twice in the five years before Mama and I joined him—he is truly working hard to win my affection.
I place the dollhouse in the parlor beside the fireplace, where I can keep warm as I play. When it gets chilly, I lift a heavy iron poker and prod the burning logs. Sparks burst upward in a dazzling display. The smoldering logs warm my hands and face.
A whisper of snow already covers the fields, and the bitter November winds moan down the hollow throat of the chimney. Sometimes, when I am alone, I imagine I hear voices. They call my name.
“The house creaks and groans,” I tell Frau Heinzelmann. “It frightens me.”
She beats a ball of dough on the wooden table. She is making dark rye bread, which Papa insists has the taste and texture of a shoe sole.
“That is only the kobold,” she puffs. “Pay it no mind.”
Papa does not want me spending my days with Frau Heinzelmann. He has purchased several books for me to study, including a brand-new novel by the acclaimed author Herman Melville. It is titled Moby-Dick and tells the story of a crazed Captain Ahab and a great White Whale. It is quite interesting, but I tire of reading all day, and since Papa has yet to find me a suitable tutor—and with Mama lying ill in bed—Frau Heinzelmann continues to be my only company.
“The kobold?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at the unfamiliar word.
“Why, the house spirit, of course. Every home has one.” She slams down the dough. A cloud of flour puffs into the air around her.
My hand flies to my mouth. “A spirit? There is a ghost in the house?”
I stare horrified at the empty air around me, but Frau Heinzelmann goes about her bread-making business, seemingly indifferent to my concern. She waves her sausage-like fingers dismissively.
“A kobold is a little sprite. A kind of goblin. Have I not told you the story of the shoemaker and his elves? Or of Rumpelstiltskin, that nasty little fellow?” She swipes a floured hand across her forehead, leaving a dusty trail.
I shake my head.
“Once upon a time, there lived a poor shoemaker and his wife…”
I sit and listen, spellbound, as she recounts the entire tale of the kind elves that help the poor shoemaker and his wife until the wife makes them a set of clothes and they disappear forever. She goes on to tell the tale of the crafty imp-like creature Rumpelstiltskin, who helps a young maiden spin straw into gold.
I sit transfixed, my entire body hanging on her every word. All the while she kneads her dough until it is round and smooth. When she is finished, she drops the ball into a greased pan and sets it aside to rise.
“We are lucky,” she says. “A kobold is good to have. They help with chores. Sometimes, I am sure ours has folded the linens, for when I attend to the task, I find it has been done.” She nods and winks knowingly.
Frau Heinzelmann picks up a bucket filled with soapy water and hands me a rag. She swipes the excess flour from the table with her large hands. When she is done, I run the rag over the surface, rubbing hard to clear any trace of sticky dough. Papa would be displeased to see me doing servant work, but I like to help.
“Where were you born?” I ask her, as she tosses the flour into the sink and claps her hands. She washes them with some of the soapy water.
“In Oberlahnstein—a small town on the banks of the Rhine River.” She does not look back at me, but her head rises and she stops moving, and I can tell she is picturing the place.
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
Frau Heinzelmann turns and smiles. “I do,” she says. “The rivers here are lovely, but they are quite different from the Rhine. Many old castles and ruins sit perched high on its banks. I miss the cobblestoned streets, the many festivals, and, of course, the bakeries. Yes. I miss the bakeries a great deal.” She pats her belly.
“Do you wish to return?” I ask, suddenly sad for her as much as for myself.
She pauses as if to think. “No,” she says at last, but more softly than I am used to her speaking. “Pennsylvania is my home now.” She reaches out and wiggles my nose, leaving a spot of dampness on the tip. “And it is yours now as well.”
“Tell me another story,” I ask eagerly. “With elves and goblins and pretty maidens.”
Frau Heinzelmann smiles. “First we finish cleaning the kitchen, or the kobold will be upset. They do not like untidy homes. And they can become quite nasty little creatures if you cross them.”