Tresses
Back in the days before the unification of Germany, a child's life in a small village, deep in the Black Forest, held few forms of entertainment. There were not many toys to play with, and those that were available were simple and handmade. Of course, during the planting and harvesting seasons, youngsters had little time for play. In a farming community, there were crops to be taken care of and animals to be fed. Even the smallest tots had chores to do. Furthermore, adults and children alike went to bed early since this was a time long before the advent of radio and television, and there were no books available since most of the villagers could not read. Even if they could, there was no electricity, and they could ill afford to waste candles on such frivolity.
Lest you get the wrong idea, let me assure you that all was not entirely bleak in these rural communities. What these people lacked in material objects they made up for in other ways. They enjoyed making music on treasured instruments passed down from parent to offspring. When they gathered together, they sang songs or told stories. This was, after all, the part of the world that spawned the folktales later popularized by the Brothers Grimm. No one, though, not even Jacob and Wilhelm themselves, could match the peddler when it came to enthralling an audience. Old Kristof, the white-haired itinerant seller of pots, pans and other miscellaneous wares, was a raconteur par excellence!
It was on a brisk day in late autumn, when only the most stubborn leaves still clung to the branches of the trees, that Wilhelm heard the clanging of metal pans on the old peddler's wagon.
"He's here!" the farmer exclaimed, as he ran towards his house to tell his wife and children the good news.
By the time Old Kristof's wagon came to a stop in the village square, a crowd of people had already gathered.
"It's good to see you again!" cried Fritz, who owned the gristmill.
"You must be hungry," Berta, his wife, added. "Why don't you come to our house, and I'll fix you something to eat."
"Thank you," the peddler said gratefully. "I am a bit hungry. More importantly, I could use something to drink. I'm thirsty from my journey."
"You must be tired, too," the woman supposed.
"Yes, I am. A quick nap would be nice."
"There's a bed in the mill. You can sleep there."
"Will we see you tonight?" Wilhelm asked hopefully as Old Kristof headed toward the gristmill.
"Yes. Once I've had the opportunity to rest, I'll come back here to the church and tell you all a story or two."
Both children and adults gazed at the aged peddler as though he were Christkindl come two months early. But unlike the saintly old man who brought presents at Christmas, Old Kristof's visits were completely unexpected, and the gifts he gave were made of words, not wood, metal or cloth. His stories would be treasured by all, passed around from person to person and retold again and again. People in the village still repeated his tale about Gerda and the red cloak and the one about the young prince who could turn things to gold with a touch of his hand.
It's about time for a new one, Wilhelm thought as he returned home with his family.
He had no doubt it would be as good as all the others the peddler had told over the years.
"It's funny," the farmer said to his wife. "I remember Old Kristof from when I was a boy. He was an old man then, and he hasn't aged."
"When you're a child, all adults seem old," Brigitta laughed. "I always thought of my parents as old, and they were the same age we are now."
"But his hair was white then, too."
"Hair color isn't a good indicator of age. Some people turn gray much earlier than others."
"I suppose you're right," he conceded. "After all, he's only human. He grows old just like the rest of us."
* * *
Life in the Black Forest village normally moved at a slower pace than that in larger cities. However, on the days when Old Kristof visited, people worked quickly to finish their chores so that they could gather at the church to hear his stories. Having taken a nap and eaten a meal at the miller's house, the peddler was well-rested and in a mood to socialize.
"I see just about everyone is here," he announced when he walked into the church.
"My husband will be along shortly," Brigitta explained. "He's just about done milking the cows."
"I'll wait a few minutes before I begin then."
A little girl, ten years of age, groaned with disappointment. This was the only exciting event to have happened in the village in many months, and it had to be put on hold for Wilhelm's cows.
"You mustn't be impatient," Old Kristof laughed.
"Some things are well worth waiting for," her mother told her.
The peddler, who was an uncannily good judge of character, stared at the girl for several moments. Although still only a child, she was quite lovely and would, no doubt, grow up to be a beautiful woman. Her face was that of an angel, her eyes as blue as the Danube. But it was her hair that commanded the most attention. It was the color of a newly minted gold coin, and since she did not tie it up or hide it beneath a cap, the curls cascaded down her back, nearly to her waist.
"What is your name, little one?" Old Kristof asked.
"Angelika," she replied.
"What a coincidence! My story is about a girl named Angelika, but she is older than you. She is no longer a child but a young woman of marriageable age. She lived ...."
The peddler was distracted when the church door was thrown open.
"I'm ... sorry I'm ... late," Wilhelm apologized, trying to catch his breath. "I ran all ... the way. I hope ... I didn't miss ... anything."
"No. I was just about to start."
The farmer quickly sat on a pew beside his wife and devoted his full attention to Old Kristof.
"As I said," the peddler continued. "This tale is about a young woman named Angelika ...."
* * *
Like most young women in the fresh bloom of youth, Angelika was in the market for a husband. There was never any doubt that she would find one since she was the most beautiful woman in her village.
I can have any man I want, she thought immodestly.
The problem was that she did not want anyone from the village. Most of the eligible bachelors were farmers. The few remaining ones were either craftsmen or tradesmen.
I don't want to be a farmer's wife. It's too much work! Nor do I want to be married to a carpenter, miller or wheelwright. I want to be the wife of a rich man.
Unfortunately for Angelika, there were no wealthy gentlemen in her village. In Stuttgart, the seat of the Duchy of Württemberg, she might have better luck. However, she was not acquainted with anyone who had ever been to Stuttgart as few people ever traveled beyond the boundaries of the village.
I have to find a way to get there! she thought, staring up at the clouds in the sky.
"Stop your daydreaming!" Gretel, the girl's mother, hollered. "There's work to be done in the kitchen."
Gretel noticed the scowl on her daughter's face and surmised the cause of the girl's unhappiness.
"Whether you like it or not, you've got to learn to cook and keep house. If you don't, you'll never find a husband."
"I've got other gifts to offer a man," Angelika replied with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.
"I'm sure you do, but getting a husband and keeping one are two different things. Once you start having children, you'll lose your figure. And not long after that, your looks will fade. Then what will you do?"
By that time, her daughter thought, I hope to be a wealthy widow with enough money of my own that I'll have no need of a husband.
Much to her parents' dismay, in the months that followed, the pretty blonde turned down seven proposals from honest, hardworking young suitors, deeming them far too beneath herself to marry. Her father, Joachim, who had six other children living beneath his roof, was eager for his oldest daughter to fly the nest.
"If you haven't found a husband before your next birthday, I'll find one for you," he threatened.
It was a common practice for fathers to arrange marriages for their daughters, giving the young women no say at all in the matter. Joachim, however, wanted his child to be happy, so he left the choice of husband up to her. Apparently, though, there was no pleasing the girl. He might have to step in and make up her mind for her.
Angelika, as cunning as she was beautiful, proposed a deal to her father.
"If I could only have a happy memory to cherish in the long, lonely years ahead of me, I would marry any man you choose," she said.
"What exactly are you suggesting?" Joachim asked warily.
"I have always longed to visit Stuttgart."
"Why?"
"I want to see how other people live. All I've known of life is this tiny village. I've never seen a schloss before. I've heard the duke lives in a grand one."
"Why waste your time dreaming about castles and cities?" Gretel asked, interrupting the father-daughter discussion. "You ought to be practicing skills that will benefit you in the years to come."
"I don't care about cooking and sewing," Angelika insisted. "I want to see something of this world before I am buried alive in a loveless marriage."
Gretel, unlike her husband, did not believe in spoiling the girl. She could see beyond the pretty face to the lazy, self-centered, conniving young woman behind it.
"Stop talking nonsense!" the exasperated mother cried. "You were born a farmer's daughter, and you are destined to be a farmer's wife. Do you think seeing fine houses you'll never have the opportunity to live in will make you happy? No. It will only make you more miserable and unsatisfied with what you have."
"I give you my word," Angelika promised, turning her back to her mother and speaking directly to her father. "If I can visit Stuttgart, I will marry within a month of my return to the village."
"I suppose ...," Joachim began before he was cut off by his wife.
"You can't possibly agree to this! We can't spend what little money we have on a frivolous trip."
"It won't cost that much to travel if she stays with Frau Luisa, my cousin's widowed sister-in-law."
"And is she to travel alone? A young girl? Who knows what may happen to her?"
"No. When Father Gunther comes to the village, she can travel with him. He visits Stuttgart while he makes his rounds of the parishes."
Gretel ran out of arguments. Besides, it was clear that her husband had sided with the girl, and she had no hope of changing his mind.
Oh, well, she thought. If this deal will get Angelika out of the house at last, it might be worth the expense. Besides, once she is married, we'll have one less mouth to feed.
* * *
Getting to Stuttgart was only half Angelika's goal. Once she was there, she had to find a rich husband. As pretty as she was, it would not be easy, given the short amount of time she had to accomplish her task.
I'll need help.
Deep in the dark woods, where few villagers dared venture, lived a woman named Liesl, who, by all accounts, was a witch. Fearful of her curses, people spoke her name only in whispers. Parents warned their children about entering those woods, believing they would come to harm if they did. But Angelika's determination was greater than her fear of danger.
One afternoon, once her morning chores were done, the girl slipped out of her parents' house undetected and hurried toward the dark woods. Not even the threat of snakes, bats and spiders, which normally would have kept her away, deterred her from her mission.
The dense, towering trees kept sunlight from shining on Liesl's house—so much so that it appeared to be hiding in the shadows. The girl suppressed a shiver of revulsion when she saw the eerie hovel.
"It's just a house," she reminded herself and summoned the courage to walk up to the door and knock.
"Yes? What is it?" Liesl asked.
The old woman—much older than anyone Angelika had ever met—was dressed in what could only be described as rags. Her hair, a blend of gray and white, was unwashed and uncombed.
If she isn't a witch, the girl thought unkindly, she certainly looks like one.
Liesl's complexion was a sickly pale yellow in color, and there were warts on her chin and nose. But the eyes—black as a doll's—showed no sign of dotage or senility.
"Well? Speak up! What do you want?"
"I have heard you can perform magic," Angelika replied.
A sound rumbled seemingly from the ground and came out of the old woman's mouth. It took her visitor several moments to recognize it as laughter.
"A girl like you wants only one thing," Liesel cackled, "and you won't find it in this village."
Angelika did not waste time wondering how the old hag knew what she wanted. She simply assumed that, as a witch, the crone had a sixth sense.
"I might find it in Stuttgart, though."
"Ah! You are planning to visit the city then?"
"Yes."
"Come inside and we'll talk," the old woman said, stepping aside so that the girl could enter.
Angelika did so reluctantly. Lit only by candles, the interior was dark and dank and had a decidedly unpleasant odor, like that of rotting meat.
"Sit down," the elderly hostess said, pointing to a chair that looked as though it could not support her guest's weight.
"No, thank you. I'd rather stand."
"So, you want to ensnare a rich husband in Stuttgart. It won't be an easy thing to do. You may be the prettiest girl in this village, but there are women in the city who have money and position as well as beauty. Do you think a man of wealth will want to wed a poor farmer's daughter?"
"That's why I have come to you. I was hoping you could give me a love potion."
"Why should I give you anything?" the witch teased. "I don't even know you."
"I don't have any money, but I do have this," Angelika said, taking a ring from her pocket. "It belonged to my grandmother. She gave it to me before she died."
"It's pretty," the witch declared after examining it in the glow of the candle. "But of what use is jewelry to me? I never leave my home."
"Once I am married, I will send you money then," the girl promised. "I swear."
The old woman silently stared at the girl, as though making a mental assessment of her charms.
"With my help, you just might succeed," the old woman decided.
The witch disappeared into a shadowy corner of the house for several minutes and then came back with a hairbrush in her hand.
"When you have found a man to your liking, use this," she instructed. "It will make you irresistible to him."
Angelika asked no questions. Instead, she took the brush, thanked the old woman and left the house. Her spirits high, she ran through the dark forest, hoping to be home in time to help her mother prepare supper.
* * *
Father Gunther stopped his wagon in front of Frau Luisa's house and helped his passenger climb down. After handing Angelika the sack that held her meager belongings, he asked if the girl had a way to get home.
"My father has arranged for a tradesman to bring me back," she replied, despite sincerely believing she would never leave Stuttgart.
The girl thanked Father Gunther for his kindness, and after he drove away, she knocked on Frau Luisa's door.
"You must be Angelika," the widow said. "Come inside, and I'll make us something to eat."
It was a small house, but it was clean. Frau Luisa, a kind, pleasant woman, welcomed the girl.
"You can sleep in my son's former room," she announced. "He's married now."
During their meal, the widow confessed that she was lonely and told her houseguest that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. The girl was grateful for the offer but, eager to marry, hoped her sojourn would be a short one.
Every day for nearly a week, Angelika walked the streets of Stuttgart. In her travels, she saw several wealthy men, but they were all accompanied by their wives. Then, as the day when she was due to return home neared, she saw a handsome young man step out of a fine carriage and enter a wirtshaus for some refreshment.
I must act quickly before he comes back out and his driver whisks him away, she thought, reaching into her pocket and taking out the brush the sorceress had given to her.
"This had better work!" she mumbled to herself as she ran the enchanted bristles through her blond hair.
To the girl's astonishment, with each stroke of the brush, her hair grew longer. At first, it fell only three inches beneath her shoulders, but it soon went down to the middle of her back. As she continued brushing, her hair neared her waist. By the time the handsome young man exited the wirtshaus, her locks were nearly as long as the fabled Lady Godiva's.
Upon seeing the man she hoped to enchant, Angelika deliberately dropped the brush on the ground in front of him. Being a gentleman, he stooped to pick it up.
"Is this your ...?" he managed to ask before his power of speech succumbed to the witch's spell.
"Thank you," she said, smiling coyly.
As he handed her the brush, their fingertips touched. It was as though an electric shock ran through the young man's body.
"My name is Karl," he introduced himself. "And what is yours?"
"Angelika."
Although it was obvious from her well-worn, homespun clothing that she was a girl from a much lower class, he invited her to join him for lunch.
"I would love to!" she replied.
The two spent the entire afternoon together, and by the time evening arrived, Karl was hopelessly in love. Even though he had only known the young woman for a few hours, he proposed marriage and she readily accepted.
"I don't have a ring for you," he apologized, "but I'll get one as soon as possible."
"And when will the ceremony be?" Angelika asked.
"I suppose that will be up to my mother. She'll insist on planning the wedding."
An alarm bell went off in the girl's head. She would prefer eloping and announcing the marriage as a fait accompli.
"I'd rather not wait," she cried. "Why don't we run away and get married tonight?"
"As much as I want to, I'm afraid I can't. My parents might disown me if I do."
Angelika relented. After all, handsome though Karl was, she would not want to marry him if he were cut off from his family's fortune.
"I'll announce our engagement tomorrow and ask my mother to hurry up with the arrangements."
Meanwhile, the bride-to-be was taken back to Frau Luisa's house since it would be inappropriate to spend the night with Karl before they were pronounced man and wife.
The following morning, Angelika waited by the window, keeping watch for Karl's arrival. When she saw the carriage approaching, she ran out the door to meet her fiancé. However, as she stepped inside the vehicle, he greeted her not with a smile but with a downcast look.
"What's wrong?" she demanded to know as the carriage began to travel down the street.
"My parents," he answered, unable to look her in the face. "They have forbidden me to marry you."
"Why? They don't even know me!"
"They believe that, as a mere farmer's daughter, you are unworthy to be my wife."
Angelika took the brush from her pocket and furiously ran the bristles through her hair. The blond tresses, growing at an alarming speed, seemed to reach out for the helpless young man, encircling his arms, legs, torso and neck as though determined to bind Karl to Angelika in bonds stronger than matrimony.
"What is happening?" he managed to ask before a lock of blond hair covered his mouth.
The young man struggled to break free, but those long, golden locks only held him tighter. Soon they squeezed the very life out of him.
"Karl?" Angelika called when he stopped moving.
There was no answer. The brush slipped from her hand and fell to the floor of the carriage.
"Help!" she screamed.
The driver reined in the horses, climbed down from his seat and opened the carriage door.
"Good God!" he cried in horror.
"Help me. Karl is caught in my hair."
The driver took a knife out of his pocket and started to hack at the strangling tresses, but there was no saving the lovesick young man. Realizing she was the cause of Karl's death, Angelika jumped from the carriage and ran back to Frau Luisa's home, leaving the magic brush behind. Upon entering the house, she grabbed a pair of scissors from the widow's sewing box and cut her hair as short as a boy's. By the time she returned to her parents' farm at the end of the week, however, the charmed tresses had grown well past her shoulders.
* * *
"A much-changed Angelika dutifully kept her word to her parents," Old Kristof declared, bringing his story to its conclusion. "She married a farmer shortly after returning from Stuttgart. Karl's death was deemed a bizarre accident. No one blamed the farmer's daughter for it—no one, that is, except Angelika herself.
"Before dying in the same village where she had been born, she lived another sixty years. During those six decades, upon waking each morning, she picked up the scissors on the table beside her bed and cut off the long tresses that had grown during the night. She then repeated that ritual every evening before going to sleep, cutting off the hair that had grown to her waist during the day."
The peddler, having finished his tale, accepted a stein of beer from the miller's wife.
Little Angelika, whose name and long blond hair had inspired the evening's entertainment, tried to stifle a yawn. Although it was well past her bedtime, she wanted to hear more of Old Kristof's stories.
"I'll tell you another one tomorrow," the peddler promised.
"About another girl with long hair?" the child asked sleepily.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tell one about a miller and his wife instead," he answered, smiling at Fritz and Berta. "Or a farmer named Wilhelm and his cows. It all depends on what inspires me at the time."
With the promise of another tale to delight them, the villagers returned to their homes, and Old Kristof sought the comfort of the bed at the gristmill. Before closing his eyes in slumber, the peddler recalled the night's tale.
"I'll have to remember that one," he told himself. "There's a little girl in the next village who has long blond hair. She will no doubt enjoy hearing it."
Salem sometimes wears his hair long, but he doesn't like the way it frizzes up in humid weather.
