This story is quite a departure for me. I set it centuries ago, both for the task of authentically imagining a past era, and for the discipline of writing in a ‘period’ style. Attempts were made for names, locations, and events to be historically accurate. Allow me to introduce our narrator …
It was the twilight of the seventeenth century, and the dawn of my life–or lives.
Looking back over the active years of my life, I have had many names, nearly as many nationalities, and even a few religions. As near as I’ve been able to discover, I was born in a small village on the shores of the Neusiedler See, in what is now Austria. The year was around 1690; all that anyone could remember was that it was less than a decade after Emperor Leopold I defeated the Ottoman Turks. They’d come from Hungary, attacking Vienna in 1683. Since any invading or retreating forces had to go around the See, and our village was centered on the eastern shore, we were spared any destruction as they passed in the distance on either side, and thus lived peaceably through this long stormy era.
My original christened name was Jules Louis Schneider. My father was Franz Schneider, originally from Salzburg, and my mother was Marie-Therese Grenier. She was French-Swiss, and their parents had business relations of some sort; my young father and mother met as youths and later married. Another business contact led my father to the Neusielder See and his future.
My parents owned a small but tidy and prosperous inn. Although out of the way of the main highways of travel in those parts, many travelers learned to make the detour for the comfort of this inn, the quality of its stable, and the excellent hospitality of my mother. Because of its remote location and its idyllic views, our inn was also much favored by some of the gentry. Only as an adult did I realized that its remoteness made it ideal for romantic trysts away from the eyes of the Hapsburg court. My parents were held in high esteem by travelers and were apparently quite well-liked by their neighbors.
I was by all accounts a happy, healthy baby, if a bit on the scrawny side. Once I had a few years of life, it became obvious that I took after my mother, with nearly porcelain skin contrasting with my father’s ruddy good-humored face. My hair as a child was blonde, as my mother’s had been so until she matured. My hair was allowed to grow long, tied back like village boys, perhaps because my hair reminded my mother of her own youth. My father was not a big strapping man but was compact and well-proportioned, after the new breed of city folk; he was overshadowed standing next to some of our hearty villagers, but they respected him as a man of learning and of honor.
The first six years of my life were blissful, as much as any small child can have, but my life took a turn in my eighth year, when my father was thrown from a horse, a new acquisition to our small stable. His neck was broken and he died instantly. I mourned him and remember the gloom that settled over my happy world, and the great aching gap where my father had been in our lives. My mother was loving but never the same, in the brief time allotted her.
Even with the loss of my father, it was a happy time for me. I remember playing with Franciska, the daughter of our groomsman, Mr. Ganz. We were the only children around the inn, and although she was nearly two years older we spent all of our free time playing together. They were childish games, and perhaps we were too old to be playing them, but the only knowledge I had of games came from those she played, which were girls’ games. The village was too far for me to go alone, and even then the boys of the village were hard at work in their families’ fields and had no free time. There was little enough free time with Franciska, actually, since she worked with her mother Agnes in our kitchen and I was at lessons with Mother, whose great passion was knowledge.
I learned to read and write, something many villagers could not do. Mother insisted I learn, and my father had taught me basic mathematics. As I was small and somewhat delicate for my age I was deemed unfit for labor and was to be a scholar. In parts of the world where cultures mix, people naturally learn to speak more than one language; however I seemed to have a special talent for picking up languages. Around our inn, we regularly conversed in different forms of German and Magyar, the language of the Hungarians, of course. My mother also taught me French and some of the peculiar Swiss, and I picked up bits of local dialects from others in the village. Whenever possible I learned to read and write in the languages that I could speak.
On the day my life changed definitively, I was with Franciska as usual. We were playing house, her favorite game. On this day, she was the mother and I was the naughty daughter. For some reason she was always the mother or father; never was I the father and rarely was I the son. She would call me Juliska, a Hungarian girl’s name close to my own name. After all, Franciska told me sternly, what’s the use of playing by pretending to be what we really were? Being younger and smaller I dutifully followed her.
That day, as usual, Franciska had stripped me and dressed me in one of her cast-off dresses. We had gone out and picked some mushrooms, which grew varied and plentiful in the area. I liked mushrooms in our meals, and tried to eat one freshly picked but Franciska had taken it from my hand and put it in our little pail, scolding me that I was a naughty girl and the mushrooms were for her mother for cooking. I had already found that a girl’s dress was handy for hiding things, so I had three mushrooms hidden in its folds. Walking back to the inn, Franciska stopped behind a tree to pee and I quickly gobbled the mushrooms, delighting in their taste and the dark earthy smell of them.
Back at the inn, the mushrooms were delivered and I was rewarded with a small bowl of soup from Franciska’s mother. Then we went behind the stable to play. I was spinning in place, pretending to be naughty, as directed, and pretending to not listen to Franciska, my ‘mother’, when we heard a clamor in the inn. There were shouts and the note of fear in the voices froze us. Then Franciska grabbed my hand and dragged me after her as we went to see the matter.
My mother had collapsed. We had no physician in the area, only an Apothecary, and people depended on the knowledge of the elder women. One had been summoned, Mama Nusa, as my mother was taken to her room. The next few hours were a flurry; my only clear memory was of being brought bedside to see my mother who was pale and gasping. She pulled me close and I was shocked at how weak she was. Then she kissed my forehead and fell back in the bed and I was shoved out of the room.
Many years later, when I was financially able to pursue matters, I discovered the truth of that day after discreet inquiries through an intermediary. My mother and I had been poisoned. What prevented my death were the mushrooms I’d eaten; they had disagreed violently with me and immediately after being removed from my mother, I doubled over in agony. Despite my internal misery, I did not fail to note the strange smile on Agnes Ganz’ face; I would later surmise that the soup she’d so lovingly served me contained the same poison that had just killed my mother. The mushrooms I’d hastily eaten while playing, already working their sickness in my stomach, caused me to vomit so violently and copiously that I expelled the soup and its poison before it had time to do its evil work.
My later inquiries revealed that the Ganz family had always coveted our inn but my family was too well-liked in the village for them to act. My father’s death was truly accidental, and my mother truly was pining for him, and that gave them the opening they needed. Over months they had spread rumors, a dropped tale here and there, about my mother’s sinking despondency and desire to join her deceased husband in death. The tale they spun, along with some circumstances they arranged, was to make our deaths appear as if my mother took both of our lives in her misery. It was helpful to their lies that she was neither Austrian nor Hungarian; the villagers murmured, ‘French, Swiss, who knows how they think? Perhaps this is their way; so sad, so sad.’
It was only natural that the Ganz family become the new proprietors of the inn. The only detail that upset their plans were those blessed mushrooms that saved me. The elder woman, Mama Nusa, had arrived and performed what passed for a legal determination of death for my mother, but found me retching and sweaty–and not dead. She arranged for me to be brought to her small house to care for, and I spent several weeks recovering and therefore missed my mother’s funeral and burial. I have it on good authority that there was quite a large turnout and more than a few dark looks at the new owners, but the Ganz family braved it and took over the inn.
Mama Nusa nursed me to health but there had been some damage done to my body; I would forever after bear the effects of the poison. My face had always been ‘babyish’, as Franciska constantly reminded me, and would always retain that youthful look. Curiously, my blonde hair would remain blonde and would not darken as my mother’s had. In some ways, it was as if the poison froze parts of me in time, but it proved to be beneficial to me later.
In my life there have been several fortuitous circumstances that either spared me from a difficult situation or set my life in a new direction. The best example I have already given; my clandestine consumption of mushrooms saved my life by acting as an emetic and removing the fatal poison from my system. While I would never tempt Fate to trust that somehow I would escape a predicament, I will allow that my life has been blessed with an unusually high degree of such circumstances, prompting me, in my mind, forever after to deem these circumstances as examples of ‘mushroom luck’.
Two unrelated events occurred while I was recovering under Mama Nusa’s care and further revealed ‘mushroom luck’. As I felt better and was beginning to help around Mama Nusa’s house, I discovered that she could not read. She had a drawer with scraps of paper that she would take out and puzzle over. I had thought they were recipes for the potions she used in her healing, but discovered she mixed those from memory, or from a strange collection of papers with small pictures or diagrams. She was studying one of the written papers and I noticed she held it upside down. Gently I took it from her, turned it upright, and saw that it was, indeed, a sort of recipe, for cooling a fever. I said as much and her eyes lit up and she pointed to a word and I read it as ‘mandrake’ and her eyes grew big as saucers.
The second event occurred the day before I was to leave her care. A cousin of Mama Nusa’s was visiting from the south. She was even older than Mama Nusa, who was our village elder but looked remarkably young for the many years she was reputed to have lived. After my weeks of convalescence, I had become somewhat itchy to get out in the world. I had been outside the day before and a bout of dizziness had plopped me into the mud on the edge of the stream that ran behind Mama Nusa’s house. Consequently my clothes were being patched and cleaned, and I was outside again and wearing a gown made for one of Mama Nusa’s granddaughters; a lovely shift, white and embroidered with colorful Magyar stitching. The child had been six when she died and had never worn the gown, and it actually fit me quite well. I had grown used to girls’ clothes through my play with Franciska, and I had washed my hair that day and it was drying long and loose.
I had been collecting flowers for Mama Nusa’s cousin to welcome her, and I entered laughing, my clear skin flushed with joy, my hair loose, and my gown floating about my bare legs. I shyly handed the flowers to the cousin, who smiled and asked ‘such a pretty girl’s’ name. Something possessed me to use Franciska’s name for me and I answered ‘Juliska’. Mama Nusa’s cousin smiled and asked Mama Nusa if I was her new student? Before the stunned Mama could answer, the cousin went on to say that I was that rare combination of feminine innocence with the sparkle of intelligence in my eyes. I blushed and thanked her and noticed Mama Nusa’s deepening look.
I returned to the inn to discover very different circumstances. While I was not a pampered, spoiled young prince, I had been held in some regard as the son of the well-liked owners. Due to my frailty, I was not expected to do hard labor but had helped out with the cooking and linens from time to time. Most of my time had been spent in studies with my mother and father. I was being groomed to assume the ownership of our inn when I grew to maturity.
With the death of my parents, this was no longer the case. I was an orphan, and a scrawny one, especially when compared with the orphan boys of the village. My parents’ bedroom had of course been taken by Mr. and Mrs. Ganz, and Franciska was now in my room. I was stunned to see how rapidly any traces of my existence had been removed; the room was an expanded version of the small room to the side of the kitchen where Franciska had slept. I had walked into what had been my room as a simple matter of habit, and Franciska angrily scolded me and demanded I get out of her room. Tearfully I asked where I was to sleep; I was dragged by the hand to the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Ganz were talking. Franciska slapped my head and told me to remain silent. I was silent but more from shock at her actions.
Mr. and Mrs. Ganz finished their discussion about what was to be done with me. Mrs. Ganz gave me several withering looks but I faced her squarely. Mr. Ganz looked at me once and smiled which earned him a loud rebuke from his wife. Finally he shrugged and nodded slowly and as he left he gave me a very sad smile, but from the look on his face and my intuition, I believe that he was unaware of my mother’s murder that I now know was perpetrated by his wife. He was a simple groomsman, slow and sturdy, and since he seemed uncomfortable with the pretentions of his wife and daughter, I deem him innocent of their wickedness.
I remained standing in the center of the room, as if in a courtroom. Mrs. Ganz now sat as if a queen, with Franciska at her side, wearing a smirk that I had never seen on her face before. I was told that I was no longer the young master but would be allowed to live at the inn as long as I contributed. Work would be found for me to do but I must not expect special privileges or allow myself any dream of inheriting the inn. Mrs. Ganz stated that the law expressly forbade any inheritance by a child and anything and everything of the Schneider family was now owned by the Ganz family.
Mrs. Ganz told me that my mother had been running the inn very poorly as she grew more despondent, and the Ganz family would have to work doubly hard to restore the inn to its former prestige. Both of these statements were lies, as I was to discover over time.
With that I was led to Franciska’s old room where I was to wait. I was called to dinner …but it was in the kitchen, after the Ganz family had been fed in the dining room. As I lay down to bed, hot tears of shame flowed for some reason, but I resolved to never let the Ganz family see me cry.
The next several weeks were a flurry of activity, trying to find work that I could do–and, I believe, work that would be sufficiently demeaning to break my spirits. Mrs. Ganz brought several new people to work for her, as she would no longer cook herself but would oversee everything. I was first tried in the kitchen, but was always underfoot due to my small stature, and my hands were too small and weak to grasp large or heavy objects. The new girls were large, sturdy farm girls and some city girls, who believed the Ganz Inn, as it was now called, would be an easier life than whatever life they led. I will say that the new cook had knowledge, and one of the girls, Marta, would smile kindly at me as she passed, but I was ejected from the kitchen as unsuitable.
A place was hoped for me in the stables. Mr. Ganz was patient in teaching me of horses, and I seemed to have a calming effect on them, but once again I was much too small and young for the necessary labor and a young man from the village, Tomas, was found to assist Mr. Ganz. Reluctantly, Mr. Ganz had to admit that I lacked usefulness in the stables but seemed hesitant to return me to his wife’s domain. I shall never forget the look he gave me as I left the stables for the last time, and it was that look that confirms that he was aware of his wife’s plans for me, if not aware of my mother’s murder. Tomas also gave me an unreadable look, but I was to learn of its meaning only later.
What remained was to work in the house. I stood before Mrs. Ganz and volunteered to assist with the operations of the inn. I pointed out that I could add and subtract sums easily, with multiplication and division a bit slower, and that my father had instructed me about business practices. Mrs. Ganz appeared sorrowful and said that in my mother’s despondency, she had burned all of the family papers and records, and Mrs. Ganz was having to start all over with an accounting system of her own–yet another lie. Sadly, she said, there was no possibility of my being of any use to her. All that remained was service inside the inn.
At this point I should like to remark that the inn was in a period of transformation. Immediately after assuming ownership, the Ganzes began building an addition, which was to house the expanded staff. And expand they did, adding nearly a dozen new faces. Cook and Marta were replacements for Mrs. Ganz and Franciska in the kitchen, and Tomas had been added to assist Mr. Ganz in the stables, but all the others were girls from quite a wide region. It was actually a bit of a treat for me, because there were new dialects and even two new languages, from an Italian girl, or at least a girl who spoke Italian and bad German. I was later to learn that she was actually Swiss. I quickly noticed the similarity in the Italian and French languages, although her Swiss-Italian was unique.
The girls were housed in the new addition even as it was under construction; it was a warm spring and promised to be a hotter summer so the uncompleted structure allowed plenty of cooling breezes. The addition came to be called ‘the rooms’ and were differentiated from the guests’ quarters by calling them ‘the suites’, which sounded fancy to Mrs. Ganz but was not a strictly accurate description of the guest rooms. I was now moved into the rooms, because my room off the kitchen–Franciscka’s old room–was now necessary for Cook. I joined Marta and the other girls in the rooms, with a little one of my own at the far end of the hall.
It was assumed that I would assist in the maintenance of the suites, which essentially meant working as a maid. Since I was not a maid, and too small to lift the heavy loads of laundry, I was a hair’s breadth away from being declared totally useless and turned out as a homeless orphan. However, it was thought that perhaps, as a final chance, I could be taught a new skill. One new girl, Ilka, had made the mistake of announcing that she could sew and was burdened with all the repairs needed for nearly twenty people. In addition, there was the maintenance of the bedding in the suites, which had rich embroidery. It was discovered that my hands and eye were nimble and I was taught to sew and embroider. This was my salvation.
Ilka patiently taught me and I quickly learned. She also learned that I developed some skills to a higher level than hers, and I was doing any embroidery and needlepoint necessary, in addition to maintenance and repairs. One of the suite maids would come with a torn skirt, and I would mend it while she still wore it. Tomas would come in with a pair of torn trousers and I took them, noting again his strange look. But my days and weeks passed with pricked fingers and sore finger muscles, but they were gladly suffered compared to working in the stables or kitchen.
On the day Mrs. Ganz informed me that I would not be able to help with the accounting, and that I would be moving into the rooms, I realized any claim to existence I had at the inn was growing thinner by the moment. I took that opportunity to ask a favor, knowing that later I might not even be allowed to ask. Mrs. Ganz seemed exasperated and a bit wary until I asked if I could have our family Bible, and perhaps my mother’s three precious books. Mrs. Ganz readily agreed to my having the Bible, and as the books were in French, she had no use for them and allowed me to select one, claiming she’d have to sell the others to help the inn. I selected my mother’s Bible, and although Mrs. Ganz thought it absurd to have two Bibles, she gave it to me. I never saw my mother’s other two books again.
My reasoning for selecting the Bibles was twofold. First, if there was any remaining family information of the Schneiders, it might be in our Bible. Sadly, that turned out to not be the case. Secondly was the matter of religion. My father was Roman Catholic and I had been baptized in the Catholic faith. However, my mother had been from a Protestant family, and had a Bible in French. I thought I might be able to acquire a German Bible easily from one of the new girls, several of whom were Calvinist. Religion had never been a major function of my family life; my parents were dutiful Christians but reserved their devotions to Sundays. However, they lived piously the rest of the week, in their thoughts and deeds.
I wasn’t concerned about the salvation of my soul. Our family Bible was ancient, and written in Latin, and with the French and later the German Bible that I got from an Eastern Hungarian girl, I was able to cross-translate and learn Latin, as well as strengthening my skill in the other two languages. It was good to exercise my mind after a day of exhausting my body, and I was considered a devout Christian and nobody questioned my reading habits, although some of the girls had some sport with me later.
There were times when I was reasonably happy. I would take a communal meal of porridge with the girls of the rooms, and would go to the sewing room. Ilka and I would have piles of clothing to work on every day, some days more than others. I had rigged a small book stand and could place two Bibles side by side to study as I sewed the easy repairs. For more intricate work I would be bent over the piece, stitching carefully, and talking with Ilka. We took a short break at midday for some tea and buttered bread, and would resume our labors until dinner, which was again taken with the girls. I did not set foot in the inn itself for weeks at a time. After the evening meal, the weather being clement, the girls would sit out by the lake, talking and laughing. Sometimes they’d sing and one girl had a small guitar she would play and the girls would sing and clap along and occasionally some girls would dance with each other. Then, as the falling night put an end to the pleasantry, to bed.
I was the only male in the rooms; Tomas slept above the stable. As I was still a child, any maleness was negligible, and after our initial meeting, when the girls were unsure of how to treat me and how to act around me, I was quickly accepted as a regular part of their life. I learned a great deal of the world of girls and women from listening to them, and if I was confused, Ilka would patiently explain later. Occasionally the questions I asked caused her to blush, and I would seek out Marta and she would explain, with giggles.
We worked every day of the week and on Sundays were taken to the small church for a Mass. We would go in several groups at different services, and I usually was in the group with Marta and Ilka. I would listen intently, translating in my head for enjoyment. From the priest’s Latin, I would try French, and for his German I would try Magyar. It kept me occupied and my facial expression contributed to my reputation for piety, my mental labors being mistaken for religious devotion. In addition, each girl was allowed one day without work per month, but since it was a distance to town and the Ganzes couldn’t be bothered to provide transportation, the girls usually slept all day.
During this time I had three trousers and four shirts, and one pair of small leather boots. Before my mother died I’d had more clothes, as well as the clothes from when I was younger, but they had disappeared along with everything else of the Schneider family. I made do with my few possessions, thinking of it this way: Four shirts, three trousers, two boots, and one undergarment. I could only dream of the day when I would possess five of something.
I had been back from Mama Nusa’s for about two months. I was at work, sewing and translating, alone for once as Ilka was ill with what I’d come to learn was ‘her monthly’, a female problem different from the allotted day off from work. There was a shadow at my door and I turned to see Franciska. She was wearing much finer clothes than I’d ever seen her in before, and for all that she looked more genteel there was a sour expression on her face that spoiled the effect. She was bored. She was petulant and had grown tired of bossing around the girls working in the inn, and had come looking for more sport, and she found me.
Franciska was the only girl I’d really known until the new girls began to arrive at the rooms. From my experience with them, I now knew that Franciska was a spoiled brat and had always had a mean streak. I could remember what I’d thought in my innocence to be playful games, but in my newfound knowledge, I knew them to be small cruelties. Franciska loved to dominate others. As I was now undeniably in a subservient position, she felt unhindered by respect for me or fear of reprisal.
In short, Franciska demanded that I stop my work immediately and come ‘play’ with her. I knew I had no choice and might suffer for having fallen behind in my work, but I was obligated to obey her. I followed her as she wandered through the rooms, without permission or license, looking into the girls’ things and taking small objects that struck her fancy. I tried to make a mental list of things she took so I could inform the girls and prevent them accusing one another. Each item Franciska casually tossed to me and I realized it wasn’t the object she craved but the power to take it.
She tired of that and had me dump everything in a sack. As I straightened up I saw her studying me and she then commanded me to strip naked and follow her. As children we had stripped and splashed in the lake together, and when she would dress me in her skirts I would be naked for a time. This was seriously different, following her without a stitch of clothing as she searched the girls’ rooms again. This time the items she tossed me were clothes of the girls; undergarments, then a shift, blouse, and skirt. She turned to me and commanded me to ‘fix’ my hair, which was still long but tied back. She grew impatient with my reluctance and stood behind me, angrily yanking my hair as she braided it. Then she took some flowers from one of the girls’ bedside table and plaited them in my hair.
There was a gasp and we turned to see Ilka, pale and holding her stomach, staring at us. Franciska scolded her and demanded to know why she wasn’t working. When she learned that Ilka and I worked together, she looked from one to the other with a sly grin. Then she announced that henceforth, I would be known as Juliska, her old pet name for me–a girl’s name. Also, I would only be allowed to wear girl’s clothing and must be treated as a girl. Her grin grew wolfish. She commanded us to my room, where she snickered at my few possessions. Holding the sack of items she’d taken from the girls, she ordered me to add my four shirts, three pants and undergarment. She sneered at the boots as being too heavy to carry. Then she spun on her heel and left us.
That night at dinner, Ilka made an announcement to the assembled girls, telling them of Franciska’s theft and caprice. I was then brought in, apologizing to those girls whose clothes Franciska had put on me. I also told each of the girls which items were missing and in Franciska’s sack. I was humiliated, embarrassed, and completely unsure what to do after that.
I shall never forget the looks on the girls’ faces, and their kindness, as they folded me in their arms for a large hug. They were bitterly angry at Franciska but were well aware of her temper and knew their place. There was nothing to do but to comply with her wishes. So I was to be Juliska, a girl, from now on. Marta gave me a special hug and said that it wouldn’t be so bad–in fact, it might be the direction my life should take. I was very fortunate that Marta and Ilka, and so many of the other girls, were so kind to me.
We all decided that for me to be unhappy and the girls to be resentful of Franciska’s prank would do no good. The best revenge, such as was available to us, was to take everything in stride. The girls contributed any items they could spare and soon I had an assortment of skirts, blouses, and dresses, and they began including me in their daily ablutions and recreational activities, such as caring for each other’s hair and such. I found very quickly that I was much happier to be ‘one of the girls’ than I had ever been as the dispossessed former young master.
There were two new experiences that first Sunday. The first was the difference in being considered female; I now was required to cover my head at Mass. Fortunately, Marta produced a small lace kerchief and tied it for me, giving me a little kiss on the cheek. The second was the difference in the look from Tomas, who sat across the aisle from us. He usually attended a different Mass than our group but that day he was there and stared at us intently. I could feel his hot eyes on me but considered it to be due to the novelty of seeing me dressed as a girl.
The months passed and my situation was relatively secure, as my sewing was now superior to Ilka’s. I thought nothing of wearing skirts with braided hair, talking and giggling like the other girls. I used my hands delicately when sewing, of course, and found that I was also using them as the other girls did when speaking or describing something. It seemed the natural way to move, and of course it helped me fit in with the girls. I even learned their dances and songs, singing happily with them in my high, clear voice.
Marta was brushing my hair one evening and told me that I was much more comfortable to have around as a girl. I thought she meant due to privacy, but she laughed and said that she just thought that being female was my nature, and couldn’t imagine me growing up to be a man. I would not be honest if I said the idea hadn’t occurred to me. Marta also advised me that if I crossed paths with Franciska again, it would be best to pretend to hate having to dress as a girl. Marta’s reasoning was that if Franciska knew how well we were all getting along, she would give new orders to somehow make us suffer, perhaps even to demand that I be a boy again. Franciska only loved to punish, and it would suit her cruelty to keep me ‘suffering’ as a girl. Marta smiled and said that that way we would all win.
On the first monthly day that I had no work, I decided to walk a distance along the lake to just be with myself and think. I brought a Bible as an excuse, but it was heavy and I only went a short distance. I thought about my future and if it meant spending my time in skirts with my girlfriends, it would be bearable. I couldn’t imagine my prospects as a boy at this time. Content, I sang a little, skipped and twirled in my dress and felt that perhaps Marta was right and this was my destiny.
End of Part 1
It was the twilight of the seventeenth century, and the dawn of my life–or lives.
Our days rolled one after another, with only the regular marking of Sunday Mass and the irregular marking of each girl’s day without work. There were also birthdays to celebrate in our own small way. I had moved from mending clothing to making my own clothes, and my present to each birthday girl was always a prettily embroidered blouse. I was able to return most of the clothes the girls had originally gifted to me after Franciska’s decree, and now wore those of my own making.
We celebrated Church holy days, of course, and had a quiet Christmas. The inn was situated so close to the lake that the weather was somehow milder than it was in the village, but still, that first winter was severe. There were few guests and less to do and we all became irritable from boredom. I was able to retreat into my world of translating–again, being thought devout–and managed to avoid some of the confrontations. Franciska continued to be a terror, of course, capricious and mean.
She stormed into our sewing room one day and demanded that I answer for a poor job done on her skirt. Ilka gave me a frightened look; we both knew that I had not done the work–Ilka had. Most likely it was during one of my monthly days without work; I had never seen that particular skirt. Nonetheless, I took the blame, knowing that the sewing had been fine and was not the object of Franciska’s wrath; it was I. As Franciska paced back and forth, yelling how lucky I was that her parents extended ‘Christian charity’ and did not throw me out, I ducked my head and pretended to cry. She paused and I could feel her cruel smile. I took the chance and begged her to let me dress like a boy again and work in the stables. She threw her head back and laughed, ridiculing me for my lack of manliness and increasing her punishment.
Our inn, over time, had many guests of quality interested in a romantic interlude distant from prying eyes. The girls that worked as maids would tell us of how the noble women dressed and acted, sharing details in excited giggles. While removed from a city existence, we kept abreast of the fashions, and the new punishment imposed by Franciska was that I varnish my nails; apparently this was a new fashion. Somehow Franciska had stolen a small jar of lightly colored varnish from one of the guests and she demanded that I wear it daily; she would make surprise visits to make certain that my nails were varnished.
When she returned with the varnish, she added yet another demand, that my cheeks and lips be rouged. Ilka gasped and cried that it would make me look like a prostitute. Franciska spun on her and warned her that Ilka would join me in the punishment if she wasn’t quiet. Franciska said that she had seen ladies of quality with the rouging and that it was the height of fashion, and then produced a rouge container and demanded that I apply both. I had no choice but to comply, although I continued begging with her to relent and let me be a boy again. She haughtily dismissed my pleas as Ilka, shaking with fear, held a small mirror. I knew Franciska well enough to know that no matter what amount I used, she would demand that I apply more. She did so, and laughed triumphantly and, sated by her torture, finally left us.
Immediately I washed my face but then surprised Ilka by reapplying a tiny bit of rouge again, lightly blending it in my cheeks and reddening my lips. I told Ilka that Franciska would return; an hour later I was proved correct. I begged and pleaded to ‘let me remove the horrid stuff’ but Franciska said it must remain and left, this time for good. Ilka stared at me for my smile and I explained that my humiliation was what fed Franciska’s evil furnace and she was now satisfied, and it might be weeks before we crossed paths again and she would probably have a new set of demands. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side I regularly applied the tiniest bit of rouge to my cheeks and lips, and wore the shiny nail varnish. In time I grew to fancy how pretty my nails looked as I stitched. Several of the girls shyly asked if they could borrow a bit of the varnish and rouge when they planned to spend their monthly workless day with a village boy.
I had a deep concern, though. Franciska had stolen the varnish and rouge from guests; what else had she stolen? Obviously her thefts had gone unnoticed so far, but for how long? I knew that one of the reasons Franciska had given me the expensive stolen goods was to shift blame to me if the thefts were reported by the guests. The only mistake she’d made was producing them in front of Ilka, but her need to have a witness to my humiliation overrode any caution. Even if Franciska announced that I was the thief, it would be hard to prove as I had not set foot in the inn proper for months. I only had the reports of the maids as to the status of the inn, which seemed to be falling on hard times. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ganz grew fatter and more sedentary while Mr. Ganz and Tomas seemed to both stay in the stables–Mr. Ganz had even taken to sleeping there. Whether it was by choice or banishment was the subject of much speculation.
There were always fewer guests in winter, but the spring brought no returns of our noble guests. One of the maids, a very bright girl named Aliz, whispered that there had been complaints that the special qualities of the inn were no longer in evidence. My mother had always had a wonderful touch with food, and while Cook was a nice lady, her abilities were not up to the quality of my mother’s cuisine, nor would Mrs. Ganz allot the necessary funds for the better meats and produce. There were occasional guest complaints–those that had returned to us again and again over years–that the service was not up to the previous standards. My father had been able to anticipate the guests’ every need, and both of my parents made all guests feel welcomed. That spirit was gone, and over time the returning guests stopped returning, and the newer guests that began arriving in the spring were of a different class and breeding.
We had always had traveling merchants, but they had been prosperous gentlemen with established businesses in towns and cities. Now the travelers were merchants or vendors who seemed to have no fixed address, moving from town to town peddling their wares, which they often carried in wagons. There were more horses for our stables to care for, but now I heard reports of guests and Mrs. Ganz haggling over the price of rooms. The girls reported some guests taking liberties with the girls, or at least attempting to. Several girls left, including Aliz, preferring to take their chances elsewhere. When she hugged me goodbye, Aliz whispered that her grandmother had The Sight and Aliz had a touch of it and that I should leave as soon as I was able; she felt a darkening cloud over the inn.
As spring gave way to summer, new girls arrived in the rooms. These girls were different from our first girls, coarser, almost slatternly, causing a few more of the original girls to leave, which in turn brought even more new girls of rude quality. Ilka and I kept our heads down and eyes focused on our work, and the few times I saw Marta, she looked haggard and worried. I hugged her and told her I loved her and she said the same, but that whispered that she wanted to run away and that I should come with her, but she lacked the courage to leave.
In short, it became apparent that Mrs. Ganz brought the new girls to provide sexual favors to the guests. Ilka came back from her day in the village to tell me of our inn’s new reputation as a house of ill repute. That was even a more crushing blow to me than my loss of station. There was nothing to be done for it, though, and we found that some of the girls, indolent after a night’s ‘service’, would order us about as if we were their inferiors. The pleasant little community that we girls had shared last summer was now gone; there was a new hierarchy in place and we were at the bottom.
There were also rumors that, business being bad, Mrs. Ganz had entered into an arrangement with smugglers of some sort. I know that a storage building was added to the property, down by the lakeshore, and that we were now forbidden from going anywhere near it. From time to time, looking out one of the upper-story windows that had a lake view, strange men could be seen in the distance either placing items in or removing them from the small building. They arrived by boat and departed by boat, and some of the girls had seen one or more of them up close and said they were rough, frightening men.
Then a merchant’s horse brought me my long-overdue ‘mushroom luck’; as usual, in a convoluted way. The horse had been badly shod in the past and his hooves were wearing unevenly and as Tomas came to examine the damage, the horse kicked out and caught Tomas, opening a nasty gash across his leg. Mr. Ganz treated it as they usually did, but the wound would not heal and was beyond the abilities of the Ganzes; finally Mama Nusa was sent for.
I did not know any of this, other than the laundress commenting on the amount of blood she’d needed to wash out of Tomas’ pants, and a later complaint about the foul-smelling crusted goo on cloths used to bandage his leg. Mama Nusa arrived and treated the delirious Tomas with a cleansing emetic and a poultice and asked for a girl to teach how to care for Tomas until he healed. She was given Tzigane, one of the new girls and a bit of a lazy slattern. I believe that she was assigned to nurse Tomas simply to give her something to do, and to get her out from underfoot. She proved to be unable or unwilling to remember the simple directions, and Mama Nusa demanded a replacement. As I later learned, Mama Nusa had first asked for me; that is, she had asked for the boy Jules and was told there was no such person at the inn. Tzigane, on being replaced, had said, well, there was the ‘sewing girl Juliska, but she’s just a little thing’. Mama Nusa remembered that day I used the name to her cousin, and so I was summoned.
I gave Mama Nusa a joyous hug on seeing her, and then she stood me back and stared at me. Needless to say, I had changed, even beyond the day I had worn her granddaughter’s shift with my hair loose. Now my hair was quite long and braided as a country girl’s, with small blue and white flowers. I wore a sleeveless embroidered white blouse and a blue patterned skirt of my own making, and open-toed sandals. My cheeks and lips were lightly rouged and my nails were shiny with varnish. There was also the matter that when I spoke, my voice had a girl’s melody and my hands waved delicately. Mama Nusa raised an eyebrow, pursed her lips, and then gruffly told me the simple procedure to treat Tomas. Then she went into the inn, but turned to look at me one more time. I was so happy to see her; I waved and blew her a kiss. Mama Nusa nodded, a smile creased her careworn face, and left.
The next step in my current flow of ‘mushroom luck’ occurred due to a cruel prank and my own ignorance. Tzigane was petulant at having been dismissed from the task of caring for Tomas, and affected her revenge the next day, in the evening as we all sat behind the inn, watching birds alight in the lake. Tzigane asked how Tomas’ convalescence was proceeding and I reported that I’d changed the poultice twice and that he was mostly sleeping but still somewhat delirious when awake. Tzigane nodded and said perhaps she would have changed it three times but Mama Nusa said she should also–and then she brushed any further comment aside.
I asked that she tell me, and she said that Mama Nusa had given her the full instructions but thought she was stupid; it was just because Tzigane’s southern Magyar made her sound that way to some people. To prove it, Tzigane asked if I had prepared the poultice properly, naming the ingredients and application. She truly had learned the process, and I agreed with her that she could have treated Tomas as she had been instructed properly and retained the information. Tzigane then casually asked about ‘maintenance of the root’. I had no idea what she was talking about; I searched my memory for any root or vegetable stalk that was used in the poultice but could think of nothing.
Tzigane then shrugged it off, saying it probably didn’t matter and that he’d get well enough, most likely. This was such a casual dismissal of his chances at full recovery that I was afraid I’d been so full of joy to be reunited with Mama Nusa that perhaps I hadn’t listened properly. I was terrified of letting her down, and terrified, too, to consider going to ask her about the proper care. I begged Tzigane to tell me about the ‘maintenance of the root’ and she seemed annoyed that she’d have to repeat Mama Nusa’s explanation but I seemed like a nice girl and, well, all right; she’d tell me.
Being called ‘a nice girl’ was unremarkable to me; it had been over a year since Franciska’s imperious order that I become Juliska, and there were the new girls–such as Tzigane–who may or may not have known that I was, in fact, a boy. I was just the little girl with a sewing ability, and didn’t feel the need to state my maleness, and to do so would only invite Franciska’s wrath, as Marta had pointed out.
Consequently, as Tzigane gave me the supposed instructions of Mama Nusa–while actually setting her prank in motion–she began by asking if I had ever seen a male’s member, his root, and I replied, truthfully but cryptically, yes I had, on a small boy. I meant myself, of course, but ever mindful of Franciska, I kept my own counsel. Tzigane rolled her eyes and said that it was very different for a man, and as Tomas was almost fully a man, I would have to be instructed. She bade me fetch a carrot or cucumber and some plums from the kitchen. When I returned with them, puzzled, Tzigane held the cucumber vertically in the palm of her hand and then placed two plums at its base, holding them all in her hand.
Tzigane instructed me that the male root could grow rigid and tall, very like the cucumber. There were several causes, impure thoughts or anger, for instance. If the member were floppy, I must do thusly, and she stroked the length of the cucumber. When the resemblance of the root to the cucumber was achieved, it was full of pressure. The pressure must be relieved for his health, she said seriously, at least once daily. While I could continue to stroke the root, and she demonstrated on the vegetable, it was best for me to take it in my mouth. She bent slightly and inserted the tip of the cucumber in her mouth and her lips pursed fatly as she sucked at it. Taking it out, she said it was best to take as much of the root as I could in my mouth, and the pulsing sucking action should be like a heartbeat. She demonstrated, to giggles and strange comments from some of the other girls.
The things the girls said I took to mean that this was very common knowledge among females, and I felt proud that I was being taught such a grown-up skill, knowing that they still considered me a child. I listened dutifully to Tzigane’s instructions as well as the remarks from the other girls, such as licking the length of the shaft, and kissing the tip affectionately. Innocently I asked them, was this truly the result of anger? I was told with laughs that many a woman had turned a wrathful male into a docile lamb by this practice.
The plums and cucumber were handed to me and I dutifully followed their instructions. Two of the girls came over and took the items from me and demonstrated and I repeated their actions once I held the items again, more confident now from their demonstrations that this was, in fact, knowledge that was common among girls. I was instructed about the gentle touch necessary for handling the plums, and also told that a raging madman could be tamed by painfully squeezing them and kneeing or kicking them for maximum crippling. It was shocking news to me, as my own ‘plums’ had yet to appear and I was truly ignorant of their fragility. As the girls continued their instructions, I felt a wonderful sense of belonging, truly feeling that I was growing up for a change, and as I have stated, I had no qualms about being considered every bit as female as they.
One set of instructions, however, gave me pause. I had to ask in greater detail about the spurting the girls mentioned, because of course the cucumber was inert. They made it plain that it was different from urine and was beneficial, both for the male that was relieved of it and the female that received it. One girl said she didn’t care for the saltiness of it and would spit it out, but the others said she was a northern girl with a delicate palate and could not bear salt on any of her food. The other girls were quite happy to swallow it down, and two of them said they would greedily suck the root dry, almost as if drinking the male energy, and feel happy afterward.
Puzzled, I asked how the spurting could be beneficial if swallowed, if the same material was so harmful to be retained in the male. The girls looked at each other, searching for an explanation, and it was decided that the energy was harmful only when contained in the rigid male root but was harmless when expelled. This seemed to make sense, so after a few more demonstrations, I was deemed fit to minister to Tomas. To this day I do not know if any of those girls had knowledge of my male existence; if so, it was a particularly vicious prank. It is my belief that–other than the wicked Tzigane–they merely thought they were instructing a young girl in necessary and familiar skills, not seeing it as a vice or a sin, and in my ignorance there was no evil or distaste connected with that skill.
Desperately afraid that I had betrayed Mama Nusa’s confidence in me by failing to heed her instructions to perform this daily service on Tomas–as I’d been led to believe by Tzigane–I went directly the stables. I had not seen Mr. Ganz since I had been found unsuitable for stable work. In the time since then, perhaps he had seen me from afar when I was with the other girls at lakeside; the Ganz family did not attend the same Mass as we did, nor did I have any evidence they attended church. Now I stood before him, demure and submissive, feet together and hands clasped before me, in an embroidered skirt and lacy blouse of my own making, my hair long and plaited, with my nails varnished, cheeks and lips rouged. His eyes widened and an immense sadness came to them, and a touch of something else. I realized later it was shame.
I was blushing and stammering that I had come to administer to Tomas in Tzigane’s place, and that I hoped to speed his recovery. With a slow nod, Mr. Ganz directed me to Tomas’ bedside in his small room over the stables, where he lay on sweaty sheets, still semi-delirious. I had changed his poultice earlier and decided that it was still good for the night, so I sat on the edge of the bed and carefully untied his breeches and lay the front flap down, exposing his male parts.
I let out a little gasp at their size and furriness. Tzigane was right; there was absolutely no correspondence between the bald, finger-long object between my legs and the massive root before me, and the ‘plums’, which I knew he called his balls, were ropy with veins. I had to admit that Tzigane’s cucumber and plums were a very accurate substitute for what lay between Tomas’ legs.
My instructions were clear and I applied them properly. With one hand, I began stroking Tomas’ root while my other hand cradled his balls, and as described, his root stiffened and grew in length and thickness. I thought it interesting that he was not quite awake and was still delirious but that his male member acted as if on its own initiative. When it seemed nearly as long as my forearm and fully fit my grasp and would grow no larger, I licked its length as the girls instructed and then inserted the shaft in my mouth. After sliding in and out, as far in my mouth and throat as I could without gagging, and vigorously sucking as I drew it to its length, I was rewarded with a clenching and then a copious spurting of his male energy, which I dutifully swallowed. It was salty, slightly sour, and warm, but not objectionable and certainly better than some medicines and potions I had swallowed when ill. I sucked his root dry, as Tzigane directed me, and then kissed the tip as if in goodbye, as another girl said she liked to do. It brought a smile to me and I felt a sense of accomplishment, especially watching the effect on Tomas, who had tightened before the spurting, had bucked a bit, and then relaxed in a peaceful lassitude. The girls were right; any anger and bad feelings had been removed from his body.
I gently rolled Tomas this way and that to change the sweaty sheets under him and then covered him gently and returned to the rooms. I could not understand the looks that passed between the girls when I reported back to Tzigane that I had accomplished my mission; I know now that they were suppressing their laughter and disbelief. Since the evening’s instruction had implied that my actions were commonly known of and practiced by all adult women, I did not boast or brag or even discuss what I had done for Tomas with Ilka or Marta any more than I would have boasted of changing his poultice.
The second day that I ministered to Tomas, he was awake and clear minded. I changed his poultice, noting the improvement already, and thought that perhaps it was because I had ‘completed’ the ministrations with my oral servicing the night before. I actually sent a prayer of thanks to Tzigane for helping me improve my ministrations. Then I smiled at Tomas and started undoing the front of his pants. He startled and asked me what I was about and I told him to lay back and let me minister to him. He was already semi-rigid and gasped a bit when I touched him and really gasped when I bent and took him in my mouth. He made numerous utterances such that I paused and told him to keep quiet; nobody wanted to hear about his medication. He grinned at that and while he bucked and gurgled back comments, he was quiet, even when rising off the bed while spurting. I kissed his tip again and did him up and then told him to roll over as I would change his sheets. I am only now fully aware of the magnitude of his astonishment when I smiled and left.
Tomas grew stronger daily and by the fifth day was able to return to work in the stables. Yet a message was passed to me that I was needed there; Tomas met me in his room and requested I orally administer to him again. I pointed out that he was cured, for the most part, and he grew insistent, and then demanding, even grabbing my arm and twisting it, forcing me into a kneeling position before him. I remembered one of the girls saying that I could transform his rage into docility so I did not resist. He fumbled quickly with his pants, exposing his rigid red root, and I thought, aha, the girls were right. His anger is being caused by the pressure within his member. I could easily use both hands on his shaft and balls, although I had to stretch up from my knees to get the height to place his unbending root into my mouth. Tomas’ hands instantly changed from grasping, threatening claws to soft palms that caressed my hair, gently urging my head forward onto his shaft. He had to grab the edge of his bed for support when he began spurting, but recovered quickly and was all smiles. Then he told me that it would be my daily duty to minister to him and that we were not to bother telling any of the others as it was his personal medical recovery.
I wasn’t too concerned about that; it was the work of five or ten minutes, no more, and would give me a break from my labors in the sewing room, but that very night I received a shock. I was sitting with Tzigane–whom I still mistakenly took to be a new friend–and one of the other girls, when the subject of Tomas came up and I thanked them for their instructions. They giggled and nodded, and then I asked, in very loose terms, about the spurting material, since I’d just that day seen a vivid display of anger dissipated by the oral service. Again I asked, how could the anger, the evil energy, be beneficial if swallowed? From one body to another, but the material didn’t change so how could its nature change?
Tzigane replied casually that it was because it was male energy and had no effect on females. I was too stunned as the implications came to mind, and they took this to be incomprehension. The other girl explained, patiently and slowly, that the universe was divided into males and females, male energy and female energy, both positive and negative, light and dark. The male energy gave them their drive, their desire to fight and wrestle and best each other in sport–very different from female enery. When that male force, contained in part in the spurting material, was expelled from the male body, there was that lassitude I’d noticed in Tomas, but not for long–the male body was continuing to manufacture the substance and the whole process continued. Tzigane pointed out that as males grew older, their bodies produced less and less and that accounted for the lack of fire in older men. It all made perfect sense to me. It was not right, of course–or perhaps, partially right in intent if wrong in substance–but their casual reassurances that, as a female, the negative male energy would have no effect on me chilled me to the bone. I thanked them and went to sit in my room, desperately wondering what to do about my situation.
As it was almost summer and not late, I suddenly knew what must be done. I went back to the stables and told Tomas that I had urgent need to see Mama Nusa and that his health depended on it. A small lie, but effective–Tomas certainly wanted to continue receiving his daily ‘oral medication’. Dinner was already over and duties done, so Tomas saddled a horse and swung me up before him on the saddle and we galloped to Mama Nusa’s house, some distance away. When we arrived, I told Tomas that he must not come in or try to overhear us; he replied that as long as I would service him he was content and was going to take the horse to water from Mama Nusa’s stream.
Mama Nusa was somewhat surprised to see me at that hour yet not too surprised to see me, it seemed. Thinking that the oral service had been part of her instructions, I began by dutifully telling her about Tomas’ recovery, the state of his wound, and the application of the poultice. Then I began telling her of his responsiveness to the oral ministrations and she stood, wide-eyed with anger, and demanded I explain myself. I burst into tears at her response, misunderstanding its cause, and admitted that I hadn’t heard her instructions on this matter but that Tzigane had relayed them to me. Mama Nusa suddenly collapsed over me in a hug and was crying herself, which shocked me.
At this point I explained the reason for my call. I was concerned about the negative male energy extracted from Tomas’ root having negative effects on me. Tzigane and the other girls took me to be female and I told Mama Nusa their reasoning, that being female protected them from the male energy. But since I was male–although a poor specimen of the breed–was I causing myself injury? And if I were to stop the oral service for fear of that potential injury, what of Tomas’ healing? It was an insoluble dilemma and had caused my flight to her side for answers.
What I never expected was for Mama Nusa to throw her head back with laughter. She had been weeping uncontrollably before, but now it was tears of laughter that seemed difficult to stop. She stood and pulled a chair over to the front of me and took my hands in hers and tried to speak but couldn’t for her mirth. While she got control of herself, I looked at my hands in hers, seeing the great contrast. While not a large woman, Mama Nusa’s hands dwarfed mine. Her hands were rough with age and work and potions, with a few age spots and short, clipped nails. My own hands were small, delicate, white, unblemished, and with varnished oval nails.
Finally, Mama Nusa gave me the most sad and yet warmly loving look, and began by calmly asking how I felt about my last two years. I was shocked, absolutely rocked, to realize that my father had died, my mother was murdered, I was poisoned, I lost my inheritance, and now sat before her, to all intents and purposes, a lowly sewing girl–all within but two years. I was too stunned to answer at first, so Mama Nusa took a different approach. She said that I had a right to full information about what had transpired, but she would tell me later as we had little time before nightfall and Tomas would need light to guide the horse back to the inn. Instead, she was going to ask me a question: She asked if I would like to continue as a seamstress at the inn, or come to live with her and learn to be a healer. She knew I had intelligence and was literate, and we seemed to have some affection for each other.
I was about to answer, still feeling the direction, when she held up a hand and said there was a second question to be asked, and while it had little effect on the first question, it must be asked. Did I feel that I was a girl or a boy? Did I wish to spend the rest of my life as a boy or a girl? Again she held up her hand and said for me to not answer. I was to think on these things. Without answering, as she’d directed, I asked Mama Nusa two questions of my own. First, while I was currently a seamstress at the inn, what were my prospects in the years to come? And second, was it truly possible for me to live a full life as a male, and was it truly possible for me to live a full life as a female?
Mama Nusa put her head down in silence, then answered that I was right and wise to ask; I needed her answers before considering her questions. She said she would tell me absolute truth, and it would burn. I readied myself. She said my inheritance was no longer possible. I would never reclaim the inn as Jules Schneider. Any attempts to do so would probably result in my death as my mother had been poisoned, or a convenient ‘accident’ of some sort. My only chance at survival was to remain the meek, subservient seamstress. The inn was falling on hard times; the Ganz family had no skill as innkeepers and had entered into a deal with the devil that they could not win–working with the smugglers. The inn was already perilously close to becoming a full-time brothel as it was, and the alliance with criminals would only hasten its decline. Assuming I didn’t run away and take my chances on the road, with no funds and no experience, there was only one likelihood. Since I had become proficient in the oral service I practiced on Tomas, I would most likely be pressed into performing on guests and would become some kind of half-male, half-female whore.
She stared at me, unblinking, as the full horror of that vision sank in. My throat was clenched and I felt ill, but she put a hand on my cheek. She said the answer to my second question was a yes and no at the same moment.
As to living my life as a male, yes, it could be done. However, I would always be small and delicate, I would be easily threatened for my feminine mannerisms which were such a natural part of me, and it was questionable whether I would ever be able to perform sexually as a male.
As to living as a female, she said it was already accomplished; I was feminine in every way–but as a ten-year-old girl. I would be growing in years if not in height, and yes, there were ways she could assist me in growing as a girl. With the exception of my bit of maleness between my legs, which was always tucked away in my undergarments anyway, I would be able to develop the breasts and curves of any other female. I would be indistinguishable from any other female while clothed, and difficult to distinguish even when unclothed. She said to not get my hopes up, but she had some understanding that there were ways to remove the maleness, as well, but she knew for certain that, even if the maleness were to remain, it could be controlled and minimized. Of course, even if it were to be removed, I could not give birth, as that is a God-given ability of born females. But other than that I could live a full life as a female.
Now it was time to call Tomas, our conversation over, and return to the inn before full nightfall. I was moving as if asleep, my head and my heart too full of things to consider. Mama Nusa explained to Tomas that she had shared a great deal of information with me and that I was struggling to remember it all, and for Tomas to not bother me or talk to me on the way home. She would come to the inn the next day, in her small pony-cart, and hoped Tomas would care for her pony while she determined if I had retained the night’s information and then spoke with Mrs. Ganz. Mama Nusa implied strongly that this all concerned his health and advised him to follow her instructions to the letter. She added a burst of Magyar that I couldn’t understand but made him pale; I assumed she was threatening him somehow.
It was a silent ride home, but feeling Tomas’ arm around me, and looking down at my thin, smooth legs and the flow of my skirts compared to his thick leg and pants sitting astride the horse, added to my thoughts. Although we arrived late, I did not sleep that night but stared at the ceiling trying to imagine every possibility of a future for me, and trying to reconcile what my mind told me with what my heart told me, and trying to determine the very nature of my soul.
End of Part 2
It was the twilight of the seventeenth century, and the dawn of my life–or lives.
Ilka was very concerned over my disappearance and pestered me to tell her; she had imagined a romantic tryst with Tomas and had been prepared to lecture me that I was far too young for that sort of affair. After checking that nobody could overhear, I told her most of what had happened at Mama Nusa’s. To my surprise she said I should definitely go live with Mama Nusa; Ilka said she loved me like a sister, and would miss me bitterly, but the inn was changing for the worse and I would be better off elsewhere.
Ilka also was extremely angry with Tzigane and Tomas. I wasn’t clear why, other than Tzigane had tricked me into providing the oral service, and after all, I thought, she had also instructed me in the details. Ilka discovered I had no conception of the sexual nature of the oral service; I had thought it was truly medicinal, so to speak. Ilka asked how much I knew about sex and what occurred between adult men and women and found that I had some basics but there were large gaps in my understanding. I was even ignorant of the ways of animals, as I had never spent time on a farm and very limited time in our stables; all of my life had been spent within the four walls of my family’s inn. Ilka began to tell me of the ways of men and women. As she explained the true nature of the oral service to me, my eyes widened in horror and shame and I realized the depth of cruelty of Tzigane’s trick, as well as the complicity of Tomas.
As luck would have it, Marta knocked, arriving with some torn aprons that needed quick mending. I was glad to see my other friend, and she immediately saw that I was upset and Ilka explained as she quickly mended the aprons. Marta reassured me that I was a good girl and that it was a handy trick to know about men, but that I was far too young to be involved in anything sexual, or even romantic. She relieved me of my shame and said that it would be best to avoid Tzigane and especially Tomas and act as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Marta could tell by Ilka’s manner that there was more to tell, and I told her of my experience with Mama Nusa. As with Ilka, Marta told me in no uncertain terms that I must take the opportunity. My enemies at the inn were mounting, she said. The Ganzes, especially Franciska, wanted me dead or at least utterly defeated. Tomas wanted me as a sexual slave. Tzigane and the other girls were now lording it over the rest of us in the staff, and, finally, the inn itself was in league with criminals.
I had to agree with their assessment, but Marta then went beyond to the heart of the matter. She hugged me and reaffirmed her love for me, and then quite matter-of-factly told me that I could never live as a male. She said it simply wasn’t in me; she had never known me as the young master of the inn but as the deposed boy, from that time until Franciska imposed her order transforming me into the seamstress Juliska. In her opinion–and Ilka solemnly nodded her agreement–it was obvious that I was never designed for life as a male. A pale, thin, sequestered scholar or monk, perhaps; but in the fullness of the world? Marta shook her head sadly and said I would have been miserable, and then most likely end up beaten to death.
Ilka said I was a naturally feminine, pretty young girl. Her greatest fear for me was that I would reach a male puberty in the next year or so, and become bigger and rougher and coarser. She often prayed that God would see fit to turn me into a girl. Marta admitted she had prayed like that, as well, and was surprised that I never had. I didn’t admit to my girlfriends that I was never as devout as people thought me, as I was using the Bible to do parallel translating to improve my languages and keep my mind sharp.
But I had never had a thought of becoming a girl, much less asking God to change me to one. Up until the moment Franciska declared that I was henceforth to be Juliska, I was reasonably content as a boy. Certainly, when I was younger I wore the girls’ clothing that Franciska fitted me in when we played together, but at no point did I feel that I was a girl. And after the declaration of girlhood–for such I must think Franciska’s order to be–I continued to feel that I was Jules, a boy, forced to masquerade as Juliska, a girl.
Yet at some point over the last two years, some indeterminate point, I had crossed over, so to speak. I never consciously set out to imitate the girls around me; there was no attempt to fool anyone into thinking I was female. Over time, immersed in their talk and their laughter and their lives, I took on similar traits. I now spoke as a girl, with the liquid melody of female speech so different from the blunt roughness of the males. I used my hands delicately, stood as a girl, and walked with a bit of a girlish sway. It wasn’t mimicry; I had acquired the traits. They were part of me now. If I thought of males, I truly felt that Tomas and Mr. Ganz were opposite to me and the rest of the girls. And I was considered to be one of the girls by those girls; we routinely bathed together, swam together, and I was familiar with the older girls’ monthly bleedings. All that I possessed that set me apart was a little finger of flesh, and it remained tucked between my legs, secured by my undergarments.
Although the interior mind is a mystery to others, it seemed to me that I thought as the girls did, too. I understood their joys and sorrows, and while Tzigane’s trick was cruel, I understood her and the girls like her and Franciska. I understood and felt supremely comfortable with Ilka and Marta, while the world of Tomas and the stables and the village boys was alien to me. Male thoughts and dreams of conquest or valor were completely foreign to me. I know that I dreamed as a girl; that is, full of the stories and songs the girls told, of dashing princes and flowing gowns and fancy balls. I was completely familiar and comfortable with girls’ breasts, as I saw them daily and in my work as a seamstress, and I often found myself wishing that mine would grow–but then I’d remember that …somewhere I was Jules, and a cloud would darken my day.
Marta and Ilka were correct; in almost every way I was a young girl of about ten, going on eleven. By rights, soon I should start my monthly bleeds and my breasts should start blossoming. I suddenly realized that I wanted that in a strong way, even more than the vague wishes I’d had. I realized that my two girlfriends were urging me to become, in fact, what I was in truth. Their wish for me to fully join them as a female, and yet to separate from them by living with Mama Nusa brought a pain I hadn’t known since my mother died. Marta and Ilka truly loved me and only wished for the best for me, and I for them.
At our lunchtime break I looked at the girls in the rooms with a fresh eye and mindful of Mama Nusa’s dire predictions of life for me at the inn. Then I became worried that her offer may never come to be, but Franciska suddenly appeared in our midst–something she did rarely these days–and demanded I leave my food and come with her. I was summoned to the parlor, where I found Mr. and Mrs. Ganz and Mama Nusa. As Franciska took her place at her mother’s side, I realized that I could not recall the last time I had been in the parlor. Certainly, since my mother’s death …but when? And in what capacity? So fully had my life become involved as one of the girls in the rooms that I was mindful of Mama Nusa’s dim assessment of my chances of functioning as a male.
The was also the matter of my appearance before the Ganzes. Franciska was familiar with her handiwork, of course, in the transformation of Jules to Juliska. Mr. Ganz had seen the girl I had become, when I appeared in Tzigane’s place to administer to Tomas. He had looked at me long and sadly that first day, nodded and accepted Juliska. Standing before Mrs. Ganz in the parlor, I could tell that she was already aware of my change of station, showing no surprise at my appearance as a young girl. I was certain that Franciska gleefully shared with her mother the tales of her petty cruelties; I knew now that the same evil blood ran through both Ganz females, if not through their husband and father. I sensed two emotions from the woman. The first was contempt. It may have been for how fragile I appeared, or how fragile had been my hold on my sex and my position–so easily altered by her daughter’s whim. The other emotion was triumph. It was in her smile. I was the last Schneider; a reminder of the tenuous claim of the Ganz family’s ownership of the inn. Hers was the victor’s grin of disdain for the fallen foe; the sneer of the conqueror with a foot on the head of the vanquished. I realized with new clarity the truth of Mama Nusa’s dire assessment of my chances for continued survival at the hands of the Ganzes.
Mrs. Ganz spoke with distaste of my presence at the inn as being a long-suffering burden for her. I was barely passable as an apprentice seamstress, she said, and it was difficult to suppress a smile, as she herself was at that moment wearing an embroidered vest that I had made. Mrs. Ganz said I ate more than the other girls and constantly started fights and there had been so many complaints about me …all lies, of course, but she was creating a new truth for herself and those in the room. Mama Nusa, of course, stood silently and without expression. Mrs. Ganz said that Mama Nusa had asked for a girl to serve her, and that Mrs. Ganz was going to give me to Mama Nusa. She sneered that I would find Mama Nusa’s humble hut a far cry from the luxury I was used to at the inn. With a sniff, Mrs. Ganz declared that perhaps that servitude would teach me humility, instead of pretensions of equality with my betters.
That my parents’ former cook would make these statements was outrageous and yet so ludicrous that I think Mama Nusa and I both fought to keep from laughing with derision. Certainly, I couldn’t look her in the eye for fear of laughing, but kept my eyes on the floor as a dutiful servant should. Mr. Ganz made a few weak tries that I wasn’t so bad, and it must be hard having to dress like a girl. Franciska cut her father off–making it plain that she valued his opinion not a jot–and declared that I was surely not a boy, so why shouldn’t I wear skirts? I stood in submission as the lies filled the room until Mama Nusa declared with a sigh that I would do, but she didn’t want me running away back to the inn. She reminded them that some might declare that Jules Schneider still had an inheritance in the inn, and stated she’d only take me if a document was drawn up, a contract, formally severing me from the Ganz family and their inn. For some reason it was declared that Franciska would draw up the contract, dictated by both Mama Nusa and Mrs. Ganz to the other’s approval, which Franciska then copied so each party would have a copy. I was told to sign them but asked that I read it first, which caused more abuse to be hurled at me. Mrs. Ganz said it was typical of my horrid nature but I ignored her as I read the document, wondering why Mama Nusa wanted it written thusly but trusting her implicitly.
I signed the contract copies and then was roughly dismissed from the room and ordered to gather my meager belongings and wait in front of the stables. I detoured through the kitchen and found Marta up to her arms in bread dough; I hugged and kissed her and told her that I loved her and goodbye but she knew where she could find me. She smiled through her tears and wished me Godspeed. Another stop at our sewing room found Ilka hard at work on some sheeting, and I repeated my hurried goodbye. Ilka kissed my forehead and told me to be a great woman; she only wished she could see me all grown up, resplendent in the fine gowns she knew were my future. I almost couldn’t see for the tears as I rolled my clothes in a bed sheet, and awkwardly carried my Bibles and belongings to the stable. Tomas gave me a look of longing and then dismissal and went back to flailing away with a mallet on an anvil. A shudder went through me of what my life would have been like as a boy in the stables.
Mama Nusa stood waiting by her pony-cart and nodded solemnly for me to place my things in the back and get on. She told me to take a last look, a last breath, and say goodbye. Then she climbed in the cart and we plodded off to my new home.
Thus began my life with Mama Nusa. I had a small, bright room of my own twice the size of mine at the inn. My duties were plenty and varied, both physical–such as drawing water and working in the garden–and intellectual. Mama Nusa was barely literate but knew that books and documents held great power, so she had been collecting those she could over many years. Books were highly expensive and rare, but here and there over the years she’d gathered a dozen, and many, many scraps and bits of paper and parchment and even a few scrolls. She was certain great knowledge was locked away in these, and part of my job was to unlock the secrets and teach her. I also began teaching her to read and write German and Hungarian, or Magyar.
The books were a Godsend for me; I was blissfully happy and took no notice of the time when studying. Mama Nusa would have to call me to another task to break the spell I was under. I continued sewing but at nowhere the amount I was used to; I learned cooking and as an adjunct to that, I was taught rudimentary healing. Medicines, poultices, and the like were her stock in trade, but Mama Nusa was also occasionally asked for items such as love potions and did all she could to suppress any beliefs that she was a witch. She was a healer, a noble profession, at one with both Nature and God, and I considered myself extremely lucky to have found myself living and learning with her.
Mama Nusa’s questions could now be answered, of course. I chose to live with her and reject any thoughts of inheritance, of either the inn or the Schneider name. Her second question was also answered by me, proudly telling her that I felt female and could not imagine even attempting a male life. I wished to live my entire life as a female, and die an old woman, and anything that Mama Nusa could do to help me on that road would be my most fervent wish. She eyed me for a long time and then explained why she’d demanded the contract from Mrs. Ganz. She truly felt disaster looming for the inn and wanted me not only safe but untainted by any connection with it. She wanted the Ganzes to know, absolutely, that they had no claim on me or my life from this point forth. That would further dismiss me from the Ganzes’ minds; Mama Nusa had little doubt that Franciska would turn her attentions elsewhere and I would be soon forgotten. She also wanted to impress on me that with my twin decisions to leave my inheritance–such as it was–and leave my birth sex–such as it was–there was no turning back, but only life forward, as an orphan girl. And as an orphan girl apprenticed to a healer isolated in the forest, I could truly be a new person. I could truly be reborn.
It was decided between us, over those first few weeks, that Juliska had been a name thrust upon me by Franciska, a name of shame. There was no thought of becoming Jules again, of course, but I was free to choose my new name, and at last I settled on Juliana. I would determine a last name later, and, indeed, in the weeks that followed I thought long and hard about this. My original family name, Schneider, actually meant ‘tailor’, something that I’d learned to do as Juliska. I thought of choosing Ná«herin as a surname, which meant ‘seamstress’, or even Nadel, which meant ‘needle’ but Mama Nusa pointed out that being the seamstress at the inn was now behind me; why not look forward?
I found my new last name among the scraps of papers Mama Nusa had collected. There was a portion of a Bible that contained a family’s records, and they had all perished, but the family name was Grunewald, meaning ‘green forest’ which was where I now lived with Mama Nusa. Henceforth, I would be known as Juliana Grunewald, apprentice healer.
First, though, came a turning point in my life. After several weeks with Mama Nusa, helping and learning as much as I could, Mama Nusa sat me down one night and discussed my future, not only as a healer but as a female. Was I sure? she asked. Completely, I answered. Was I certain about both choices? Absolutely, I said solemnly. There would be pain, she warned, and there would be sorrow, and there would be joy. And I could never, ever, return to boyhood. Was I certain now? Absolutely, I said again, standing and taking her hands and swearing a vow to be the best girl I could for my entire life. Mama Nusa said in that case, it was time that we began my transformation, but first we’d have a ceremony and then begin and never look backward.
We began the next night, which was a warm night at the end of the summer. Mama Nusa had me make a small bonfire in a clearing in the deep woods. She carried a loaded sack; I didn’t know what it contained. I was wearing a light summer skirt and blue top as I built the fire, watched by Mama Nusa. Then she told me to strip completely naked. I was startled, but even more so as she began removing all of her clothing. She stood by me, aged, wrinkled, saggy, but proudly, defiantly female, and beautiful in my eyes. I realized instantly the importance of this, as I compared my thin, small body. I was white and hairless and completely vertical in my chest and hips, with the tiny dangling finger of Jules hanging in shame. I wanted to cross over to the womanhood of Mama Nusa.
She took some jars from her sack, placing them carefully in a row. She stood before me then and ritually asked me three times if I wished to become female. Each time I affirmed it. Then she took a light blue salve from one jar and gently smeared my forehead, the center of my chest, and across my navel and declared that my mind, my heart, and my womb would be as one and I would be whole. I would take life’s experiences through all three at once. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she tossed it into the fire where it burned in colors. Taking a green salve from another jar, she lightly touched my nipples, navel, and reached between my legs to touch me behind my little male part. She declared that my breasts, womb, and vagina would be as one and I would be whole. Again she cleaned her hands on a cloth and tossed it to burn brightly on the fire.
I stood proud and naked before her, smeared with blue and green. Then Mama Nusa gave me a look almost of pity and took another jar with a white salve. She rolled it on her palms, warming it, and then came and placed her hands over my nipples and began massaging into my chest, where my breasts would be. She completed her massage and placed her hands together as if in prayer and I prayed silently that my breasts would grow. Another cleaning cloth and another color added to the fire, and then she produced a small knife. Locking eyes with me, she murmured that my blood would flow, and took my tiny root in one hand and flicked the blade up the tip. It felt cold and then the pain came. She took some blood on her fingertips and flicked it into the fire.
I stood proud and naked before her, bleeding gently. Then Mama Nusa walked around the fire and stood facing me, holding her arms up as if saluting me, or welcoming me, her fingers moving back and forth. I understood her meaning and began a little dance in place, wishing I had my skirts to swish, and as the energy built inside of me I suddenly ran forward and leaped over the fire into Mama Nusa’s waiting arms. She hugged me and whispered fiercely, ‘Welcome, my daughter’. I was racked with sobs of joy, of exhilaration, and of exhaustion.
Every day I had more to learn, more to do, and every day I began and ended with a cup of a potion Mama Nusa created, herbs combined with essence from mares. She never slipped; I was always Juliana to her, and she seemed pleased the day I discovered my new surname. It was the strangest thing; I could still feel the parts of my body where Mama Nusa had applied the salves, and it made me conscious of those areas, especially my chest. As the seasons changed I sewed winter garments for her by the fire as she would tell me stories of her past, stories that taught me through her life. As she would receive calls for her services at any time, I was ready to go with her at a moment’s notice. I assisted her with treating wounds, disease, and births, which were my favorite because I was never so close to full womanhood as when I pulled a baby from between a woman’s legs.
The winter was hard but quite bearable, and I got to spend one day each with Marta and then Ilka as they had their workless days and convinced Tomas to ride them out to Mama Nusa’s. She would keep him busy with chores and sweets while my girlfriends and I would share our new lives with each other. And, to my sorrow, the dire future told by Aliz and Mama Nusa seemed to be coming true. I begged each of them to find another livelihood, somewhere, anywhere …but they could not imagine how and were terrified of being on their own. We ended our visits with tears and hugs, and always a last lingering look from Tomas as they returned to the inn.
And spring came, and summer again, with another two visits from Marta and Ilka, and Marta was so sad and Ilka had bruises that she didn’t wish to speak of, and even Tomas looked more gaunt than I remembered. I, too, had changed, but I felt shamed to be glad of it in light of my friends’ misery. My body was responding to the daily potions, as well as the white salve that Mama Nusa had given me to massage my chest. I was finally blossoming; my nipples had hardened and lifted small breasts with them. I was starting to develop a waist as well, curves where I had been flat. I felt more feminine than I would have believed possible, and realized the full truth of Mama Nusa’s warning that I could never return to life as a male, nor could I conceive of it. I was fully on my way.
Mama Nusa and I were kept busy that summer delivering babies and curing fevers; often a visit to a village resulted in assisting several lives out of this world and several lives into it. That fall we had a small outbreak of plague to deal with, full days and nights of exhausting work saving as many as we could. Afterwards we had days of rest and I cried uncontrollably as Mama Nusa stared into the fire, her arm around me. As winter came, a simple trip to a village became more arduous and we often would stay overnight, the hospitality provided by our hosts as thanks for our services. I was getting a reputation of my own now as a girl destined to be a great healer, and I was known only as Juliana. Thus it was that we were told devastating news by villagers who had no inkling of my previous existence.
The Ganz family had done so poorly in operating the inn that they became more involved with the smugglers and criminals. There were no more nobles as guests; there were no more travelers as guests. The inn was known as an evil, corrupt place of prostitutes serving desperate characters, and then disaster struck. Somebody had betrayed somebody; my own inclination would be to believe that Mrs. Ganz got too greedy but perhaps I was being uncharitable.
Over time I learned the terrible details. The smugglers or whoever they were attacked the inn. That is to say, they were already inside, perhaps staying as guests or partners. However the Ganzes may have crossed them, the retaliation was swift and brutal. Mr. Ganz was shot in the face, dying instantly in front of his family, and Mrs. Ganz shrieked and was beaten while Franciska was raped and then run through with a sword and then Mrs. Ganz’s throat was cut. Tomas put up a valiant struggle, killing two of the men until he was cut down and beheaded. The smugglers then had total control of the women and began going through each room looking for valuables and then raping the girls. It escalated; it was unclear if there was a leader or whether the men went amok. The raping went on through the night and into the day; all the women were used; when they fought they were killed instantly and when they grew tired their throats were cut. One girl, one of Tzigane’s friends, managed to slip out in the night. She had been raped repeatedly, badly beaten, and was bleeding from stab wounds. Knowing the area, she made it to the main road where a traveling coach found her. She told the details of the attack before dying of her wounds. When a group of men from the village went to investigate, they found the inn burned to the ground.
The impact of the horror was devastating. I sat, numbly, exhausted from weeping, for days, tended to by Mama Nusa. I, the apprentice healer, needed healing. The loss of my beloved Marta and Ilka, and the nightmare of horrors they’d suffered was unimaginable. I could only pray that death had been swift and painless, but it was a thin hope. Little by little I regained some composure, and was startled when Mama Nusa announced that she had made a pact with a lady in the town to train me. I panicked, thinking I was being sent away, and begged Mama Nusa to keep me with her. She smiled and thanked me and told me that I was still living and training with her, but that she felt I needed to learn some ways of the world.
There was a Lady of Quality in a nearby town, a widow cast down from her finery through her husband’s follies. Mama Nusa tended to the widow’s aging complaints when in the town, and had struck a bargain that in exchange for Mama Nusa’s ministrations, the Lady of Quality–who was named Mrs. Müller–would give me lessons in manners and help me learn the civilized ways of the larger world. I suspected that Mama Nusa also arranged for these lessons to help get my mind off the horror at the inn.
I began that week; we rode the pony-cart into the town and for the first time I was aware of how different my body felt; my breasts had grown to the point where they would move on their own and their jiggling due to the pony-cart was new to me, and most welcome. Once in town, I was introduced to Mrs. Müller. She was stoutish and wore clothes of former glory that were older than my memories of courtly dress worn by the visitors in the days of my parents’ inn. She spoke German with a different accent and inflection which I learned was a higher class, and she spoke a more refined Magyar as well. Over many weeks she drilled me on forms of address, proper curtsies, dining etiquette, and even the rudiments of dancing. Mama Nusa would do her rounds in the town without me, and we’d ride home together and I’d tell Mama Nusa what I’d learned and we’d practice the dances, collapsing in helpless giggles when we got things wrong. I’ve always thought that in spite of the sorrows of the smugglers’ attack, these were some of the happiest times Mama Nusa and I spent together.
End of Part 3
It was the twilight of the seventeenth century, and the dawn of my life–or lives.
Whenever possible, Mama Nusa and I collected the herbs and items necessary for healing from the natural plants in the forest. However, there were times when it was necessary to visit the Apothecary. I had been introduced to Mr. Lazlo, a plumpish, sweaty fellow, and found him unremarkable but his eyes were alight with ambition. He would welcome Mama Nusa with effusive praise and then, I noticed, attempt to pick her brain for information about herbs and medicinals. I thought, well, he’s interested in becoming a better Apothecary.
I did not visit the Apothecary with Mama Nusa for quite some time, after that first visit, since she only went there when there was no other way to procure necessary items, and then my time in town was taken with Mrs. Má¼ller. I assumed I was learning these skills so as to not embarrass myself should we pay a visit to heal the wealthy. There was no nobility in the area, as far as I knew, but we did have some merchants who were quite prosperous. Several of them had regularly visited our girls at the inn before its destruction.
Mrs. Má¼ller had finished our session early one day, and wasn’t feeling well so I decided to wait outside for Mama Nusa as it was a lovely day. Looking up the street, I saw her cart in the distance; she was talking with a very tall man. I began walking towards them and could tell they obviously knew each other quite well and were on very friendly terms. I also studied the fellow; he was tall with longish black hair turning silver under a small top hat. He wore a strange combination of what looked like old court clothes and a traveler’s coat, long and sweeping, and fine brown leather boots.
Their faces turned to me with surprise and some wonder, and Mama Nusa brought me to her side and introduced me to ‘an old friend’, Mr. Edward Wick. I had never heard her use that term before, even when referring to the other elder women; she occasionally met with them and exchanged gossip and tips of the trade but had never called any of them a friend even having known them for decades. For that reason alone, my interest was piqued, but also because he was a very attractive, confident man. His German had a strange accent that I couldn’t place and after the introduction was made–I was pleased that I was introduced as ‘Juliana Grunewald, my apprentice and more than a daughter to me’–I asked Mr. Wick about his accent. His laugh was big, casual, and inviting, and he told me that he was Irish. Immediately I asked what languages he spoke, as Mama Nusa rolled her eyes. Mr. Wick, his eyes dancing with his smile, told me English, German, French, Italian, some Magyar, and Gaelic, and had to explain that term to me.
I explained to Mama Nusa that Mrs. Má¼ller had curtailed the day’s lesson, and bid the two of them continue their conversation with no thought on my account. Oh, but would Mr. Wick do me a small kindness? Did he know the first lines of Genesis in English, and could he say them, please? This brought another twinkle to his eyes as he asked my faith. I replied that I was interested in languages and was using Bibles to teach myself other languages. As to faith, I shrugged. I had faith in Mama Nusa, I said. The reaction was unexpected. I thought he would laugh, or, if a True Believer, frown at my blasphemy. Instead, he looked at Mama Nusa with deep respect and nodded, saying, ‘As do I’. Mama Nusa actually blushed, or the closest thing to it, and I could tell she was immensely pleased.
Mr. Wick complied with my request and I listened to the first two English sentences I had ever heard spoken, drinking them in. I thanked him and asked that they continue their conversation without me. Since the day was so nice, I went to lay on the grass some distance from them. As I walked, I could feel their eyes on me and I overheard Mr. Wick say, she’s a wonder; and Mama Nusa reply, yes, she is. My heart swelled with pride and her affection for me. I lay on the grass, trying to recall the sentences I’d heard, assigning words and syllables to the Genesis words that I knew by heart. I may have dozed, for a shadow appeared and I looked up to the impossibly tall face of Mr. Wick, extending a hand. I took it, wonderfully warm and sure, and he helped me up, and apologized for taking so much of Mama Nusa’s time. I assured him it was fine and then experimentally tried the lines of English. His eyes widened and he corrected one word slightly and asked if I’d memorized the passage before today; only his uttering of it, I replied, and his eyes widened further. Mama Nusa beamed.
On the way home, Mama Nusa told me of Mr. Wick. He was a real doctor, from Trinity College in Dublin, one of the finest universities in the world. He had a medical practice in London but had run into some sort of trouble. I was unable to determine whether Mama Nusa didn’t know the nature of the trouble, or whether she knew but wanted to spare me the indelicate details. Suffice it to say, he was forced to leave his practice–flee, I wondered?–and now traveled the Continent as an itinerant healer and seller of medicinals. Unlike the many charlatans and mountebanks of that profession, Mama Nusa assured me that his merchandise was quite real and beneficial. I could tell that she quite liked him very much.
Life settled back into its comforting routine, but as we headed into autumn I began to notice Mama Nusa slowing down and getting tired easily. Her color was not as robust as it had been, and I was deeply worried–even more so when she tried to dismiss my concerns. We shared everything so intimately since that crossover ceremony in the forest, and to be shut out now was hurtful and frightening. Everything she’d taught me as a healer screamed illness, but she waved it off. One day as we walked back from gathering herbs in the forest, she had to stop to catch her breath. She usually walked the distance faster and harder than I so there was no dismissal of my concerns now. Back at our house she eased herself in her chair and steepled her fingers as if in deliberation.
Then she told me, frankly and dispassionately, that she had a cancer, an internal disease eating away at her. She suspected it was in her lungs, perhaps from all the breathing of powders and potions over the year. I sat, stunned beyond words. She calmly told me that there was nothing that could be done for a cancer; that no potions or salves or ceremonies would have any effect. There simply was no cure; hers was a death sentence. At this point she was feeling the effects of the cancer, limiting her abilities and sapping her strength, but soon the pain would begin, and it was among the most vicious of pains. She would have to begin using potions to lessen the pain but they would lessen her concentration as well. Finally, when even the potions had no effect, she would take a fatal dose from a vial she had already prepared and hidden away, and I was not to stop her.
I was beyond devastation. I cried and screamed and raged and begged and finally accepted it as inevitable, as she had. I loved this woman unreservedly and owed her my life in every way imaginable. When I had calmed down, she said that we would try to prepare our larger community for me to become their healer, although I was not an elder. She would also seek to ally me with the elder healers in other areas. In the meantime, she would tire easily but there was much to do.
Two weeks later we had need of items from the Apothecary. I told Mama Nusa that I was fifteen, more or less, and could take the cart into town on my own and she should rest. She was concerned for my safety and gave me no end of worried instructions, but finally I set off for town. I would meet with Mrs. Má¼ller for one final time and tell her of Mama Nusa’s condition and that I would not be able to continue her wonderful lessons. I thanked for her time and talent and all that I’d learned from her.
Then I went to the Apothecary with our ingredient list; Mr. Lazlo surmised correctly we were treating a patient with extreme pain–from a wound or cancer? he asked. Reluctant to share the information, I told him Mama Nusa wanted the items on hand before we headed into winter, should we need them. That seemed to satisfy him and he said I could help prepare the ingredients, so in short order I was behind the counter working side by side with him. To this day I have no idea whether it was something I said or did, or some whim of Mr. Lazlo’s, although I suspect the latter. In any event, he asked for a pestle that was behind me. I turned to get it and Mr. Lazlo quickly stood behind me and reached around, cupping each of my breasts in his hands. I shrieked with surprise and he gave a laugh unlike any I had heard before, and then said ‘we could make arrangements’ for payment for the herbs. I told him primly that we would honor whatever payment arrangement he already had with Mama Nusa, and he replied that she had already agreed that ‘he could have me’.
Obviously, this was an outrageous lie and shocked me so much that I was unable to retort and stood, staring. He declared that ‘I knew that I wanted it’ and suddenly a hand shot out and under my skirts and slithered up my leg. He ran his hand right up my thighs and into my crotch, and froze as his hand grazed my little male appendage. I preferred keeping it tucked between my legs, secured in place by my undergarments; those that I wore that day were dainty and feminine with a lace trim that I’d done myself. Had I been a true female, I was certain Mr. Lazlo would have plunged his fingers into me, so aggressive were his hands. As it was, he was able to quite literally seize upon my maleness. I stepped back and slapped his face, and his look of shock turned to one of anger. He raged at me calling me a monster, a freak, and an abomination, and now his anger twisted into a cruel smile. Did Mama Nusa know, he demanded? Tearfully, I lied and said no. Mr. Lazlo laughed again that he’d always known she wasn’t as smart as she’d made herself out to be.
Mr. Lazlo suddenly took a step forward, seizing both of my upper arms. The terms of payment were altered, he said. Henceforth I would do his bidding or he would inform Mama Nusa as to my male status, and I would be turned out. I could continue to purchase from him, but payment would be received in his back room. He dragged me by the wrist into that room, despite my tears and pleas, and slammed his door. First things first, he declared, and ordered me to expose my chest. Hoping he would be satisfied and stop this, I slowly undid my blouse’s buttons, exposing my undershirt. Mr. Lazlo impatiently waved a hand that I was to remove that, also. I did so and stood before him clad only in my skirt and shoes, my breasts exposed.
My breasts had been my pride and joy, and I fought the urge to feel shame for them now. I took a deep, ragged breath and stood exposed to him as his eyes widened. He stepped forward and put his hands on them, then under them, and then flicked the nipples with his thumbs. I twitched, and he grinned and said there was much to ponder on, but right now I had a job to do. With that he took my wrists and pressed downwards, forcing me to my knees before him. I suddenly knew what he was demanding, and remembered the girls at the inn saying it was a method of satisfying and calming a man. I knew from experience that it had certainly performed that function with Tomas.
I set to work undoing the top of his pants and pulling them down enough to expose his shaft which was thin and smallish but quite erect. My mind considered quickly whether to compliment him or not, and I decided in favor of stroking his self-esteem even as I stroked his puny root. He obviously wanted more and I forced myself to lick the shaft and tip and put my mouth over it. Almost immediately he began spurting and I was unprepared. Distractedly, the thought went through my mind that I was grateful I’d been forced to remove my blouse as Mr. Lazlo had spurt upon my face and shoulders. When he was done, I laid the shrinking root down–it did not get a kiss!–and asked for a damp cloth. He actually complied and I washed myself, donned my clothes and summoned the same will that had kept me from crying in front of Franciska. I left him in his quarters, returned to the shop and retrieved the items I’d come for and left.
I cried in shame and red-hot humiliation on the way home and was calm when I told Mama Nusa what had happened. She had been afraid I’d been attacked on the way home but her face grew grim as the details tumbled out. She sat in silence, staring at the fire for quite some time, and then gathered me close to her. Mr. Lazlo could not be counted upon to keep his discovery a secret, she said, and he would certainly poison the community against me. She said that her hopes that I would continue living in her house after she’d died, and continue being a healer, were now shattered due to that wretched, evil man. He would be quiet for a time and try to exact payment from me each time, but she was determined of two things. First, that I would never step in that shop again; and second, that she would now give me extra protection that such an experience could never recur.
Mama Nusa told me of a procedure that she was aware of and had considered for me, but had set aside. The reasons were several; I was young and still growing, it would be painful and dangerous, the recovery time was long and arduous, and but for the groping of the horrid little Apothecary, I might have lived my entire life without the necessity of the procedure. Now, she said slowly and importantly, it would have to be performed upon me. It was a skill and technique that she’d never had cause to use, although elements of it were used in other situations. Together we would ready everything, all potions and salves and unguents mixed and prepared, all special tools cleaned and sharpened and set in order. I was instructed to make several days’ worth of food for us to live on since I would not be able to move around the kitchen for some time as I recovered. It was a deeply frightening step to consider, but I trusted Mama Nusa that it could improve and very well might even save my life.
It was a time of dreams and agony. There are great gaps in my memory of this period. I know that Mama Nusa gave me a thick potion to drink, one that made me stupid and disconnected from my body. I first drank a great deal of water but she would not allow me to pee, and once the potion took effect and I grew insensible and could no longer stand, she inserted a thin, flexible tube into the tip of my little bit of boyhood. Gently, she twirled and pushed it into me, arriving at her destination when my urine spurted out in a yellow stream. With the relief of my bladder, I relaxed into warm, happy unconsciousness.
Mama Nusa had always instructed me in the importance of dreams, and told me that in undertaking this procedure, I would dream as never before. I was to mark them but not necessarily to heed them, induced as they were by the potions and not by sleep. Nevertheless, they were remarkable. There was plenty of floating and warm darkness, and I felt a great closeness with the universe. That is, with the strong female side of the universe. I felt a great desire to be thought pretty, and a nearly overwhelming desire to have life grow inside of me, to suckle a baby at my breast, to give comfort and joy to others. Images of people I knew floated past, wrapped in auras of color, from the sweetness tinged with deep sadness of Marta and Ilka to the black and red fear and hatred of Mr. Lazlo; there were also images of Mr. Wick, who seemed to feature prominently in my floating dream, clothed in white and standing with his hands up next to my beloved Mama Nusa. Mr. Wick seemed to have no colored aura at all but I felt a great bliss and security contemplating him. Then I was floating through meadows and slowly coming to earth, then going into the earth and feared asphyxiation and suddenly awoke, gasping and choking.
Not with dirt, though, with air. I was in my bed, a fire in the grate nearby, and Mama Nusa watching me without expression. As I realized my circumstances, I was suddenly aware of great pain in my groin and would have doubled over in pain but my hands and ankles were restrained to the bed with soft cloths. Mama Nusa explained that I would have hurt myself further and undone some of her work if I’d doubled over; hence the restraints. She mopped and dried my brow and my body; great pools of sweat had collected in my navel and under my breasts. There was nothing to be done for my soaked sheets. She looked tired but pleased with the results so far. She spoon-fed me delicious broth and bits of bread, then gave me water to drink until I could take no more–and then demanded I drink a little more.
She had cleaned things up and sat watching me when I had to pee; she said for me to go ahead, relax and pee, since that’s what she was waiting for. I felt the natural stab of shame to be urinating in front of her, but she nodded and smiled as she caught it all in a small glass vial and larger bowl. Holding up the unremarkable yellow liquid in the vial for me to see, she smiled. No blood, she announced, and then told me to rest as best I could, tied up as I was. There had to be a time for me to regain my senses without the heavy potion, she explained, and had given me a draught for pain so I should rest comfortably. She was going to take a nap now, she said, and I should get some natural sleep as well. I asked if she had been up all night; she smiled sadly and told me this was the third day since I had first drank the potion.
Eventually I drifted off and was awakened by pain. Mama Nusa was already there with the pain medication–and Mr. Wick. Mama Nusa had covered me with a quilt so modesty was preserved; I was grateful for that but also because the restraints weren’t visible. They talked in low voices, and then Mr. Wick smiled at me and told me I was a remarkable girl and to trust Mama Nusa. I thanked him and told him that I did, completely, and he nodded and they left me. Mama Nusa returned; I’d been dozing, and she had another draught of the heavy potion for me to swallow, after kissing my forehead and telling me that she loved me as a daughter. As the potion took effect, I worried that it had sounded like a goodbye. But that thought slurred into thoughts of Mr. Wick and I was so relieved that he hadn’t known I was a freak or abomination; he’d said I was a remarkable girl and that’s what I wanted to be. I also felt a powerful urge to do my hair and put on my prettiest dress for him. Bliss took me into the dark again.
The next time I awoke it was in stages, as like a feather. It does not fall straight to earth, but each light breeze carries it sideways or up until it falls gently to settle on the ground. Again there was the pain in my groin but now it was an ache, round and muffled rather than sharp and pronounced. Mama Nusa smiled and came up to hug my shoulders and cradle my head to her bosom, and then kissed the top of my head. She gently untied the restraints, telling me to be slow and deliberate in all movements, and assisted me sitting up. I was heavily wrapped in bandages from my waist to the tops of my legs, as I had expected.
Mama Nusa had told me what the procedure was, of course, before I agreed to undertake it and before we proceeded. She said there were several possibilities of results, depending on her skill, my body, and any unforeseen surprises. At the heart of the procedure was the removal of my maleness. Since urine flowed through it, it wouldn’t do to simply chop it off, tempting though that might be. Rather, the tube that carried the flow of urine had to be carefully rerouted. My testicles had not descended, but Mama Nusa was taking no chances that they might appear at some day and begin flooding me with male chemicals. She used anatomical knowledge and manipulation to locate them inside me and move them to where she could remove them, effectively gelding me. I certainly didn’t have any reservations about such a procedure.
Mama Nusa said there were basically three possible outcomes of this procedure–not counting death, of course. In all three of them I would have no tell-tale tube of maleness and could stand, legs spread, and would look from a meter away like any anatomically correct, naturally-born female. It was only on close inspection that the three possibilities were different. The first was that I would look like I’d had a birth deformity, neither male nor female in appearance. The second would be that I would look like a female but would have no vaginal opening. The third, the most hoped-for and least likely, was that she would be able to create a new vagina, the actual opening to a non-existent womb, that would fool all but the most discerning of medical practitioners. I would not have a monthly blood flow or be able to give birth, of course, but I would look unremarkably like any other female.
It was quite some time before I knew the results. I wore bandages and Mama Nusa would have me lie down as she removed the bandages and gave me sponge baths, then applied medicine and re-bandaged me. By the end of the week–that is, the first week that I was fully conscious, being in fact the third week since the surgery–I could move about the house slowly with difficulty and pain, even with her pain medication. At least I can cook and you can sleep, I told Mama Nusa, who was beginning to show the ill effects of her cancer. It caused a sad laugh for both of us, moving now slower than we ever had, but at least it was an activity we were sharing. Urination was strange; I was instructed to hold as long as I could until I got to the proper place, and only then release. Mama Nusa said I would have to get used to different muscles to pee, something that was so natural I took it for granted. I would have to tell Mama Nusa when I needed to defecate and she would assist with a round pan, then bathe me and re-do my bandages.
The bandaging was strange, as many yards were inside of me and had to be changed often. They caused a very full sensation in my groin–once the intense pain had subsided. I was later to learn that there was a kind of plug inside me, held by the bandages. In my time with Mama Nusa, I had learned some of the ways of healing wounds, and the methods we used to close the wound, flesh to flesh, as quickly and cleanly as possible. Now we were doing the exact opposite, Mama Nusa explained carefully. The removal of my maleness had left a wound but the desire was for the wound to not close; rather for the flesh surrounding it to heal. I was familiar with the female anatomy and knew that for our third possibility to be realized, the plug was necessary despite the discomfort. My main concern, besides the health of Mama Nusa, was her pronouncement of my healing. I clung to each smile and nod of hers during the changing of my bandages and inspection of my groin.
Finally came the day of revelation; nearly two months had passed since the day I’d drunk the heavy potion. As usual, I lay and was unwrapped and bathed, and then Mama Nusa nodded and said for me to look. While I had tucked away the small bit of flesh between my legs for years now, it would still dangle if left unbound. This was wholly different: I spread my legs wide and it was the most remarkable thing imaginable to look down and not see my little maleness. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing! What sparse hair I’d had was gone, shaved, but was starting to grow back in a pale downy fuzz. I could see the edge of a cleft and nothing else until Mama Nusa stood between my legs with a mirror. Stunned, I contemplated the reflection. It was a vagina. I’d certainly seen enough on the girls at the inn, and Mama Nusa’s, of course, but this was mine and as far as I could tell, it looked perfect! Meaning, of course, it looked natural. Unremarkable. Ordinary. And that was the most wonderful, remarkable, extraordinary thing!
I was encouraged to explore but must do so with absolutely clean hands and great caution. Mama Nusa wanted to be present at my first urination; I would squat, of course, but I’d been doing that for some time anyway. I was instructed to wipe from front to back and never the opposite, and then Mama Nusa smiled and held up a shiny wooden peg. She informed me that skin always wanted to bond with skin, and if left unattended, my new vagina would close up. Therefore, I was to lubricate this peg and gently insert it as far as I could, every day. I stared at her, and Mama Nusa smiled and nodded and explained that yes, she was confident that the third possibility, a normal-looking vaginal opening, had in fact been achieved. Tears burst forth and we hugged and rocked each other endlessly.
Over the next month Mama Nusa grew weaker and weaker even as I grew stronger. The sense of not having anything between my legs was still refreshingly wonderful, but every day it became more normal. Oddly enough, I felt my gait to be different, realizing that my hips were a little more forward than before, and I had developed an extra sway in my walk that reminded me of Marta in happier days. I believe it was that extra sway that brought a frown to Mama Nusa as she called me to her side. I sat dutifully, arranging my skirts.
Mama Nusa told me that she had two items to discuss with me. The first was about sex. She told me of the natural and unnatural intercourse between men and women, in far greater detail than I’d learned from Marta and Ilka, and that answered questions I hadn’t known I’d had. One question, especially, that was on my mind–I learned why I was becoming excited using the wooden peg daily. Mama Nusa grinned and told me that it was to aid in my recovery and also to prepare me for the day when I would take a man inside of me. I blushed furiously and was speechless at the implications, and regarded the wooden peg very differently the next time I applied it.
The second item of Mama Nusa’s discussion concerned my future, as she made it plain and wished that I accept the fact that she had no future left to her. It had been her dream that I should remain in her house and make it mine after her death, and continue her legacy of healing. Now, thanks to the discovery by Mr. Lazlo–and his nature to spread rumors–it would not be possible. She had hoped I would be much older before her end came, but sadly, it was not to be. A girl of sixteen would not be taken seriously as a healer no matter what her training or ability might be; perhaps if I’d been in my twenties when the cancer took Mama Nusa, it would have been possible.
Mama Nusa had concocted a complicated ruse, or series of ruses, designed to remove me from the suspicions of Mr. Lazlo, disconnect any lingering memories the community might have of Jules Schneider or Juliska the seamstress, and provide what she felt was the best immediate future for me. I was to accept her last great ruse without protest, meekly and humbly submitting to do my part, and I did so, gladly. It was her wish and I would have accepted it anyway, but even more so now that it was plain that she was dying and in ever-increasing pain, despite her medications.
The ruse could only be put in action with the arrival of Mr. Wick, and we anxiously spent days watching for his gaily-painted wagon until the day he arrived. He explained that it had taken some time to acquire ‘the appropriate object’. As I was unaware of such an object, I knew then that Mama Nusa was intentionally leaving me ignorant of certain portions of her scheme. I decided to not press for details; I loved and trusted her, and I liked Mr. Wick very much but especially valued Mama Nusa’s obvious trust in him.
Mr. Wick informed us that the outside world was changing; in this year of 1705, King Leopold I had died after nearly fifty years as our emperor. Mama Nusa shook her head at this news, declaring it hard to think of his absence. She remembered when he’d succeeded Ferdinand III. It was the only time I got an inkling how old she truly might be. She told us of the overwhelming joy and relief when Leopold had turned back the Turks from the gates of Vienna, and knew that his successor, his son Joseph I, had a mighty task set out for him. It would be a time of great turmoil and confusion, and all the better for us to execute her ruse.
The wheels were set in motion but were very complicated. Mr. Wick said it was a gavotte, a structured dance where each element must enter at a precise time. That was all very well and good, but what was heartbreaking for me–aside from the thought of Mama Nusa’s impending death–was that I would be leaving our house forever. As I looked around my home, I realized that I had spent nearly a third of my life here, was transformed here, and had fully intended to live and die here. It was with great sorrow and tears that I secured my belongings and loaded them in Mr. Wick’s wagon. Mama Nusa gave me quantities of potions and salves as well as her books and every piece of paper or parchment she possessed. She knew her days were numbered and that she would heal no more and had no use of the items. She retained a few potions for pain, and some necessary for the ruse.
My facial skin, arms and upper chest were darkened with a brown dye that washed off easily with water, yet was most effective. I was given the clothes of a Gypsy girl to wear, colorful beribboned skirt and blouse, and finally a thick, long black wig. With high-heeled boots and little black gloves, I felt so much in costume as a Gypsy that I did a little folk dance, one of the ones I remembered from the girls at the inn, to the great amusement of Mama Nusa and Mr. Wick, who immediately dubbed me Katarina. He schooled me in how to speak and act as Katarina, the Gypsy girl.
We loaded the wagon with the necessary supplies and set off for town with me driving our pony-cart behind, until we stopped in a specific place just outside of town. I climbed onto Mr. Wick’s wagon and he secured my ankle with a quite-visible cuff and chain. With a calm encouragement to ‘be bold’, we rode into town. The townspeople knew Mr. Wick’s wagon and welcomed him, many coming out to smile and wave and stare at his ‘new assistant’. Many of the men grinned and nudged each other and since Mama Nusa’s discussion of sex, I had no doubt how they regarded the nature of the relationship between Mr. Wick and Katarina the Gypsy girl.
Pulling up before the Apothecary, Mr. Wick’s manner to me was curt and dismissive. I stayed on the seat, looking sullen and holding the reins of the horse while he entered. What transpired inside was this: Mr. Lazlo’s lascivious nature battled with his desire for profit. As he filled Mr. Wick’s order for medicinals, he asked about the Gypsy girl and the chain. Mr. Wick spun a tale of acquiring her but having to resort to the chain as ‘she’–I–would run away. Mr. Lazlo asked if Mr. Wick feared that in a deserted area, she might stab him and remove the key from his person. Mr. Wick grinned and said he was not stupid; he kept the key at the back of the wagon, too far for her chain to reach. Only with Mr. Wick’s continued good health could she hope for release. Mr. Lazlo grinned wickedly and approved, and said he felt Gypsies were thieves and whores so why not make the best use of a pretty one?
Mr. Lazlo followed Mr. Wick outside, where Mr. Wick said to me in Gaelic, ‘This man is an idiot. Snarl something.’ As I’d been learning Gaelic from Mr. Wick, I complied by snarling, ‘His manhood is the size of a small boy’s.’ Mr. Lazlo, who was ignorant of the language, nearly drooled with lust and proclaimed me ‘fiery’. Mr. Wick, frown twitching with mirth, stowed his items in the back of the wagon as Mr. Lazlo continued to stare at me as I’d seen men stare at the girls at the inn. It wasn’t difficult to stare haughtily back with hatred, as he was the one who had groped me and made this ruse necessary. It was he that forced me to leave Mama Nusa and our home in the forest. Mr. Wick climbed up on the wagon and I pretended to despise him and we set out, leaving Mr. Lazlo with his sexual fantasies.
As soon as we’d cleared town, we returned with great haste to our starting point by another road. Mr. Wick had removed the chain and I climbed into the wagon, where Mama Nusa sat on cushions, telling me of her approval of the first stage of the ruse. I stripped out of the Gypsy clothes and wig as she began sponging off the dark color. I donned my regular blouse and skirt–that is, Juliana’s clothes–as we arrived at the pony, calmly munching grass next to his cart. In the sunlight, Mr. Wick studied my face critically and wiped away the last of the Gypsy dye and pronounced me acceptable. We helped Mama Nusa into the cart and the two of us set out for town. Mr. Wick, meanwhile, retraced our route out of town.
Once again we pulled up to the Apothecary. Mama Nusa had taken a large dose of a specific potion that was keeping her pain at bay and gave her the ability to walk unaided for a short time. We entered Mr. Lazlo’s shop and I hung back, praying the hatred in my eyes wasn’t too much like the Gypsy girl’s, but knowing that Mr. Lazlo would be aware of its true origin due to his fumbling between my legs. Mama Nusa had a list of items and as Mr. Lazlo filled her order, he cast glances at me that were a combination of lust and disgust, and only the two of us knew the origins. Finally he gave me the large bags with her order and when I took them outside to load on the cart, he questioned Mama Nusa as to my nature. He told her that I was a sinful degenerate, a boy masquerading as a girl and that she was not as smart or worldly as she pretended. Or perhaps Mama Nusa knew, and was using the boy-girl for her own …purposes? Mama Nusa stood quietly, absorbing his ranting, and then told him that she had no idea what he was talking about. Juliana Grunewald was a girl, she said, as she should know having seen me naked. Mr. Lazlo told her that her lies were useless; he had already informed the townspeople of the true nature of the so-called girl Juliana. Mama Nusa turned and left without another word.
I could tell that she was having trouble not screaming with anger and laughter at the same time at the pretentious hypocrisy of Mr. Lazlo. We had one more stop and she contained herself as we pulled up at the house of Mrs. Má¼ller. We went to the door and I held a bag with the latest supply of the medicines used by Mrs. Má¼ller. Mama Nusa had long ago told me that they were largely useless but contained a quantity of narcotic that Mrs. Má¼ller was secretly addicted to. It was this method of payment that had allowed my lessons in courtly feminine manners.
However, courtly feminine manners were not in evidence when Mrs. Má¼ller opened her door. She looked at me with unbridled scorn and disgust and treated Mama Nusa as an inferior for being in league with such a creature as I. Mama Nusa feigned shock and dismay at the accusations of Mrs. Má¼ller, asking how she could have come to such a delusion that I was, in fact, a boy. Hadn’t Mrs. Má¼ller herself spent countless days and weeks in my presence, teaching me the niceties of feminine deportment? Had I comported myself in any masculine way at any time? To what did she owe such a tale? Mrs. Má¼ller replied haughtily that Mr. Lazlo had discerned my true nature, as he was a man of science and knowledge. He had spread the news to help protect the townspeople from whatever nefarious scheme I was concocting through my masquerade.
Mama Nusa had prepared for this event as well. She turned to me and ordered me to return the bag to the cart, while she blocked Mrs. Má¼ller’s attempt to retrieve it. Mama Nusa apologized but caused Mrs. Má¼ller to retreat into her house, followed by Mama Nusa and lastly, by me. Using the most courtly etiquette and language that I’d been taught, I told Mrs. Má¼ller that I was devastated at her accusations and unable to believe that she could entertain them. Mrs. Má¼ller demanded that Mama Nusa leave and take ‘that creature’–meaning me–with her. Mama Nusa spoke forcefully then, and I knew the tremendous strength it required in her condition. In a tone she’d never used before, she sternly ordered Mrs. Má¼ller to sit down. Mrs. Má¼ller did so, with a plop, her mouth open in shock.
Mama Nusa declared that Mr. Lazlo had attempted to assault me and had been rebuffed. In vengeance and fear, he had spread this malicious lie that Mrs. Má¼ller had heard. Without a pause, Mama Nusa turned to me and shrugged sadly, saying that there was no other way; I must disprove this folly. With tears in my eyes, I removed my blouse, exposing my breasts. Mrs. Má¼ller startled, frowned, and then said that perhaps they were the result of Mama Nusa’s potions; she’d heard of such things, she said. Mama Nusa sighed, shook her head and declared that she certainly wasn’t a witch, but the ignorance of small minds like Lazlo’s …
I could see that Mrs. Má¼ller was already beginning to doubt Lazlo’s story; Mama Nusa ignored her, sighed again and regretfully told me that I must fully expose myself. I pretended to demur but then demurely acquiesced and removed my skirt and then, reluctantly, my undergarment. I stood fully naked in Mrs. Má¼ller’s parlor; the only sound was the ticking of her clock and her gasp. Hand to mouth, wide-eyed, she slowly stood from the chair, taking a few steps towards me, her eyes on my groin. I gave her a defiant look and set my legs further apart. Mrs. Má¼ller then surprised me by rushing to me and hugging me, crying, and exclaiming that she was a terrible woman to have believed that little Lazlo and not the girl that she’d tutored, or Mama Nusa, whom she’d known for years. She bent to pick up my skirt and undergarment and handed them to me, actually helping me to dress as she repeated ‘you poor, poor girl’. Mama Nusa acted with disdain as she asked me to fetch the bag from the cart. As I handed it to Mrs. Má¼ller, Mama Nusa declared their relationship at an end and we left abruptly.
Once clear of town, we dissolved in giggles of relief, holding each other and crying with laughter. Her ruse had been to establish that there were two girls, Katarina the Gypsy who traveled with Mr. Wick, and Juliana Grunewald who lived with Mama Nusa and was absolutely female. Mrs. Má¼ller would spread the ‘truth’ around town that would counter Mr. Lazlo’s rumor, and hopefully demean him in the process. We pulled up to where Mr. Wick’s wagon was waiting and he shared in our joy as we helped Mama Nusa back to her cushions for the return to our house.
But it wasn’t our house, of course; it was no longer mine as my few belongings were already in the back of the wagon, along with the precious books and parchments. It was now exclusively Mama Nusa’s house …where she would die. She had already told me in no uncertain terms that once we were gone she intended to take that fatal dose of potion when the pain grew too great to bear. I couldn’t comprehend a world without Mama Nusa; we had already taken a formal, long goodbye but now were forced to take our last parting. We knew that her ruse had secured both my past and my future, and I loved her more than anybody I had ever known, even more than my own mother, because while all mothers love their children by necessity, Mama Nusa had loved me by choice.
Mr. Wick gave us our privacy for our final farewell, and Mama Nusa had enough strength to walk me to his wagon. Trust in him, she said. He was a great doctor and a great man and I was safe with him. She could leave this earth knowing that I was in his capable hands, and she hoped I lived a long and happy life, full of adventures, and could find true love. I kissed the dear, sweet woman for the last time and climbed aboard the wagon. Mr. Wick came out through the front door to my surprise; he’d been in the back of the house. He and Mama Nusa embraced and he kissed her gently, telling her that everything was in order, and that he promised to care for me. Climbing aboard and taking the reins, we both smiled at the wonderful woman as the wagon pulled away.
I was to find out much later that ‘the appropriate object’ that Mr. Wick had ‘taken pains to acquire’ was the corpse of a young girl about my age who had drowned in a boating accident. I know Mr. Wick to have been the most honorable of men and that this is true and he did not induce the death of the girl. He had been carrying the preserved body in his wagon and moved her into the woods before arriving at our house.
As I said that final goodbye to Mama Nusa, he had retrieved the corpse and placed her in what had been my room. At some unknown time after we left, when her pain had finally reached an intolerable level, Mama Nusa took that fatal dose that she had been saving, and set off several pots around the house that contained flammable materials. She then climbed into her bed for the last time and quietly, peacefully exited Life as the fires took hold, completely consuming the house. Later, when the townspeople came to investigate, they found two charred skeletons, an old woman and a young girl, which accounted for both of us and had the extra benefit of fully destroying Mr. Lazlo’s credibility.
This knowledge was all divulged to me in my future. For now, it was the year 1705 and I sat beside Mr. Wick as we headed south towards Italy. My breasts jiggled with the movement of the wagon, my skirts were tucked around my legs and my long hair was loosely bound with a kerchief. We had decided upon a stratagem to explain our relationship to those we encountered; I would be his daughter. I was no longer Jules Schneider the boy or Juliska the seamstress or Juliana Grunewald the healer or even Katarina the Gypsy girl; I was Catherine Wick, and I would learn of the world and languages and see great sights and be taught about medicine and life and love.
The End of My First Lives