Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!
ShortStories
October 6, 1943
Eve's Dream
     "Good night, Eve, sleep well."
     "Same to you, Mum."
     Click went the light and Eve lay in the dark, but only for a few moments, because when she got used
     to the darkness, she saw that her mother had closed the curtains in such a way that an opening was
     left through which she could look straight into the face of the moon. The
     moon stood so quietly in the sky; he didn't move, smiled, and was friendly to everyone.
     "If I could only be like that," Eve said softly to herself, "always quiet and kind so that everybody would
     like me. That would be wonderful." Eve thought and thought about the difference between the moon
     and herself, who was still so very small. She finally dozed off, and her thoughts seemed to be
     transformed into a dream, which Eve remembered so keenly next day that she afterward sometimes
     wondered whether it had not actually happened.
     She stood at the entrance of a big park, looking through the fence and not quite daring to go in. Just
     as she was about to turn back, a little girl with wings came up to her and said, "Go right ahead, Eve,
     or don't you know the way?" "No, I don't," said Eve shyly. "Well, then I will guide you." And with those
     words, the smart little elf took Eve's hand. Eve had walked in several parks with her mother and her
     grandmother, but a park like this one she had never seen. She saw a wealth of flowers, trees, fields,
     every imaginable kind of insect, and small animals such as squirrels and turtles. The elf chatted
     gaily with her, and Eve had got over her fear enough to ask a question. But the elf stopped her by
     putting a finger to Eve's lips. "I will show you and explain everything. After each explanation you may
     ask questions about things you don't understand, but otherwise you must be silent and not interrupt
     me. If you do, I shall take you home at once, and then you will know just as little as all the other stupid
     people. "Well, now I begin: First of all, here is the rose, the queen of flowers. She is so beautiful and
     smells so wonderful that it goes to everybody's head, and most of all to her own. "The rose is lovely,
     elegant, and fragrant, but if something doesn't please her, she immediately turns her thorns in your
     direction. She is like a spoiled little girl--very pretty and apparently quite sweet, too, but either touch
     her, or pay a little attention to somebody else, so that she is no longer the center of interest, and she
     shows her sharp nails. Her tone of voice becomes catty; she is offended but doesn't want to show it,
     and so her manners turn stilted and she puts on airs." "But if all this is so, little elf, how is it that
     everybody considers the rose the queen of flowers?" "lt is because nearly all people are blinded by
     surface glitter; there are only a few who would not have voted for the rose if there had been
     an election. The rose is goodlooking and dignified, and, just as in the rest of the world, scarcely
     anyone asks if there might not he another, outwardly a little plainer, perhaps, but inwardly more
     noble and gifted, for the role of ruler." "But you yourself think the rose lovely, don't you, little elf?"
     "Indeed, I do, and if she wouldn't always push herself into the
     foreground, she might be lovable as well. But since, by common consent, she is the flower of
     flowers, she will always regard herself as more beautiful than she really is, and so long as that is so,
     she will be full of false pride. I don't care for such creatures." "Do you think that Lena, too, is full of
     false pride? She is also beautiful and, because she is rich, she is the head of the class." "Think for a
     moment, Eve, and you will have to admit that, if little Marie, for example, had some complaint
     against Lena, Lena would turn the entire class against Marie. The reason? Simply that Marie is
     plain and poor. And you, all of you, would accept that false reason, because you know that if you did
     not, you would fall from Lena's good graces. And that, you think, is as bad as having the headmaster
     angry at you. You wouldn't be permitted to come to her heautiful home, and so you let her boss you.
     Later in life, such girls as Lena will stand alone, for the others, as they grow older, will understand
     how wrong she was. Rather than be lonely forever, girls like Lena should change their ways." "Do
     you think, then, elf, that I should try to convince the other girls not to listen to Lena?" "Yes. First she
     will be furious at you. But later, as she gets more sense and realizes how badlv she has acted, she
     will be grateful and have friends who are more sincere than those she has had until now . . ." "I
     understand. But tell me, little elf, am I as full of false pride as the rose?" "Listen, Eve: people and
     children who ask themselves such questions prove by that very act that they are free from false
     pride. You can best answer the question yourself, and I advise you to do so . . . Now let us go on.
     Look at this: don't you think it is attractive?" The elf knelt down by a small, blue, bell-shaped flower
     that waved back and forth in the grass to the rhythm of the wind. "This little bell is kind, sweet, and
     simple. It brings joy to the world; it tolls for the other flowers just as a church bell tolls for people. It
     helps many flowers and comforts them. The little bell is never lonesome; it has music in its small
     heart. This flower is much happier than the rose. It doesn't care about the praise of others. The rose
     lives only for and by admiration: if she doesn't get this, she has no other reason to be glad. Her
     outward splendor is for others; inside she is empty and, therefore, without happiness. "The little bell,
     on the other hand, is not exactly beautiful, but it has genuine friends, who value its melodies; those
     friends live in its flower-heart." "But the little bell is a pretty flower, too, isn't it?" "Yes, but not as
     obviously as the rose. Unfortunately, it is this kind of 'show' that attracts most people." "But I, too,
     often feel quite alone and like to have people about me. Is that not good?" "That has nothing to do
     with it, Eve. Later, when you grow up, you, too, will hear the song in your heart; I am sure of it."
     "Please, dear elf, go on with your story." "All right, I will go on." The elf pointed upward with her small
     fingers. Eve looked at a huge, stately chestnut tree. "This tree is impressive, isn't it?" asked the elf.
     "Yes, it is grand; how old do
     you think it is?" "It is surely more than a hundred and fifty years old, but it is still straight and doesn't
     feel old at all. Everybody admires this chestnut for its strength, and he proves that he knows his
     strength with his indifference about all this admiration. He doesn't tolerate anyone above himself
     and is egotistical in everything. So long as he lives, nothing else is of any importance. He looks as
     though he were generous and a support to others. But if you think that, you are mistaken. The
     chestnut is pleased when no one comes to him with troubles or
     complaints. He has a good life, but he begrudges it to everyone else. The trees and flowers know
     this. When they are in trouble, they go to the sympathetic pine and forget about the chestnut. "Still,
     the chestnut, too, has a very small song in that big heart of his; you can tell that by his liking for the
     birds. For them he always has a little spot, and he often gives them a little something, though not
     much." "Can the chestnut tree also be compared to some kind of person?" "That, too, you need not
     ask, Eve. All living beings can be compared with each other, and the chestnut is no exception. He is
     not bad, you know, but neither is he good. He doesn't do anyone harm, lives his own life, and is
     satisfied. Any other questions, Eve?" "No, I understand everything, and I am very grateful to you for
     your explanations, dear elf. Now I am going home. Will you come again sometime to tell me more?"
     "That is not possible. Sleep well, Eve." The elf was gone. Eve woke up; the sun had replaced the
     moon, and a cuckoo clock at the neighbors' called out seven. The dream had made a big
     impression on Eve. Nearly every day she caught herself doing or saying little unpleasant things,
     which she then corrected at once according to the elf's good advice. She also tried hard not always
     to give in to Lena. But girls like that feel at once that someone is making an effort to "take them
     down a peg or two." She defended herself vigorously, especially when Eve proposed some game in
     which another girl would be the leader. Then Lena did everything she could to turn her faithful
     following against Eve. Eve noticed with pleasure that Lena wasn't quite as smart in her dealings with
     her as she was with little Marie. As Marie was a small, slight, and shy girl, it amazed Eve that she
     dared to stand up against Lena. As she got to know her better, it became very clear to Eve that
     Marie, as a friend, was to be valued much above Lena. Eve had told her mother nothing about the
     elf. She hardly knew why. Until now, she had confided in her mother, but for the first time she felt the
     need to keep something to herself. She didn't understand it, but she had a feeling that Mummy
     wouldn't be quite "with her" in this. The little elf was so lovely, and Mummy had not been in the big
     park and hadn't seen the elf. Eve couldn't describe the elf's appearance. It wasn't long before the
     dream had such an influence on Eve that her mother noticed the change in her daughter. She talked
     about more interesting things than before and didn't get excited about trifles. But since Eve didn't
     speak of what had brought about the change, the mother didn't want to force herself into the child's
     confidence.
     And so Eve lived on, thinking always of the elf's good counsel. She never saw the elf again. Lena no
     longer was the head of the class. The other girls now led the group by turns. At first, this had made
     Lena very cross, but when she found that angry words didn't help, she began
     to behave in a more friendly manner. Finally, her classmates, finding that she had outgrown her old
     faults, treated her like everyone else.
     Eve decided to tell her mother of her experience. To her surprise, Mummy didn't laugh, but said:
     "That was a great privilege the elf gave you, Eve. I don't believe that she would think many children
     fit to receive it. Think always of the elf's trust in you, and don't talk about it to anyone. Do always what
     the elf told you, and don't get away from the path she showed you."
     As Eve grew older, she became known for her good deeds. When she was sixteen, everyone in the
     community prized her as a kind, gentle, and helpful girl. Every time she did something good she felt
     warm and glad inside, and slowly she began to understand what the elf had meant by "the song in
     her heart."
     When she was grown up, the solution of the dream and who and what the elf had been suddenly
     came to her one day. She knew, as if in a flash, that it had been her own conscience which, in her
     dream, had shown her what was right. She was deeply thankful that, in her child- hood, she
     had had the little elf as a guide and example.
 
 

                                        February 11, 1944
                                             Kathy

     Kathy sat on the big boulder that lay in the sun in front of the farm. She was thinking, thinking very
     hard. Kathy was one of those quiet girls. What the youngster in the dirndl apron was thinking about,
     she alone knew; she never told her thoughts to anyone -- she was much too withdrawn for that. She
     had no friends and probably would have found it hard to get any. Her mother found her a strange
     child, and the pity of it was that Kathy felt that. Her father, the farmer, was much too busy to concern
     himself with his only little daughter. And so Kathy was always by herself. It didn't disturb) her; she
     didn't know any better and was soon satisfied But on this warm summer evening she sighed deeply
     as she looked up and glanced at the cornfields. How jolly it would be to play with those girls over
     there. Look, they ran about, and laughed; what fun  they were having! Now the  children came closer,
     and still closer -- would they come to her? Oh, how awful, they came -- but to laugh at her. She
     clearly heard them mention her name, not her real name, but the nickname that she hated so much
     and that she often heard the children whisper--Crazykate!
     Oh, how miserable she felt; if she could only run into the house, but if she did, the children would
     laugh at her all the more. Poor girl, it surely isn't the first time that you have felt so forsaken and
     envied to other youngsters. . .
     "Kathy! Kathy, come home! We are having supper!" Another sigh, and the child slowly rose to obey
     her mother.
     "My, what a cheerful face! We surely have a happy daughter!" the farmer's wife cried when the child,
     more slowly and more depressed than ever, entered the room. "Can't you say something for
     yourself?" scolded the woman. Her tone was more unfriendly than she herself knew; her daughter
     never had been the bright, lively girl she had always wanted.'
     "Yes, Mother," whispered the child.
     "You're a fine one, staying away all morning and not doing a stroke of work. Where have you been?"

     "Outside." Kathy felt as though she had a gag in her throat, but the mother misunderstood the girl's
     embarrassment and now really became curious where the child had been all morning. Again she
     asked:
     "Answer me properly; I want to know where you have been, do you understand? I can't stand that
     everlasting, slow-witted, crazy behavior!"
     At the word that reminded her of the detested nickname, Kathy lost control of herself and burst into
     tears.
     "What is the matter now? You're a real coward! Can't you tell me where you've been hanging out?
     Or is that perhaps a big secret?"
     The child could not possibly ansuer; violent sobs kept her from speaking. Suddenly, she upset a
     chair, ran weeping out of the room and up to the attic, where she sank down on some bags in a
     corner, sobbing as if her heart would break.
     The mother shrugged her shoulders as she cleared the table dounstairs; she wasn't surprised at her
     child's conduct. Such "crazy" moods were not unusual; she decided to let the girl alone -- there was
     nothing to be gained, and the everlasting tears were always on the point of coming. A fine specimen
     of a twelve-year-old farmer's daughter! In the attic, Kathy had calmed down somewhat and was
     collecting her thoughts. She would presently go downstairs, tell her mother that she had simply been
     sitting on the boulder by the door and thinking about things, and offer to finish all of the work that
     afternoon. Her mother then would surely understand that she did not mind the work, and should she
     be asked where she had been sitting still all morning, she would answer that there was something
     important she had to figure out. Then, in the evening, when she had to deliver the eggs, she would
     buy a pretty, silver, glittering thimble for her mother; she had just enough money to buy one in the
     village. Mother would realize that she wasn't so slow-witted and crazy, after all. Oh, if she could only
     get rid of that dreadful nickname! Here was a thought: If she had any money left over after buying the
     thimble, she'd get a bag of sweets and, on her way to school, divide them among the girls. Then
     they'd like her and ask her to play with them. They would soon see that she was good at games as
     anyone, and nobody would ever call her anything but Kathy after that. Softly she descended the
     stairs. When she met her mother in the passage, all courage to talk and explain the morning's
     absence left her, and she quickly started cleaning the windows, one of her regular tasks.
     It was almost sundown when Kathy took the basket of eggs and began her rounds. After a half
     hour's walk she reached the first customer, who stood in her doorway, dish in hand.
     "I'll take ten tonight, my child," said the friendly woman.
     She counted off ten and, with a greeting, continued on her way.
     In three quarters of an hour the basket was empty, and Kathy stepped into the small general store. A
     pretty thimble and a bagful of sweets were soon put into the basket, and now Kathy turned back
     toward home. About halfway, she saw two of the girls who had teased her in the
     morning coming toward her. She bravely suppressed a longing to hide, and, her heart beating
     wildly, she went on.
     "Look! Here comes Crazykate!"
     At her wits'end, Kathy took the bag of sweets from her basket and politely held it out to the children.
     They quickly grabbed it from her and ran away with it. One of them stuck out her tongue at Kathy.
     Lonesome and heartbroken, Kathy sat down in the grass at the edge of
     the road, and wept, wept, and wept. Finally, in the dark, she dried her tears, picked up the basket,
     and slowly set off in the direction of home. Somewhere in the grass, the thimble glittered . . .

February 20, 1944
The Flower Girl

     Every morning at seven-thirty the door of a little house at the edge of the
     village opens, and out steps a rather small girl, carrying a basket heaped
     with flowers on each arm. After shutting the door, she switches her burdens
     and starts the day's work. The people of the village, who answer her smiling
     nod as she passes, feel sorry for her. "That road is much too long and the
     job too hard," they think, "for a child of twelve."
     But the little girl, herself, naturally doesn't know the thoughts of her fellow
     villagers. Merrily, and as quickly as her short legs will take her, she walks on
     and on and on. The road to the town is really very long; it takes her at least
     two and a half hours of steady walking to reach it and, with two heavy
     baskets, that's not easy.
     When she finally trudges through the streets of the town she is exhausted,
     and it's only the prospect of soon being able to sit down and rest that
     sustains her. But the little one is brave and doesn't slow down her gait until
     she gets to her spot in the market. Then she sits down and waits and waits .
     . .
     Sometimes she sits and waits all day because there are not enough people
     who want to buy something from the poor flower girl. Quite often Krista has
     to carry her baskets, still half full, back to the village in the evening.
     But today things are different. It is Wednesday, and the market is unusually
     crowded and busy. Beside her, market women cry their wares, and all about
     her the little girl hears scolding and angry voices. Passers-by can scarcely
     hear Krista, for her high little voice is
     almost drowned out in the market hubbub. But all day long, Krista doesn't
     stop calling, "Pretty flowers, a dime a bunch! Buy my pretty flowers!" Some
     people who, finished with their errands, take time to look into the baskets
     gladly pay a dime for one of the lovely small
     bouquets.
     At twelve o'clock, Krista walks to the opposite side of the market square,
     where the owner of the coffee stand is in the habit of giving her, free of
     charge, a cupful withplenty of sugar. For this kind man Krista keeps her
     prettiest flowers.
     Then she takes her seat again and once more starts crying her wares. At
     last, about three-thirty, she picks up her baskets and returns to the village.
     Now she walks much more slowly than she did in the morning. Krista is tired,
     terribly tired.
     The trip back takes her a full three hours, and it is six- thirty when she
     reaches the door of the little old house. Inside everything is still the way she
     left it -- cold, lonesome, and untidy. Her sister, with whom she shares the
     place, works in the village from early morning to late at night. Krista can't
     afford to rest; she is no sooner home than she begins to peel potatoes and
     clean vegetables. Her sister gets back from work at seven-thirty, and they
     finally sit down
     and have something to eat.
     At eight in the evening the door of the cottage opens again, and once more
     the little girl comes out with the two big baskets on her arms. Now she walks
     into the fields that surround the little house. She doesn't have to go far; soon
     she bends down in the grass and picks flowers, all kinds of them, big ones
     and little ones, and all of them go into the baskets. The sun has almost set,
     and the child still sits in the grass, collecting her next day's supply.
     The task is finished at last; the baskets are full. The sun has set, and Krista
     lies down in the grass, her hands folded under her head, and looks up into
     the sky.
     This is her favorite quarter hour, and nobody need think that the hardworking
     little flower girl is dissatisfied. She never is and never will be so long as,
     every day, she may have this wonderful short rest.
     In the field, amid the flowers, beneath the darkening sky, Krista is content.
     Gone is fatigue, gone is the market, gone are the people. The little girl
     dreams and thinks only of the bliss of having, each day, this short while alone
     with God and nature.