Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel by Stefan Kiesbye Page B

Are you the real heir? The one everyone is talking about?”
    “The real heir,” he said. “Of what?”
    “Of the Big House.”
    “Of course it’s mine,” he said. “All this is mine.” He flailed his arms, which I took as a sign that he meant the whole manor.
    “Then where have you been all these years? Why aren’t you the master of it all?”
    He looked at me with large eyes, seemingly uncomprehending. “It’s mine,” he repeated, “it’s all mine, and I will make you my mistress.” From the depths of his shirt he produced a leather bag, and from it he pulled a large golden key. “This gives you reign over my manor once I’m gone. It’s my will, and you will be richer than the caliph of Baghdad.”
    I took the key and put it in my pocket. “How come I’ve never seen you before? Not once. All my life I’ve visited this place, but you weren’t here.”
    “I’ve never seen you myself. And I’ve been here all my life.” He laughed at his own remark, pleased with himself.
    I waited for him to continue, but he fell silent, sitting in his hole, afraid to get up lest he might fall through the earth.
    At last I left him, scrambled up and promised to bring him more food the next day. He responded by putting one jam-smeared finger to his mouth.
    That evening my father was in a glum mood. As our truck bounced and coughed its way home, dad cursed Bruno von Kamphoff and his greed, he cursed the steward for interfering with his work, mother for always wanting more than he could provide, and he berated himself for being a lowly gardener and a poor husband. “I always thought I’d be blessed with all the good things,” he said. “When I was a boy, I dreamed of adventures in the Far East and the Wild West. I’d travel the world like men do in novels. It was just a matter of growing up. And what happened? I became a gardener.”
    I knew this mood of his well. Maybe he had drunk from a flask he carried with him, or else my mother might have given him a hard time the night before. I shouldn’t have paid attention to this mood, which came and went like bad weather. I shouldn’t have done what I did next, but I was burning to share my secret and thought it might help my father at least forget his sorrows for the evening. I showed him my treasure.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “We’re rich,” I said. “The Big House is ours.”
    “Nonsense,” he said, but his curiosity was piqued. He stopped the truck, stared at the key, then took it and weighed it in his hand.
    “It’s ours, all ours,” I said. “You think the key really counts? You think we can keep it? I didn’t steal it.”
    My father turned to me without saying a word. His face was marked by confusion and the clouds that ran over it promised the worst of storms.
    “Who gave this to you?” he asked.
    “It’s his will,” I said. “I’m the heiress.”
    “Who gave this to you?” he asked again, holding the key up to my face. Then he pulled it apart. In one hand he now held the bit, and in the other a corkscrew. “Who?” my dad asked, and I knew better than to keep my silence.
    We turned around at once, and instead of driving to the shed where he kept his tools, he drove up to the rear of the Big House. He cursed loudly, closing his eyes and pounding the wheel with his fists. “It was forbidden,” he shouted. “Forbidden. You heard it yourself. If word gets out about this. Can you imagine the gossip in our village? The real heir. Johann’s brother.” Finally he got out of the truck and approached the back entrance; he seemed to have shrunk several inches.
    What exactly happened inside I never learned. But when my father emerged again, his face was pale and without expression. He looked around as though he could find neither his truck nor me sitting by the window. For long seconds he stared into the sky, looked at the blooming hedges that surrounded the courtyard, and chewed on his dirty nails. Bruno von Kamphoff had fired him.
    On our