The Dutch Maiden. Marente De Moor

they skidded to a halt, Siegbert dragged his brother over to the mirror and thrust him in front of it. ‘See for yourself, Fritz. Look how beautiful you are.’

      ‘Let go of me,’ squeaked Friedrich. ‘Please, dear Sieg. Don’t be so cruel.’

      ‘Tell him, Janna,’ Siegbert insisted.

      My cheeks were flushed with shame. ‘Leave me out of it!’ I blurted. ‘We came here to fence. Now put on your masks!’

      Remarkably, they obeyed. Everything went according to the rulebook. I knew the rules that governed sabre-fencing, all the same it was a terribly fast-moving sport to preside on your own. Yet they never questioned my authority. As I expected, they were evenly matched, hopping back and forth across the piste like Punch and Judy. After Friedrich’s first thrust on target, Siegbert equalized with a slash to the shoulder. Four hits for each brother followed until Siegbert suddenly lowered his sabre.

      ‘Wait!’ He held a finger up to his mask. ‘Quiet, I can hear something!’

      We pricked up our ears. All I could hear was a songbird showing off in the branches of the lime tree. The sabreurs stood stock-still with their masks covering their faces, expressions hidden from view. Perhaps they were laughing silently, chuckling away to themselves as they looked at me. Before I could ask them anything, Siegbert raised his finger again. I wasn’t even sure it was Siegbert. Perhaps they had switched places when I wasn’t looking. The other brother brandished his sabre as if expecting an attack. I still couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. A curtain flapped against the wall, a downstairs door slammed. The bird had shut up at last. When I turned around, the sabreur was standing with his back to the window, wielding his sabre.

      ‘The Golem!’ he blared, and they both fell about laughing. Siegbert pulled the mask from his face. ‘We had you worried there for a minute.’

      ‘Yes, we had you worried there,’ said Friedrich. ‘Admit it.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’ve never even heard of that film.’

      ‘Never heard of Der Golem?’

      I shook my head. I wasn’t about to tell them I had only been to the cinema three times in my entire life.

      ‘The Golem is a monster made of clay,’ said Friedrich. ‘He was created by a rabbi who wanted to protect his people. He comes to life when you carve a star on his chest. But then everything gets out of control and he smashes everything up and … ’

      ‘You’re not telling it right,’ Siegbert interrupted. ‘We have to make it dark in here otherwise it won’t be scary enough.’ He started unfastening a heavy curtain. Thick strands of dust drifted to the floor, but the red material was not enough to keep out the morning sun. Siegbert beckoned us closer. ‘It all takes place in Prague, a long, long time ago … ’ Footsteps could be heard in the hallway. His eyes opened wide, but his pupils stayed small. It’s a look I have seen in vicious dogs, blind as frozen water. ‘Hear that? We’ve raised the Golem from the dead. I always knew this place was haunted. Listen!’

      The clock said half past seven. It must be Leni coming to fetch the cleaning buckets from the cellar. But I was more interested in what Siegbert had to say. In those days we were all obsessed with spiritualism. My friends back home quivered themselves into a state of ecstasy in the back rooms of their parents’ homes. I was amazed at the efficiency with which they clipped letters from newspapers, fashioned a cross from two pieces of wood and directed questions at the silent void. Inevitably a parental row would break out at the decisive moment, clearly audible through the thin walls. You could cut the tension with a knife in most Limburg households during the Great Depression, but that wasn’t the kind of tension we were after. At Raeren, I had been hoping for the real thing. The twins had known the house for some time and during their last stay they had slept in the attic room and been visited by a horde of—demons, Friedrich thought, wandering spirits, according to Siegbert. Whatever form they took, there was something ghostly afoot and here we were to soak it all up.

      ‘I’m sleeping in the attic room,’ I said. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed anything.’

      ‘I’d watch out if I were you,’ said Friedrich. ‘They will come, of that you can be sure. Who they are, we do not know, but there’s a host of them. If you listen closely, you can hear them talking. Hushed voices, almost like rustling. Just thinking about it gives me the willies!’

      ‘Come on, let’s go up there,’ said Siegbert. ‘Then you’ll see how haunted this place is.’

      So while the adults were trying to shake off the night with cold water and plans for the day ahead, we egged each other on in childish whispers and stormed upstairs on our occult adventure, oblivious to the glaring common sense of the morning outside.