Tricked: A New Perspective of Hansel
and Gretel
By Jamie Green Klopotoski
I am not a witch.
I am just an old woman who wanted to
be left alone. Why is that so wrong? I do not like people, never have, at least
not since the night that my childhood, my future, everything I knew and loved,
was taken away from me. I wanted to live in the woods, self-sufficiently. I
wasn’t bothering anyone. And I didn’t want anyone to bother me.
Looking back, maybe choosing to build
my home from sweets was a little too enticing.
Many moons ago, I built my little
cottage from scratch, literally. I baked day and night for years to make enough
gingerbread for the walls, cakes for the windows and doors, and chocolate
truffles for the knobs and locks. I constructed three humble rooms- a kitchen,
a bedroom, and a living room with a fireplace, with a thatched roof over it
all. I slaved at the stove for hours getting the consistency of the sugar icing
just right and coated the entire house to seal it from the elements, and then
decorated with various colorful cookies and candies.
The work reminded me of better days,
when I was a child, baking with my mother, designing gingerbread houses for our
family-run bakery. She always let me use the brand-new pastry bags and I could
choose whatever decorative tips I wanted to adorn the houses with intricate
designs. Oh how I delighted in swirling buttercream on the rooftops and piping roses onto the doors. My
mother said I was natural; while I had no patience with typical housework, I
could slowly and steadily direct my artistry in the bakery for hours and hours.
I looked forward to the day when I would take over the bakery. I dreamed of
living in the tiny apartment above it, that always smelled of sugar and flour,
all on my own, or maybe with my very own family, 2 kids, a boy and a girl, and a
doting husband who would carry the heaviest sacks of ingredients to the supply
room for me, living happily ever after.
But then there was the fire, set by
an angry mob directed by the King, who didn’t like my mother because she was
part of the resistance (it was well known that she gave bread to the poor
starving children of the rebel families, which arguably kept them not only
alive but also able to fight). The bakery burned to the ground, with my mother
trapped inside. I managed to escape to the woods. I knew nothing but baking, so
for my first task of survival, I created a humble wood stove out of stones I
collected. I took everything I learned from my mother and put it into making my
very own home, where I vowed to live, by myself, on my own, for the rest of my
life.
Until those pesky kids showed up. Two
of them, a boy and a girl. I was sitting in my peppermint rocking chair, next
to the mint chocolate fireplace, happily kneading some cinnamon bread dough in
a bowl in my lap, when I heard the nibbling. Occasionally a squirrel or other
animal would come along and eat away at the roof until I shooed it away, so I
grabbed my broom and ran outside, ready to brush away the nuisance, when I saw
them. Dirty, tired faces with pale, freckled skin, torn disheveled clothes,
chowing down on my shutters like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. I felt sorry for
them, my heart ached, and I called out, “Oh, dear children, please do not eat
my house. Come inside and I’ll fix you a nice warm meal.” But I must have
frightened them, for they scurried away. I decided to put together some food-
pancakes, milk, apples, nuts; I set it all up on a graham cracker picnic table
outside, in hopes that if they came back, they would eat this food instead of
my house. And then I went to bed. I
checked the plates the next morning, and the food had vanished, every last
crumb. So I prepared another meal, and another the next day, and another the
next. Each morning, the food was gone, plates licked clean. Finally, on the
seventh day, I decided not to leave out food, and in the morning, the children
were sitting at the picnic table, waiting, hopeful for their meal.
“Good morning children, please don’t
be scared. Come inside. I have warm toast and blueberry jam for you, and big
glasses of cold milk.” They looked at me, glanced at each other, smiled
wearily, then hesitantly followed me inside. They sat at my table and gobbled
down every last crumb. I stared at them in amazement. Never had I seen such
desperation, but somehow they still remembered their manners, never once
putting their elbows on the table, always wiping their mouths neatly with
napkins and not the backs of their hands like children are known to do. And the
most endearing thing was watching the little boy make sure the little girl had
enough of everything she needed, continuing to push more food in front of her
and refilling her glass of milk three times.
After the meal, they seemed to warm
up to me, though neither of them had yet spoken a single word. I drew a bath
for them, washed their clothes, and invited them to nap in my soft sourdough
bed. It felt nice taking care of someone, two someones. I wanted to learn more
about them, and hoped I could get them to open up to me. After their nap, I
prepared them a nice lunch, sat them down, and began to probe into their lives.
“What are your names, my darlings?” I
began simply.
“I’m Hansel, and my sister… she’s
Gretel,” the little boy said softly. His voice was scratchy, like he hadn’t
used it in awhile.
“What are you two pretty things doing
out here in the woods all by yourselves?” I inquired.
“I…We… got lost and… can’t find our
way home,” the boy stumbled on his words, looking at his sister while he spoke.
She remained quiet as a mouse, eyes wide, twirling the end of one of her
pigtails of dirty red hair between two chubby fingers.
“Well, maybe I can help you. Did you
come from the village?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Okay. Well you two rest up here
tonight, and first thing tomorrow, we’ll take a walk to the village and get you
home, safe and sound.” The boy smiled, little dimples appearing just below his
big brown eyes.
They scarfed down their lunch and
then poked their way around my house. I watched their curiosity with interest.
They slowly walked around my kitchen, poking at the fruitcake cabinets, opening
every pound cake drawer. In the living room, they circled the marzipan rug and
played with the caramel curtains. They found my stash of cherry lollipops and
each took one. At the sponge cake bookcase, they stopped and stared.
“Would you like to read one of my
books? I’ve got at least a few that are appropriate for kids your age. None
with pictures though.”
Gretel nodded furiously, but Hansel
shook his head. “No ma’am. We… don’t know how to read.”
“Would you like me to read some to
you? It don’t bother me none.”
Gretel looked up at me with a sparkle
in her hazel eyes. “Would you?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to. Come
here, let’s sit by the fire, and I’ll read to you.” I picked a book off my
shelf, an old dusty tome of fairy tales that I had found one day left behind on
a trail deep in the forest. It had a green leather cover with gold leaf
ornamentation and hand-sewn binding, itself a work of art. I sat on my muffin
top arm chair, the children curled around at my feet sucking on their lollipops,
and I read them tale after tale. Soon they were fast asleep. I carried them to
the bedroom, tucked them in, and sat on the gumdrop windowsill watching their
chests rise and fall, listening to their light purring snores, imagining that
they were my children. That I had a different life. That we lived in a
different world.
As much as I wanted to help them, to
reunite them with their parents, I was not at all looking forward to stepping
foot in the village again. I’d heard stories that the rebel forces were even
stronger now, but that the King had responded in kind, with harsh lockdowns and
brutal sanctions. The villagers were starving and suffering and often tortured,
that was no place for two young children to be. But I supposed they deserved to
be back with their parents, to be a family, even if it meant suffering, because
at least they’d be together. I slipped out of the bedroom, grabbed an extra
blanket, and sat in my rocking chair, slowly rocking myself to sleep as I
stared at the dwindling fire and its wisps of flickering light.
In the morning, I prepared an elegant
breakfast of toast and butter, pastries and cream, berries and nuts and packed
up some lunches and snacks for the road. Hansel and Gretel awoke, refreshed,
looking more alive than I had seen them yet. The color had returned to their
cheeks, and they had a slight spring in their step. They stuffed their bellies
full, and we embarked on our journey to the village. The sun was bright; its
yellow rays poking through the canopy of the trees. The weather was warm, but
the light breeze was cool. It took a few hours, along mostly dirt paths with
lots of twists and turns. The children were a delight to walk with; I pointed
out to them with my walking stick the many plants and animals along the way and
soon they were pointing this way and that, “What’s this, ma’am? What’s that?” I
introduced them to the three-toed woodpecker, the willow grouse, and the
ring-necked pheasant. We spied a masked polecat, a spotted salamander, and a
colony of pygmy rabbits. I pointed out the berries growing along the trails,
and explained which were safe to eat, and which were highly poisonous. Just
like I would have with my own children. Teaching them everything I knew.
Soon we arrived at the edge of the
village, alongside the stone wall at the side gate. I had no intention of
entering the village, so we stopped and I bid them adieu, wishing them the
best. I gave them each a sack full of goodies, and, with a tear in my eye, said
a silent prayer that they would not go hungry. Hansel and Gretel hurried off;
they never looked back, and I would never see them again. Hours later, I was
back in my cozy cottage, bundled up for bedtime, dozing off to dream of a
better life, a better world, full of happy, thriving children, some of them my
very own.
The next morning, I awoke to the
galloping of horses and the yelling of men. I peeked out my window to see what
the commotion was, and saw dozens of the King’s soldiers with their midnight
black stallions and deep maroon flags on golden staffs heading straight toward
my humble abode, kicking up dust and dirt as they rode. At that moment, I knew
I had been betrayed. My heart sank. I sighed, surrendering to my inevitable
fate. I was a defenseless old woman, what was I to do? I most certainly could
not fight back. And they were too close for me to hide or to escape.
Moments later, the soldiers barged
through the door, snatched me up, stuffed me in my oven, shut the door and
fastened the bolt, and left me for dead. From inside the oven, I could hear the
muffled sounds of my house being torn apart. Bit by bit, pieces of cake and
gingerbread were stuffed into sacks, some men even snuck a bite or two. Years
of my hard work, gone in an instant. How sad that it is easier to destroy than
to create. As they plundered, I overheard them discussing the ingenious plot of
the King. He had heard rumors about my sweet cottage and developed an evil plan
to find it and take it for his very own (apparently the Kingdom was starving as
much as the village was). The King found two of the most desperately poor
children in the village, and promised to pay them each a single coin to find my
cottage and lead his men to it. They succeeded. Unbeknownst to me, the clever
little Hansel had pocketed his piece of morning toast from the breakfast I had
so graciously provided, and as we walked back to the village, had dropped
little pieces of it behind him. That is now he was able to show the King’s men
how to find me. My kindness had been my
ruin.
I was too angry to cry. I had been
betrayed. What an awful and dastardly trick the King played on me, using those
kids, tugging at my heart strings, and then ripping my heart right out. I lost
everything, my home, my work, my life. What a cruel, cruel world.
