How I Did It

Dedicated to Gene Wilder and Mel Brooks, My apologies.

Vith thiz roating I Hanz Vilhelm Friedreich Kemp, vill quyotely, unt vith gret purpoz, rekort mien accunt ov how I von. Ov ou I dit it. 

Ugh. Shit. Pardon my English. Or German. No one in Transylvania can tell the difference. I said, with this writing I Hans Wilhelm Friedrich Kemp will quietly, and with great purpose, record my account of how I won. Of how I did it.

Vater and Mutter were at it again in the tower, making like Act Three of Die Walküre. I was a quiet child, practically a mute. Vater had no patience for it, lost in his cognac, or his work. Mutter was kinder. No. Not kinder. She was nice. She played for us. I still remember the smell of her cigars, and the thrum of her violin. But, like always, they tended to forget about me. They left me with their manservant. Fritz. A mean, nasty sort of fellow. Always furious at me for staying in the bathroom for too long. It was the only place I had to myself. I could barely speak, child that I was, but Mutter and Vater were proud of me for using the pot. Der Großvater, never der Opa, never knew. Vater told me he did not know of me, but would see me when I had grown more. I was a big boy. I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t understand. 

One day, in our cramped home that I loved, but was too small, Fritz tormented me again. He liked to see how close he could get with his matches. He knew I’d say nothing. I couldn’t say anything. Vater trusted Fritz, though he had reason to be angry with him. 

Once, when I was born, Fritz insisted he’d found the right person, one Abt Üblich. 

He read worse than I write, and Vatter flew into a rage, choking him until Mutter pried him off. Fritz. Always fidgeting with his tie. On his suit. It was always crooked. A man has to be presentable, was what he told me when he didn’t go on about how awful I looked. It wasn’t my fault. I was a sickly kind, as my parents knew. 

But that day, Vater and Mutter were working, and I could hear them. Vater calling her name over and again like she was lost, and it was a miracle to hear anything. Even now, I still hear the sound of the William Tell Overture, and The March of the Swiss Soldiers to this very day. 

It made Fritz mad. Fritz was always mad when Vater was with Mutter. I think he was jealous, and he growled like a dog when he flashed his matches at me. I kicked them away, while he laughed. But we were in my room, and while Fritz talked about needing a roll in the hay, I don’t think that is quite what he meant. But I saved him. I pulled him up to the rafters. I even straightened out his tie. 

I think he stopped working, then. And I was scared. So I took the secrets of life and death with me. The book. I took The Secrets of Life and Death with me. Shit. Vater lent it to me, to help me learn to talk. To read and write.  My handwriting is so messy.

And then I fled. 

The rest was a blur. People screamed when I went by. They said that a monster was on the loose. I was terrified. A monster? Where? I couldn’t see it. But it followed me. I hid. There was a talking doll near the lake. An old man that thought I was some kind of soldier, or mercenary. But then his family came, and the monster with them. 

And I wanted to go back. I wanted to find Vater and Mutter again. I wanted to tell them that I ran off. I wanted to say that I was sorry. I would be a good boy. A good kind. They didn’t come for me.

They didn’t look.

I knew why. The book Vater gave me told me everything. I handled it the best I could. But the villagers made a party. The rest. The windmill. The pitchforks. The torches. The marshmallows. Then it all came down. I thought I heard someone scream my name. 

By the time I woke up, I was under wood. Not waking up with wood, but it was on top of me. And a big man beside me. I growled. I could talk, but not well. And I was coughing. The villagers came. I thought this was it. But they pulled me out. They saw the man beside me. He was in pieces. I could have used some of those. They said the monster was dead. And he got me. 

Und ja. Die fiendje monsta dit ziz to me. Mien aye, und mien arm und hant. My apologies. My handwriting. And yes. The fiendish monster did this to me. My eye, and my arm and hand. The hermit gave me the idea. He thought I had more holes in me than Swiss cheese, but I realized that what I was was an Army Knife. I had options now.

They called me Kemp. And so Kemp I became. You would not believe how many drinks they gave me in the Beer Hall. How my new family doted on me. A survivor of the monster. A hero. Kemp must have been a big boy like me, before the fire and the wood got to him. Kinder, both of us, almost made kindling.

Almost forty years passed. Vater was gone, fled the land. I think he was on the rocks on a ship. I choose to believe he drank himself to death on a cruise. Mutter remained, working for Großvater until they pried his will from his bony fingers. I got a nice Prussian mustache, even though we are in Transylvania. I fixed my arm. I got a new one. From the lumber yard, I tell them. Sometimes both arms lock up, but the villagers never seem to remember which side is what. And fire doesn’t scare me anymore, after seeing it up close.

And I am not afraid of the villagers. These people accepted me. They look up to me. Many of them never even saw me when I first wandered off from my home. The high collars really help my neck. The hat I wear too covers my forehead. And my eye is fine. I just wear the patch for emphasis. Perhaps my German is too over-emphasized. It’s easy to lapse back into those growls. But they never notice that slip up. 

Riots are ugly things. Every once and a while, I stir them up before they can think of doing them themselves. The last great riot? That was when people got into a fight at the hall over whether Transylvania’s ruled by the Swiss, or the Romanians! Or if we are our own country! Fools! We are Transylvania. Where everyone knows each other, and little boys shine shoes, and men blow horns in their lederhosen. And where we brew beer, and brothels. Especially brothels.

And there are other little pleasures. I play with them. They see me. They respect me. They understand me more than they did their Baron. When Frederick Frankenstein came after the will, I wanted to have my fun. I hadn’t seen my home in years. Mutter wasn’t around. I heard the rumours, though. Just like that sweet music. They made another. Another monster. I went over to the Castle. These hands, even now, are hard to hold a pen. I could break this table if I wanted to. I did a few times. This time, I controlled that knock at the door.

I enjoyed Frederick’s discomfort. He asked me, when I flexed my stiff arm, like a toy’s, if I had a war wound. Pah. Nien, I said. It was … “It vaz ripped out of itz zocket,” I laughed. I had to. This was too funny. He had no idea, “by zi fiendish monster zat your grandfather created!”

Watching him squirm was the best part. I even got to play some darts with him later in the billiards room. I could never throw, not even when I lost that … doll in the lake. And if I did, I would have broken the wall. It was easy to distract him, and just place them there on my arm, and then the board. I couldn’t – I wouldn’t – reveal myself, but I was going to win.

And I did. I had my fun. I didn’t have it in my heart to hurt my cousin. My brother. My little brother. And when I saw what Frederick did for him, after playing some more with the villagers, I really did want to give them some sponge cake. I love sponge cake. But my hand came off. My cousin might be gentler, but he is stronger than I thought. That soun of a veetch. 

So off to the lumber yard. Ja. And then, to another time-honoured tradition. 

To the brothel.

But I, Heinrich … Henry von Frankenstein, will not need any timber for that.