Kotzenburg Ch.1

Hank & George & The Barth House for Vociferous Women and Girls of Unnourished Character

By Chris Wunderlich

                Kotzenburg was a strange town, lying on the Canadian shores of Lake Erie, just a short train ride from either the big city or endless fields of nothing. It began as a port, destined to house barges, boats and gigantic freight liners in what was supposed to be a fruitful trading enterprise. But as the German immigrants that settled there began construction on their harbour, the lake refused to cooperate, receding from its hoary coast in objection. Swamp, muck, and tall grass took over, and the more the Germans built, the further the shore would retreat. Eventually it became clear—Kotzenburg would never be the dominating nautical powerhouse of Lake Erie. It would remain a port of mud, and in the winter, shallow ice.

                Fortunately, before the fickle forces of nature could completely crush the settlers’ spirits, construction on the railway began. Kotzenburg, now connected to growing, successful cities, began several small enterprises, attempting to make up for their humiliating lakeside folly. Farms flourished, then failed. Forests fell, but their timber proved poor. In fact, the only business that managed to thrive was storage. Storage of people, specifically—the unwanted, troublesome, and unlucky.

                The Barth House for Vociferous Women and Girls of Unnourished Character started as a charitable home, providing room and board for runaways, vagrants and those fleeing abusive households. The original idea was to offer seamstress services to the public, allowing the women to earn small wages and eventually move on. Somewhere along the line though, greed and corruption took over, as one might expect. The city began to send large orders, and sacks of rags would arrive by train. The wages the women received started to shrink. Bars were placed on the windows, and on every door, a lock. The Barth House grew, adding wing after wing, looking more like a prison each day. And as the house grew, more women arrived, some local, some shipped in from elsewhere. They rarely left.

                Kotzenburg, at that time, wasn’t large enough for a local police force, but the people did elect a sheriff—a fella named George—though everyone in town knew well enough to call him “Gay-org”. He was an old, grandfatherly figure, likely elected because he seemed the natural authority figure. But behind his gray moustache, thick glasses and failing eyes, George didn’t have much going on. He waved to the townsfolk as he patrolled, cautioned children crossing the road, and made sure to tell everyone at the train station to wait well away from the platform’s edge.

                 Unfortunately, George had been charmed by the miserly old women in charge of Barth House—they paid him terribly insincere compliments, of which he remained naïve. Whenever a woman or girl managed to leave their room without permission, George would get a call, and in turn would call the local boys to gather them back up. The local boys enjoyed this far too much. George remained oblivious and failed to understand the inherent horror of these situations.

                 Under George’s watch, crime thrived in Kotzenburg. This was of immense benefit to Barth House, now able to avoid taxation, regulation, and common decency—but the rest of the town grew weary. As luck would have it, Fate stepped in, almost as if by apology. While fishing on the muddy shoreline one foggy, dull evening, George was taken by a sudden, inexplicable wave and washed out to sea. Lake Erie had a strange way of making amends.

                Just weeks prior, however, a young man had arrived in Kotzenburg. He hadn’t come from the big city, but from a tiny place along the rail-line, out amongst the endless fields. Nobody knew the place. But everybody knew Hank. He was a giant, simple in his manners and straightforward in his thinking. He found work quickly, unloading bags from trains—and upon noting his sheer strength and good humor, the local bartender offered Hank better wages to mop and clean his saloon. In reality, Hank’s immense presence was meant to keep the peace—and it worked. It didn’t take long before everyone in town befriended Hank, the gentle giant, and upon George’s disappearance they were quick to elect him the new sheriff. He accepted with grace and humility, and proved a just enforcer, quick and determined in his actions. Even petty criminals, foiled at every turn, learned to respect Hank. He was seemingly unstoppable and, fortunately for the townsfolk, fair—all in all, the best sheriff they could have hoped for.

                But Hank was ignorant of Barth House and its operations. The women in charge first asserted that their runaways were thieves, stealing valuables from the House and fleeing to sell them. Hank, not easily fooled, surmised the truth after catching his first escapee. The poor girl was thin, scared and hadn’t a single possession on her.

                As far as anyone could recall, Hank had never lost his temper. He’d rarely been provoked, given his massive size and strength, and when challenged he’d never lost. He was fearless, never facing an obstacle he couldn’t overcome. But while Hank had put a stop to simple thieves, bar fights and village disputes, he’d never faced true evil. Until he entered Barth House.

                The locks proved no match for Hank’s strength. The doors of the House came crashing down as he entered unannounced. The selfish, wretched wardens tried to reason with Hank, explaining the charitable origins of their establishment. They tried to convince him that Barth House was indeed a pillar of decent values and generosity. But Hank saw the battered women, working at their machines or on the cold stone floor with tears in their eyes and bruises on their skin. His massive heart broke in two. His mind snapped altogether.

                The wardens of Barth House were the first and only unfortunate souls to witness Hank’s unbridled anger. He lifted each by their neck, shouting at them in a voice louder than their ears could handle. He decried the House and its keepers, throwing them into furniture and walls. Prisoners either watched in horrific fascination or fled to the safety of their rooms. And as Hank rampaged through the facility, he made a point of ripping each lock from its door. He tore the bars from each window. He broke every chain, rope, and restraint he could find. By the time he was finished, the women in charge lay broken, in a pathetic pile, wailing for mercy and forgiveness. Hank left with only a scrap of self-control, preventing further death and destruction. The workers slowly dispersed, some in groups, others individually. None cared to help the defeated, evil women still begging for sympathy.

                The story goes that Hank decided to take a walk that night along the rails, all the way to the big city. Some say he was going to turn himself in and admit what he had done. Others say he only meant to clear his mind. Either way, the provincial police had been summoned, and they shot Hank dead just two stops out of town.