This is the English translation of "Findet Gretel," the Grand Winner of the German ONC 2021. The prompt used was: A detective investigates a crime which reminds them of fairytales they read as a child. 

Find Gretel

Germany, 1881

We are less than an hour out from Munich when a horrible screeching sound bores its way up through the red carpeting of the military airship.

Frau Korlowski, who is sitting diagonally across from me, pauses in her knitting, a long light pink length of yarn wrapped around a raised pointer finger. On the other side of the aisle, Lutz looks up from the file papers he's spread out on the small worktable in front of himself. Across from him, the sports magazine behind which Theodor has been hiding starts to sink.

We look questioningly at each other, but say nothing.

Agents from Department IIIb-k have plenty of experience in observing and saying nothing.

The screeching stops.

Perhaps it really is nothing.

I turn to gaze out of the panorama window and watch as the long, dark purple silhouette of our airship glides over the landscape and dollhouse villages below.

The gears recommence their disconcerting stomping, sounding for all the world like an angry troll attempting to kick its way out of the ship's underbelly. A strong shudder snakes through the steel girders, vibrating the beige walls of the passenger cabin and us along with it.

The backboard propeller coughs, coughs, coughs...and gives out.

For a few long seconds, we are left drifting - rudderless - through the blue, cloud-dappled Bavarian sky.

My stomach swings somewhere between my knees as if practicing a trapeze stunt. 

Silence roars.

"Well, this doesn't..." Theodor begins, but is cut off by a squall of cursing coming from the pilot's cabin, located a few steps away behind a folding textile door. "This doesn't bode well."

"Thanks for the notification," mumbles Lutz, his gaze locked on the noisy carpet.

The propeller grinds again - with noticeably less power this time - only to die after a few rotations.

The cursing gives way to barked sentences.

Boots thump frantically.

There's a relentless beeping. (That isn't hammer blows, is it?)

After what feels like an eternity, the folding door to the pilot's cabin is brusquely thrust aside. A man in a grey uniform, stiff collar boards decorated with the golden seagull insignia of Imperial Aeronautics, enters the cabin where we're sitting and salutes with a brief nod.

"Attention passengers! We are currently experiencing a few minor technical abnormalities. Due to this unfortuitous circumstance, I am obliged to announce that our scheduled journey to Berlin will, unfortunately, have to be abandoned prematurely. We—"

"We are going to crash. That's what you want to tell us, isn't it, young man?" says Frau Korlowski in exactly the same tone in which she would order a slice of cake and coffee.

"We, um, are attempting everything in our power to avoid that unfortunate circumstance, Madam. Rest assured, you are in the best of hands, namely the Imperial. The captain thinks we shall soon be directing our course to the airship field in Nuremberg to request repairs there."

"I see," says Frau K, dryly. She doesn't like the cake.

Neither do I.

"Glad to be of serv—"

A loud hissing cuts the Aeronautics chap off as the windows on both sides of the cabin fog over.  He starts, staring at the sulphur-yellow steam with undisguised disbelief, mouth open and eyes bugged out.

"SHIT!" A voice from the pilot's cabin breaks through the clanking and thumping. "NOW THE DISTRIBUTOR'S GONE TITS UP. RADEMACHER! GET YOUR ARSE IN HERE AND RADIO NUREMBERG AGAIN. TELL THEM WE NEED A CLEAR RUNWAY IMMEDIATELY! WE'RE COMING DOWN, FOR FUCK'S SAKE."

The Aeronautics chap (I assume that's Rademacher) blanches, salutes with a crisp nod, steps backwards out of our cabin and rams the folding door closed.

From the thick fabric, a wavy Imperial Eagle holding two perfectly functioning Zeppelins in his claws peers out at us with frightened button eyes. He can't do anything about this.

We can't either.

Lutz is the first to react.

With a shaky hand, he hastily cobbles the papers together and stuffs them into his leather briefcase with the copper clasps. Frau Korlowski carefully folds her knitting into a little travel bag made of flowery tapestry fabric before setting it lady-like on her lap. Theodor does nothing, except wring the sports magazine nervously in his hands and look round aimlessly as if he hasn't quite grasped the situation in its entirety. He probably hasn't.

My stomach gives up the trapeze and hops back up where it belongs.

We're going to crash! Finally, something's going to happen!

One joins the spy service to have an adventurous life, doesn't one? Not to sit soldered to a desk for days on end penning multi-page reports full of information about the Norwegian Ambassador's favourite type of cheese, or that the daughter of the Duke of Knobland-Foamcrown-Watermill to Hinterland smells slightly of herring.

If such trivialities actually serve the Empire, or the honourable Herr Imperial Chancellor von Bismarck in any way, who knows?

Personally, I'm fed up to the back teeth with it.

Even our adventure-promising mission in Munich was an utter washout. The entire time I only had one assignment, and that was completed within two pitch-dark minutes. Human window dressing, that was all I was there for.

Recently, I've been approaching the conclusion that the Department is never going to entrust me with anything important.

While the others prepare for the inevitable - Lutz pressing his briefcase to his chest and whispering calming words to it; Theodor dropping the magazine and sitting firmly clawed into his seat like a kitten before a raging waterfall; Frau K looking out the window with a grim countenance - I watch events unfold in my mind like an afternoon at the flicks.

I see the airship crash on a lonely potato field.

Look! Flames!

We crawl heroically on our stomachs under the twisted metal girders of the entrance...over loose cables...through blinding black smoke...to get to finally get to freedom...and maybe we will be quick enough to escape the gas explosion!

Or maybe not.

Maybe some of us will stumble over rabbit holes as we flee and, oh so unfortunately, die right along with their showy briefcase. (I throw a glance Lutz's way.)

One never knows.

"Mernick!"

What?

"Wipe that idiotic grin off your face," orders Frau K, peering uncharitably over the top of her spectacles at me. "Things could get serious quite quickly."

"Jawohl, Frau Korlowski," I mumble penitently and go all serious.

I do serious well. Just not for very long.

My right leg is bouncing up and down in anticipation and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

The gears under us continue to howl and creak. New into the cacophony is a noise not unlike that of a dying hamster. (Could possibly be Theodor. I'm not sure.)

The pilot is surely trying his best to cajole the propeller into continuous rotation, but in vain, it would seem.

We're sinking noticeably earthward.

Frau K peers out the window. 

We have a clear view now, even if the panes are still vibrating as if they were made of pudding. "We won't reach the field," she says to no one in particular. "We shall be caught on a church spire, if we're lucky."

A spire? Even better! How best to tell this to the boys in the office? Imagine, we were snagged on a church spire, dangling precariously some...

The folding door is ripped open again and a heavily perspiring Rademacher shouts: "Fasten your seat belts! We're about to land and that not ideally!"

I stare out the window, hardly able to control myself. The roofs of houses and crowns of trees are now so close we can distinctly see the astonished faces of people staring upwards and pointing. Then they disappear and the end of an earthen landing strip comes rushing up to meet us.

Our airship lands – hard.

We bounce a good twenty metres, shoot out over the edge of the landing strip into high grass, and finally come to a full stop after a long slide, completely rattled and tipped half on our side.

Silence. A gentle creak and pop.

I look to Frau K.

Frau K looks to Lutz.

Lutz looks (reluctantly) to me.

And Theodor starts screaming.

There is no explosion. We don't have to run for our lives. Rademacher appears, unlocks the outer door and we disembark in an orderly fashion (even if at a slant).

Although we do move away from the ship a little bit – one is always cautious – it is more like a pleasant stroll in the Charlottenburg Palace gardens. There's not a shred of dramatic escape to it.

I feel cheated. Most likely, I'll have to exaggerate quite a lot when I get back to Berlin, as that little bit of hop and rattle isn't even worth a free pint in a student union.

The crew follows us out, throwing themselves into the grass like dying men. The captain, a lean chap with long arms and a passable moustache, shoves his green-glass goggles up onto his forehead, pulls off his gloves (which he hurls into the daisies), fishes a hip flask from some pocket of his grey uniform and starts seriously boozing.

We silently observe. 

Of course, Frau K doesn't sit down (so we aren't allowed to, either) but stands with greying bun, hat, umbrella and tapestry bag in the middle of the field as if she were on a railway platform.

There's a light breeze. The smells of moist forest earth wafts over from a somewhat distant collection of trees and mixes with the unmistakable, and much closer I notice, odour of...cow.

No mistake, we are in the middle of an cow meadow.

I glance down at my boots to make sure I'm standing cleanly.

I am.

"Well, I assume that repair is now out of the question," says Frau K into the bucolic silence after sharply inspecting first the ship and then the quaffing air crew. "We shall have to find different transport back to Berlin."

"Yesterday, in Munich, I suggested taking the Imperial Railway back," Lutz says. He has still got his arms locked around his briefcase and is staring glassily into the distance. "With all due respect, I should like to make that suggestion again now."

 Frau K wheezes an impatient sigh. 

"Indeed. And yesterday in Munich I opined that one should not be so easily tempted by the offer of free donuts in the the first class wagons, if you'll do me the service of recalling, Dobler. Using the opportunity to travel with an army airship is not only faster, but free, since we are officially still on duty. Railway, pah. Transport for civilians, not for conscientious Imperial civil servants."

However, under the current circumstances, I am at a loss as to where we would find another Imperial airship scheduled for Berlin. Which means, we must either continue our journey with a commercial line or switch to the railway. But if you want to travel first class, Dobler, then out of your own coin purse! The Empire will not foot the bill for you to indulge your stomach."

When Frau K is right, she's right.

Now and again I am asked if it is normal in our club to have women as superiors. 

No, not at all. 

But I am of the opinion, that in the case one does find oneself in such a situation, one jolly well better take heed and not allow oneself even the smallest, most microscopic, of luxuries.

Society may view women as mostly harmless creatures, given to an over-interest in dancing and sparkly bijoux, but the government in general and Herr von Bismarck in particular know how to wield the strengths of the weaker sex like a death-sharp sabre. One is parted from his carefree head faster than one can feel the cold steel nip. 

And one discovers it again – with no small degree of amazement – on a spike in front of her office door, one's skull having been repurposed as a flower pot.

That I've learnt from experience, not from intelligence.

Lutz clearly hasn't.

He doesn't even have the decency to blush under the accusation of conspiring to piggishly stuff himself at public expense. He's still gazing off into the distance, gnawing lightly on the edge of that stupid briefcase.

I follow his line of sight and see the steam puffs of two horseless LMs, or locomotion machines, rolling over the landing strip towards us.

It appears as if we are about to be rescued.

The honourable Herr Rademacher, who has in the meantime regained his usual colour but is still somewhat wobbly on the legs, must have also seen the LMs. He stands up and toddles towards them.

The machines come to a squeaking halt, the dull metal of the outer casings quaking and steam rings escaping out of the side chimneys. Some five men in overalls and work top hats climb out as awkwardly as if they were suffering from limb stiffness.

There is a brief, intense discussion, then Rademacher turns and points to us.

A small man with a potbelly peels himself away from the group and comes ambling over while his comrades turn their attention to the lopsided airship.

"Welcome to Nuremberg," the man says, saving himself the bother of pulling out a welcoming smile. "The lady and gentlemen will be driven to the arrival hall where they will be able to rest and find refreshment."

"How kind, thank you very much," Frau K answers with a courteous nod. "Officemasters Dobler, Mernick and Kürn, follow me."

We follow Frau K.

Wait a second...Nuremberg!

Like a tap with a high voltage electropistol, a shock rips through my bones. In the entire ruckus I'd completely forgotten where we were –– Nuremberg, where my younger sister, Marlene, lives.

Oh good heavens! Marlene is constantly admonishing me in her letters to come down for a visit and meet her new husband and I've always managed to find some excuse to disentangle myself from that particular familial duty. 

And now look, I've landed directly in her lap, in a manner of speaking. What kind of bizarre coincidence is that?

Not coincidence, our mother would say. Fate.

One mustn't grumble. Gift horses and all.

The crew elect to stay with the ship, and so we four, along with our baggage, climb onto the LM and chug off, arrival hall bound, over the dusty airstrip. 

-----

A/N: The rest of this story takes place in Nuremberg.  If you'd like to actually see what the downtown of the city looks like...and where Leopold will be walking during the story, watch a little of the "Flashmob" video at the top.

✅ There really is a Zeppelin Field to the south of town where airships used to land when they were around. And we have an excellent tram service...but the cars don't float, sorry to disappoint. 

✅ Nuremberg was an imperial city in the Middle Ages and still retains its imperial fortress and medieval city walls and gates. (Chapters 2-3)

✅ Gingerbread has been its claim to fame since that time, as the city was on a main trade route from India (spices) and the local imperial forest was a bee-keeping centre (honey). 

✅ Some historians believe that the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel was inspired by the murder of a Nuremberg gingerbread baker by a teenage Bonny and Clyde at some point in the Middle Ages. This theory has not been proven. 

✅ Venice, Italy is one of Nuremberg's sister cities. Many years ago they gifted us a genuine traditional gondola which is on display today in the lobby of the town hall. This gondola appears in chapter 3. 

✅ Some 15 years ago, during a "Venice Week" the gondola was put on the river that flows through town to give rides and with the same result as what happens in chapter 4!  😱 The boat was immediately taken off the water and has never been put back on. 

✅ Neither Spoon Lane nor Pretzel Lane exist, but are amalgamations of several real streets in two different parts of town. (chapters 3+)