Hansel and Gretel Duet

by Nan Fry

Gretel Wises Up

Go back? Hansel, we have no home.

Remember when we went back the first time

following the shining stones you'd scattered

on the forest floor? I saw Mother's face

when she opened the door, and my heart quailed.

Oh, Father loved us, but he'd do whatever she told him.

Remember how she'd yell at him to beat us,

and he'd cut a switch, take us out back, and flail

at the linden tree? We'd scream and moan

and sometimes laugh so hard we'd have real

tears in our eyes when we went inside.

I should have thought of that when we heard

his axe chopping and chopping as the forest

closed around us. And remember our little sister

who never was? "Stillborn," Mother said,

but I know I heard a cry and then a silence

loud as our empty bowls. And still

we went back, following those pebbles

that gleamed like baby teeth in the moonlight.

And the second time — when you scattered bread crumbs.

We should have known we weren't the only hungry ones

in the woods. I saw gleaming eyes beyond our little fire

that night. The witch was hungry too, her house the bait

of a gigantic trap. She fed on our fear while she fattened

you up. To make me feed you in your cage!

But you were cagey too, and I was finally growing wise.

Hansel's Hope

I was hopeful at first, remembering

how my pebbles had gleamed like silver

in the moonlight, showing us the way.

I thought we'd always be able to go home.

I didn't expect the locked door, the birds eating my crumbs,

the trackless forest, or being penned like an animal

behind the witch's house. At night I'd suck on the bone

I used to trick her, and it comforted me —

I'd managed to stay alive another day.

Gretel comforted me too. She told me her fear

served her at first, making her slow and stupid.

She'd stumble or drop things, and the witch would curse

or cuff her, but Gretel watched and learned.

She knew where the witch kept her jewels,

memorized her routines. The old woman watched

Gretel when she brought me food or cleared away

my dirty dishes, but she came alone to empty

my slop bucket, and I could slip her some food.

She'd whisper words of encouragement that I'd repeat

to myself at night as I sucked on that bone.

The day came — as I knew it would — when the witch said,

"I can't wait any longer to fatten you up, boy."

She had Gretel haul water and put the cauldron on.

I could hear her weeping and pleading, and my hope fled.

I heard a howl followed by a silence

and I smelled the odor of burning flesh.

I howled too, grieving for Gretel

but suddenly she was at the pen, opening

the gate, and we were free and light as birds.

I was ready to fly, but she pulled me into

the witch's house and made me stuff my pockets

with jewels and pearls while she filled her apron.

I wanted to go home, but Gretel said, Why?

They left us to starve or be eaten in the forest.

But they were starving too, I said, and Father didn't want to.

Want or not, she said, he did what Mother told him,

but maybe with the jewels, it will be all right.

So we went back, and Father wept

to see us, but Mother scolded us

for staying away so long. She took

our jewels and locked them up

in a chest high out of our reach.

I know — the stories say she was dead by then,

but the truth is Gretel told her she'd learned

to bake bread and offered to make some.

She punched the bread down as if it were the witch,

and when it rose, it reminded me of hope.

Then Gretel said the oven temperature needed

to be just right and asked our mother

to climb in and check it.

Now bread turns to ashes in my mouth.