The Wehrwolf

by Alma Katsu

Wolves were cunning; wolves were strong. Many Germans spoke lovingly of the wolf, even though it was the wolf that carried off their sheep and chickens and sometimes even killed the family dog when it tried to protect them. How could so many of his countrymen not see the wolf for what it was?

Wild things were beautiful; maybe their wildness was their beauty, the knowledge that you could never possess them.

Yet it had been fairy tales that led Germany into war, the Nazis wanting everyone to believe Aryans were descended from mythic god-men and that they could regain godlike powers if their blood were pure enough.

“Look, there are two kinds of men in the world. One kind takes responsibility for the things he’s done, both the good and—more importantly—the bad. The other kind always blames his misfortune on someone else. It’s never his fault when his crops fail or his wife leaves him.”

The man could not actually be changing into a werewolf, could he? That seemed ridiculous, absurd, blasphemous. His mind raced through the stories he’d read, the tales he’d listened to around a bonfire on Walpurgis Night. God save us from witches and werewolves.