There once was an old shoemaker with two young daughters. The girls were twins, and so much alike not even their father could tell them apart.

The shoemaker had married late in life. His bride, a mere girl herself, accepted him only because her parents were poor and he agreed to pay them a handsome sum. He was a gentle man, however, and, desiring only a helpmate and cook, never demanded more from her as her husband. They lived together as chastely as father and daughter for more than a year, until one day, the young wife began to feel her own strange stirrings within her and, in gratitude for the shoemaker’s kindness, invited him into her bed.

Their love wrought a profound change in the old man. For the first time in many years, he greeted his neighbors with a smile and a clap on the shoulder, telling them to find happiness while they could, lest the Lord call them home before they had tasted it fully. He worked at his trade with renewed zeal, although he thought nothing of closing the shop at any time and rushing to his wife for a goodly bit of tail. Some days, she said, it was hardly worth the trouble to dress herself in the morning, and indeed, many were the days she did not.

And so, when she died bringing their daughters into the world, it was as though the shoemaker’s spirit died with her. He returned to his gloomy, taciturn ways, warning his neighbors never to look for happiness, for it would only lead them to grief.

His sole comfort was his daughters. He called them Alfa and Omega, for that is what they were to him, although as they grew, their names were misheard and corrupted, and they became known simply as Anna and Olga. It hardly mattered, since no one could remember whose name was whose, and each of them answered to either.

They were the most beautiful girls the townspeople had ever seen, with ivory skin and raven-black hair that made them the image of their mother. In their character, however, they were the antithesis of that dutiful treasure, who had given her life for their sake. It was sometimes said that death had rescued her from shame, for in truth, her daughters grew up spoiled and mischievous. Their father could not bring himself to discipline them. Striking them would be like striking his own true love, he said, and since they were identical, he never knew which one to punish. And the twins learned early to use their resemblance to advantage, taking care that only one of them would be seen misbehaving at any time. When Anna stole apples from a neighbor’s tree, Olga could be found sitting in the cottage, reading her lessons. When Olga threw mud at the washing that hung in the neighbor’s yard, Anna would be diligently sweeping the floor in the cobbler’s shop. And when the neighbor came to complain, and the shoemaker asked which of his daughters was guilty, the neighbor could not be certain. Then the shoemaker would ask the girls to confess which of them was the culprit, and they would only point at each other.

“I am afraid I will punish the one who is blameless,” the old man said. “And I cannot bear to make an innocent girl suffer.”

This situation dragged on for several years. The shoemaker’s old friends fell away one by one, taking their custom elsewhere. He barely noticed, however, as he thought only of his grief and the solace he took in his pretty daughters.

Then one day, the Lord Mayor of the town burst into the cobbler’s shop, where the old man was sitting idle, and demanded he take action.

“One of your daughters is a shameless wanton,” he said. “Not fifteen minutes ago, I was driving my cart along the woodland ride, when through the trees I saw a flash of white. Thinking it was the tail of a deer, I descended from my cart and set off in pursuit. But what did I see? A young girl cavorting in the wood, and she was utterly naked.”

“Utterly?” the old man said.

“As the day she was born, though that was some time ago.”

“And you are sure it was one of my daughters.”

“No other girls in our town are as beautiful,” the Lord Mayor confessed. “No other young breasts are as firm and pointed, no other buttocks as shapely.”

“You obviously paid close attention,” the shoemaker said.

“For the sake of accuracy,” the Lord Mayor replied. “When the girl saw me, she flew up the hill like a hind. It was a hard climb for a man of my—”

“Girth?”

“Of my years. I gave up the chase. But I saw her plain as day above me. When she reached the summit, rather than covering herself, she placed her back against a solid oak tree and touched herself in the most lascivious manner.”

“How, precisely?”

“She caressed her little breasts, and, parting her legs, moved her fingers between them, not once, but repeatedly, all the while smiling at me with the most devilish expression.”

“Scandalous,” the shoemaker said.

“A sight I shall not soon forget.”

“Anna! Olga!” the shoemaker called. “Come here at once!”

The young girls entered the shop from the residence behind. They were dressed simply, in gray linen frocks, and they folded their hands humbly before them, bending their gaze toward the floor.

“Yes, father?” they said together.

“The Lord Mayor swears he saw one of you cavorting in the nearby wood in a state of nature.”

“‘Twas not I,” said Anna.

“‘Twas not I,” said Olga.

“It must have been Olga,” said Anna.

“It must have been Anna,” said Olga.

“There you have it,” the shoemaker said.

“So you will do nothing?” the Lord Mayor fumed.

“What would you have me do?”

And the Lord Mayor departed in a huff, the medallion of his office swinging impotently about his neck.

“I shall overlook this one transgression,” the shoemaker told the girls. “But please, promise me you’ll bring no more shame on our little house.”

“I promise,” said Anna.

“I promise,” said Olga.

One of them fibbed, for in the days that followed, word spread of more sightings of a naked girl — here by the brook, there in the meadow — who touched herself in shameful ways while blaspheming mightily, declaring to her Lord and Savior that apparently she was about to arrive somewhere.

Superstitious women believed she was a spirit, perhaps the ghost of the shoemaker’s wife, come to lure the young into sin. The men knew better. They organized a patrol, scouring the countryside with nets and ropes, determined to string her up and prove she was flesh and blood.

It was then she staged her most daring provocation, for, with the men tracking her off in the hills, there was no one to stop her from taking a stroll through town. Suddenly, as if materializing out of the air, she appeared at the fountain in the square, barefoot in sackcloth. She looked about. No one paid her any mind until, with a knowing smirk, she drew the sackcloth over her head and dropped it in the dust.