The Grantville Gazette Volumn VI by Eric Flint
"Next month I will return to my home town to bring my sister and children here. After the Croat attack, I figured if Wallenstein and Richelieu are that afraid of Grantville-educated children, then I'd better get mine here as soon as possible. Can you imagine what an education is worth from the most knowledgeable place in the world?"
"Interesting." Georg bit into his toasted roll. It was sliced lengthwise and contained sauerkraut and sausage that was slathered with mustard. Expensive but not bad, he thought, letting its sharp and spiced flavors fill his mouth. He put it down and tried some pickled cabbage. It was . . . different, definitely not as good as what his mother used to make but then whose was?
"Is this place open for breakfast as well?"
"No. Just keep sniffing when you leave the dormitory tomorrow morning and watch where the other men go. There's a few different places. I live in a house owned by Herr Jenkins with five other men and we have a German woman who cooks for us every morning. Care for another beer?"
* * *
When Brigitta walked down the hallway ringing the bell the next morning Georg woke up with a headache. Not his usual headache caused by drinking too much. His head hurt in different places. He opened his eyes or at least tried to. Something was definitely wrong because he couldn't open them more than slits. What was in that beer last night?
Georg threw back his blanket. He walked stiffly over to his cabinet, got out his clothes and, sitting on the bench, put them on painfully. He hadn't felt this bad since that drunken fight in . . . Checking his pouch before putting on his trousers, he found that he had most of his money. Well, that was good news.
Slowly, painfully he put his head up and walked out. It was cool for being the just past the middle of summer he thought, taking a deep breath. Ouch. That hurt too. He breathed in through his nostrils and . . . cooking sausage. Breakfast!
Georg looked around at the other men coming out of the dormitory. "Hey, where's a good place for breakfast?" he called.
One of them looked at him strangely and then nodded. "This way."
* * *
"What the hell happened to you?" Bernhard asked when Georg walked into the shop almost an hour later.
"I don't know," Georg admitted. "I remember leaving the Gardens. I don't remember much past then. I saw another tavern. I think it was a tavern. I guess it sold food because I remember a sign in English saying, 'No Krauts'. 'No' meaning 'nichts' and 'Krauts' I figure was for 'cabbage.' They didn't have any cooked cabbage for sale. Stupid sign to put up. I'd already had enough to eat anyway. I opened the door and well, that's the last I remember from last night."
Bernhard sighed. "Kraut is a derogatory term for German. Remember when I told you not to go to the Club 250 yesterday because they don't like Germans? Guess what you did. Somebody, probably a lot of somebody's beat you up. Let me take you over to the restroom. I'll clean you up."
When Georg looked in the mirror, he was shocked. First of all, he'd never seen himself in a decent mirror. Second, it was no wonder he felt bad. Both eyes were swollen almost shut and his face had been brutalized. There were smears of dried blood from his nose on his chin and cheeks where he'd wiped his face last night. Thank heaven he'd been feeling no pain.
"I hope you can see well enough to work," Bernhard said. He washed and rinsed Georg's face until it was cleared of all blood. "We've got a shipment going out on Monday. If we don't get enough finished today, we're going to have to work on it tomorrow."
"Are you all right?" Herr Jenkins asked as soon as he saw Georg.
"I feel hurt but it could have been a lot worse," Georg said bravely. As time went on, he was feeling more aches and bruises in various parts of his body. But he still had all his teeth and he'd given worse in fights. "They weren't really trying hard to injure me. Either that or I defended myself well and my knuckles don't look that bad."
Bernhard brought over two light blue pills with a glass of water. "Here. This will make it hurt less."
"What kind of pills are these?" Georg asked, putting the pills into his mouth and taking a drink of water to wash them down.
"Like an essence of willow bark in pill form. They call it aspirin. It relieves pain. There's a doctor in Jena who compounds it for us."
Fortunately, being the newest member of the assembly crew, Georg's job was the easiest. All he had to do was hammer square-ended metal caps on each end of the cylinders and lightly tap gears with a small hammer onto each cap using a covering piece of wood before passing them to the next position.
* * *
Since Georg was paying for his own meal tonight and wouldn't be paid by Herr Jenkins until noon tomorrow, he only had a sandwich and a beer at the Thuringen Gardens. Well, one more beer. He could afford it and it really was good beer.
By the time he left the Gardens, the sun had been down for hours. He still had enough in his pouch for tomorrow's breakfast.
The streetlights were on, which helped as he stumbled the short distance from the Gardens to the dormitory. It was a warm, beautiful night and Georg was feeling one with the world. He would have sung but in the past people had compared his singing to the braying of a mule and he was determined to be a good boy here in Grantville.
Should have used the facilities in the Gardens before he left, Georg thought as his bladder began to feel uncomfortable. Probably not a good idea to piss in the streets here. He'd wait until he got to the dormitory.
Umm, the dormitory was just a little far away. Nobody will notice if I duck into an alley for a few moments. He was feeling awfully tired . . .
"Hey, you! Yes, you with your schwantz hanging out. What do you think you're doing?" the German patrolman asked. Georg was propping up a wall with one arm, the other holding his trousers as he returned the fluid of at least one large mug of beer back to the earth from whence it came.
Georg turned, slumping sideways against the wall without stopping the flow. "Jesus Christ! He's whizzing all over the place," the second of the two patrolmen shouted.
The first patrolman laughed. "I should have let him keep going the way he was. Now he's wet his trousers as well, Jonathan. I thought you would have seen this in the army. Come, we'll take him home. After he pulls up his pants."
"Shouldn't we take him in?" the younger man asked as the two men helped Georg continue walking back in the well-lit street.
"Why? He hasn't done anything wrong except relieve himself in the wrong place. Besides, look at his face. He's had enough trouble already and he's not violent. Putting him in a cell would be a waste of the taxpayers' money."
About that time Georg began to feel sick. Very sick.
* * *
The next morning Georg's head exploded when Brigitta walked down the hall clanging that infernal bell. Wearing only his pants, he stumbled into the bright hallway headed for the showers. At least he knew why his head hurt this morning.
Brigitta was coming towards him from the end of the hall, still ringing the bell. She grinned at Georg's expression as he clamped his palms over his ears. "Herr Bauer! When you take your shower, keep your trousers on." She laughed.
Georg looked down and just as the urine and vomit on them registered in his mind, his pants fell to his knees. Brigitta burst into loud peals of laughter and started ringing the bell again.
* * *
Bernhard looked over at Georg an hour later when he came in to work not looking much better than he had the day before. Only now his trousers were soaked as well. Bernhard just shook his head with a sad smile.
"Georg?" He saw the younger man wince. "We've got enough rollers prepared. Today you'll press and then stencil the name of the company on the slats that will be on both sides of the top of the wringer assembly."
Georg took a piece of paper out of his pouch and handing it to him. "Bernhard, what does this mean? The old man at the front desk gave it to me when I came downstairs this morning."
Bernhard took a quick glance at the police citation. "Drunk and committing a public nuisance. You underst
"I . . . uh . . . don't remember too well," Georg admitted, his face screwed up trying to remember. "You mean that's a crime in Grantville?"
Bernhard nodded. "Remember what I said about cleanliness? Now you'll have to go to the police station and pay a fine. Probably about ten dollars. That's most of what you've earned your first day. Don't forget you're going to owe for another week at the dormitory before you get paid again."
"What? What am I going to live on? How will I pay for my food?"
Bernhard shrugged. "Perhaps you can get an advance on your pay from Herr Jenkins before that comes due. Come, I'll show you the pressing equipment and how to place the stencil so you can paint it."
* * *
When Bernhard had explained Georg's situation to Herr Jenkins, he looked very unsympathetic. In fact, Chad pulled out a folder with Georg's name on it and inking a quill, wrote down the circumstances.
"I don't like this. I don't like this at all, Georg. I hired you based on my son's recommendation. Now you're letting him down as well as me. Frankly, I'm tempted to let you go right now. But I won't. This time. The next time you get into trouble . . . But I will advance the amount of your fine from your pay for next week before court because I understand your situation and that will be the last time. Understand?" Herr Jenkins asked sternly.
Georg felt he should have been grateful but . . . a fine for just being drunk and taking a leak against an alley wall? It wasn't like he was doing it in the middle of a street in front of a group of schoolchildren. "Yes, Herr Jenkins. It won't happen again."
"Good," the older man said, closing the folder. "Bernhard tells me you did good work today in spite of your problems. As I understand it, both nights you had been drinking. Try ordering water instead until you're almost ready to leave and then have one beer. I guarantee the water won't make you sick. I hope you will be able to improve your skills even more next week. All right?" He rose from behind his desk and walked over to Georg. He put his hand out. Georg took it, giving a quick shake.
Half an hour later, with an unfocused anger and still feeling out of kilter, Georg was walking hurriedly on the sidewalk with his head down. When someone came out of a doorway, they collided and both men went down quickly.
Georg bounced up ready to fight before he saw who knocked him down. A Jew! A filthy, stinking, lousy, Jew! A Christ-killer, one of those who Martin Luther had condemned and who Georg's former pastor had said it would be a blessing to smite! Pastor Keller had devoted considerable time telling to how to identify Jews. Here was this long-bearded man wearing a Jewish prayer shawl, its knotted tassels sticking out from beneath his coat. Georg didn't stop to think. He punched the other man in the stomach just as he was rising to his feet. What right did this man have to be in a Christian town?
Georg was about to kick him in the privates when he suddenly found himself on the ground with one arm twisted behind him. Someone's knee was in the middle of his back.
"Are you all right, Rabbi?" the German policeman asked with concern.
"No. I most definitely am not," the older man said weakly, catching his breath. "This young man hurt me. I suspect he would have done much worse if you had not intervened. I was coming out of the shop and we ran into each other. I guess you saw the rest."
"What's the matter with you?" shouted Georg to the policeman from his viewpoint on the sidewalk. "He's a Jew!"
"Ah, that explains it," the old man said scornfully. "Another who feels that the slaughter of thousands of Jews in Spain and elsewhere is still not enough to make up for the death of a single Jewish carpenter a millennium and a half ago. I would rather he hit me because I inconvenienced him. But what can you do against consummate superstition?"
"I can take him in and charge him with assault and battery against you, Rabbi. That ought to teach him something. All you have to do is sign the charge sheet."
The old man bent down. He looked at Georg's face then sighed. "No, I don't think I will. In fact, I forgive him. Isn't that the Christian thing to do?" he said with a bitter twist of his mouth.
"I don't want your goddamn forgiveness, you stinking Jew!"
"Nevertheless, like God's love, you have it anyway," the rabbi said with an ever so patronizing smile. "Whether you want it or not. Even if you are not one of my people." Then he walked away.
Georg was hauled to his feet only to see Herr Jenkins standing right in front of him. "I don't think you're the type of person I want working for me," Chad said coldly. "Get your bag and get out of town. If I see you again, I'll insist that the police press charges. Have I made myself clear?"
* * *
Halfway back to Jena, Georg came to two conclusions. First, Grantville was different. Second, he never wanted to go there again.
The Woman Shall Not Wear That
by Virgina DeMarce
Summer, 1634
No. Pastor Ludwig Kastenmayer put it out of his mind. His eyes must have deluded him. The cleaning woman at Countess Katharina the Heroic Lutheran Elementary School, here on the outskirts of Grantville, could not have been wearing . . . that.
He put it out of his mind until, while walking along the road to Rudolstadt, he observed some others of his female parishioners among a street-sweeping crew, among a gutter-cleaning service, and a window-washing crew. In each case, some of them seemed to be wearing what? He tried his best to pretend that he had seen no such thing.
Until the day that he entered his own home and observed the nether garment that Salome—Salome? his wife Salome?—was wearing as she bent over to clean the hearth.
* * *
He sat in his study and checked the appropriate references contained in Martin Luther's Table Talk—comments on whether or not it was worth a pastor's while to preach in regard to female modesty. They brought him no joy. Luther's thesis had been that it was not usually worthwhile to preach on such topics because, as a result of the German climate, one's female parishioners were ordinarily wearing multiple layers of skirts and petticoats that covered them from head to toe, a head scarf or hat, and not uncommonly a cloak, wool socks, lined boots, and mittens, with a hot brick under their feet.
This, the venerable Luther had pointed out, relieved German pastors of worrying about the topic of modesty, which had preoccupied so many of the early church fathers. They, living in a Mediterranean climate, had naturally been more concerned with the impact upon morals and mores of skimpy coverage, flimsy fabric, and revealing that which was better concealed. If a pastor had an affluent parish, an occasional sermon on the topic of luxury in dress might not be amiss, but that applied at least as much to men as it did to women. Usually more. For the average rural village church, even that was scarcely a problem, though.
The German climate had not changed significantly. Most of the time, at least in winter, the up-time women went around dressed in items such as "sweat shirts" which provided full coverage and did very little to emphasize those female attributes which many men found tempting. The garments were, in fact, Pastor Kastenmayer thought, quite literally as ugly as sin. The up-time men wore "sweat shirts" also, but surely only the devil himself, Kastenmayer thought with some humor, could persuade a female to put one on.
In the summer, however . . . Pastor Kastenmayer sighed. Although the up-timers were not his direct concern, their impact upon Grantville's Lutheran women was. It looked like it was going to be "back to patristics" for the themes of some of his sermons this year.
Plus, there was a more serious theological concern.
Only a few of the younger down-time women and almost none of the respectable married women in St. Martin's in the Fields parish had been tempted to try "jeans." Pastor Kastenmayer suspected that more and more of the girls attending the up-time high school wore them on weekdays, when they did not expect to be under his eye. Little Anna Krausin, Maria's sister, came immediately to mind. He occasion
Even Anna Krausin came to church wearing skirts of a respectable length. If not, precisely, of a respectable width, and almost certainly lacking petticoats beneath them. He referred this concern back to the topic of modesty, which appeared earlier in his notes.
If "jeans" were a peripheral matter because they had not made great inroads in his congregation—he added a mental "yet" to this analysis—those . . . things . . . that Salome had been wearing were not.
Upon inquiry, he found that the offending garments were sometimes referred to as "divided skirts" or "culottes" but the most common variant was called "skorts." Apparently these disguised trousers had become widely accepted among his parishioners.
He had refrained from reproaching her directly because . . . Salome, although an excellent wife in most ways, did not always accept reproaches as meekly as theory indicated that she should.
His first wife hadn't, either.
Hardly any wives did.
This was unquestionably one of the more lasting effects of original sin.
Except, of course, that if one read the narratives quite literally, which one certainly should do, Eve had not been inclined to obey either Adam or God Himself even before the Fall of Man. Which was most perplexing, no matter how various theologians attempted to explain it, since supposedly things had been perfect in the Garden of Eden. Did this imply that God regarded a woman with an independent mind as a proper component of paradise? Surely not. But, then . . .
Nevertheless. He pulled his thoughts together and focused them.
It was his clear duty to do something. In the Bible, more precisely in the Old Testament, more precisely at Old Testament, Deuteronomy 22:5, there was to be found the statement, in Luther's German translation: "Ein weib sol nicht mans gerete tragen/vnd ein man sol nicht weiber kleider an thun/Denn wer solchs thut/der ist dem Herrn deinem Gott ein grewel."