by Eric Flint
“That would be saying something, I believe. Ever since I’ve known her, that girl could be so single-minded at times she would border on obsession.”
“Obsession.” Franz turned that word around and around in his mind. “I would judge she is not obsessed…yet.” He shrugged again. “But single-minded? Oh, yes.”
“She didn’t tell me in the telegrams what she was planning on performing.”
Franz felt a wry smile cross his face. “She has decided to sing ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’” He paused for a moment. “In German, mind you.”
Atwood sat back. “From Les Misérables?”
Franz nodded.
“Seriously?
Franz nodded again.
“Does she realize what she’s letting herself in for, especially right now?”
Franz couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. After a few moments, he sobered again. “Ah, friend Atwood, that is the question everyone asks. And the answer is, yes, she understands what the consequences could be. But that is part of what is driving her, you see, the fact that such consequences are even possible.”
“Hmm.” Atwood crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “Okay, I can see that. And I understand her telegrams a little better now. So it’s damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, huh?”
Franz didn’t understand the full import of Atwood’s allusion, but he got the general idea. “Indeed. In two nights at the Green Horse Tavern, Marla intends to cause a turmoil in the city, in the province, and even unto the entire USE.”
“All right,” Atwood said as the cabbie pulled the pony to a stop in front of Franz’s house. “I’ve come all this way; I’ll see it through.”
They swung down from the back of the cart. Franz hung back to pay the driver as the door to the house flew open and Marla stepped through to greet her friend and erstwhile teacher.
* * *
“Freeze!” Honister snapped. The watch patrolman stopped in surprise, his fingers but a fraction of an inch from picking up the white object that had attracted his attention. “Stand up and back away.”
Honister looked around for a moment. “Herr Frost! Over here, please,”
Dan was at his side in a moment. “What is it, Karl?”
Honister just pointed at the ground in front of him, and what was sitting in the shelter of several bits of charcoaled timber.
“Son of a…” Dan breathed after a pause. “Good catch, Karl. Now, get the photographer over here. I want pictures before we even think about touching anything.”
The photographer stepped through the ashes, and after judging the light began taking pictures of the evidence.
“So did I see what I think I saw?” Karl asked Dan in a low tone as they watched the photographer.
“I’m afraid so. It appears I may have been wrong.”
Chapter 28
For several days, Samson’s end was never very far from the front of Simon’s mind. He would worry at the tale like a dog with a scrap of bone. How could a hero be so stupid? If Samson was God’s hero, why did God let him fall the way he did? Wouldn’t it have been better for the people if he had beaten the Philistines instead of being captured?
Never far from those thoughts was the reminder that so many people called Hans “the Samson of Magdeburg,” which in turn would remind him of what Lieutenant Chieske had told him might result from Hans’ boxing career. As soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, he would shake his head violently and do anything he could to change what he was thinking about. But eventually his thoughts would circle back to Samson and the cycle would start over again.
And so Simon found himself walking by St. Jacob’s church, the Filialkirche that served the poorest district of Magdeburg. Thoughts of Samson were running through his brain as he looked in the doorway to the shadowy interior of the church.
Simon had not attended church since before the sack of the city by Pappenheim’s troops. But now, for the first time in what was literally years, Simon felt an urge to enter a church; this church, in the most downtrodden area of the Magdeburg that was being resurrected from the ashes of the old city. With hesitance he walked inside and stood in the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a few moments, he stepped forward with care, setting his feet down so that there was little noise as he made his way down the center. About halfway down, where he was just beginning to make out the details of the crucifix hanging on the wall behind the podium, he tripped over the edge of a paving stone that was protruding up from the floor by just enough to catch the toe of his shoe. Only by great exertion did he manage to keep himself from stretching his length on the floor. The resulting noise echoed through the building.
“Who’s there?”
Simon froze. If he’d known there was anyone in the church, he wouldn’t have entered. What to do?
There was a shuffling sound as a figure moved from the front of the nave into a beam of light from one of the few windows. “Who’s there?” The voice was that of an old man. Simon relaxed. “Is there something I can do to help you?”
“No,” Simon replied. “Um, I just…I was just passing by…and, um…”
“And you wanted to see the inside of the church?” The speaker resolved into the figure of a stooped old man with flowing white hair and beard and dressed in rusty black clothes.
“Well…”
“It’s all right, son. There is nothing happening today. The wedding that was scheduled for this afternoon has been postponed.”
The smile on the old man’s face prompted Simon to ask, “Why?”
The old man chuckled. “Well, it seems that the bride’s mother invited the groom to dine with the family, and fixed a special dish. In the middle of the night the poor man awoke with stomach pains, and could not even clamber out of the bed before his bowels released. I understand it was rather noxious.”
Simon giggled.
“Well may you laugh, boy. But the groom accused his mother-in-law-to-be of attempting to poison him, and his betrothed began throwing everything at him that she could get her hands on because of the insult dealt her mother.”
“So, they are not going to wed?” Simon said around another giggle about to escape.
“No, they will probably marry after the heat of everyone’s anger cools off. But I wager it will be some time before the groom eats his bride’s mother’s cooking again.”
That did it. Simon’s giggle escaped, followed by several chortles and even a guffaw or two. When his hilarity began to settle, the old man spoke up again.
“Did you come just to hear the latest gossip from an old preacher, lad? Or did you have some question on your heart?”
“Well…” Simon began, dragging the word out. The old man smiled encouragingly. “…it’s Samson, you see.”
“Ah, Samson,” the old man nodded. He gestured with a gnarled hand. “Come, let us sit and discuss Samson.” When they had settled on the steps leading up to the podium, he faced Simon with faded blue eyes framed with wrinkles peering out from between his bushy white eyebrows and his beard.
“So, lad…what is your name.”
“Simon, sir.”
“And I am Pastor Gruber.” He nodded. “So, Simon, which Samson are we to talk about?”
Simon was perplexed. “You mean there is more than one?”
The old pastor gave a hearty chuckle. “I meant did you want to talk about the Samson of the Bible or some other Samson?”
“The one in the Bible, please, sir.”
“Do you have a question, then?”
“Well…” Simon hesitated, then poured out in a rush, “why was Samson such a fool? Why could he not see that Delilah was playing with him? Why did he tell her his secret so she could tell the Philistines and they could capture and blind him?” He stopped, breathless.
Pastor Gruber reached up and ran rheumatism-twisted fingers through his beard. “Yes, indeed, those are good questions.” At least he wasn’t laughing at him, Simon thought to himself.
“The first thing you
must know, young Simon, is that all men, even the greatest of heroes, have flaws. Only our Saviour is without flaw or imperfection. Even the greatest heroes of the Bible have flaws. Why, King David…” Pastor Gruber stopped for a moment. “But then, you are asking about Samson, not David.” He coughed for a moment, a deep wet sound. “Let us just say that Samson was a good example of a flawed hero.”
“But he was so strong, and so great, and so mighty,” Simon protested.
“The ancient Greeks tell us that the greater the hero, the deeper his flaws, the worst of which was arrogant pride, what they called hubris.” The old man raised a hand. “And certainly that seems to be true of Samson. I have often thought that Samson was not a very smart man, myself.”
Simon was stunned. He’d come to the church looking for answers, only to find that the pastor had some of the same thoughts he had. That left his mind reeling for a moment. “But Delilah…” he finally said.
“Ah, the harlot Delilah,” Pastor Gruber replied with a small smile. “How old are you, lad?”
“Twelve, I think.”
“Have you started looking at girls yet?”
Simon sat back, startled and embarrassed. It was strange to him. Girls caught his eye recently in a way they never had before. Not that any would look at him, not once they saw his arm.
“Never mind,” the pastor chuckled before Simon could respond. “If you have not yet, you will soon.”
The old man sobered. “The attraction of a man for a woman is a gift from God, but it is also one of Satan’s greatest temptations. For some men, women are a weakness. They cannot stay away from them, especially if they are not their own wives. Samson was that way, if I read the scriptures correctly.” He sighed. “A man who has a weakness for women is disarmed when he meets one who is a subtle schemer and conniver like Delilah.”
“So why didn’t God tell Samson to leave her alone?”
“But he did, Simon. Samson was what they called a Nazarite, and he had rules that he was supposed to live by.” Pastor Gruber clicked his tongue. “He knew what God wanted from him. But Samson was a very proud man, so he did what he wanted.”
“Why didn’t God stop Samson from meeting Delilah?”
“You will have to ask God that question someday, young Simon, for I have no answer.” The pastor chuckled again. “In fact, I have my own list of questions. But consider Samson’s end.” He closed his eyes and quoted from memory.
“And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
“At the end,” Pastor Gruber mused, “after he had failed, Samson remembered what God had called him to do. He called out to God, and God rewarded him for it.”
“Rewarded? Being killed is a reward?” Simon’s questions were impassioned.
“All men die, Simon.” The old pastor pointed out the door of the church. “Kings die, merchants die, soldiers and generals die, doctors and lawyers and farmers and bakers all die. Even old pastors die.” He laid a hand on his own chest. “No one escapes death, not even our Saviour. Cheating death is never within our grasp, as much as some people try to do it.” He lowered his hand. “No, lad, what matters is how you die. Sometimes that matters even more than how you live. That was certainly so in Samson’s case. ‘So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.’ Despite his arrogant pride, it is not a bad epitaph for a hero who died defending his people.”
Simon sat back, slumped. “I…I don’t know. I never thought of it that way. It just seemed so…so stupid, the way things happened.”
Pastor Gruber gave his gentle smile. “But scripture says that the ways of the Lord are foolishness to men.”
They sat in silence together for some time. The old pastor seemed to know when to quit talking, letting the boy’s mind work through everything that had been given him. At length, Simon straightened.
“I need to think about this.” He faced Pastor Gruber. “Can I come back and talk with you again?”
Again the gentle smile bloomed in the middle of the white whiskers. “Of course, young Simon. I am here most days. The senior pastors don’t let me preach much these days…my voice isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid, and I am a bit absentminded at times. But they do not mind my spending time here where I can be a hand and a voice for those poor souls in this part of the city. And if there are weddings or such scheduled, we will find a quiet corner, you and I.”
Simon stood and awkwardly bobbed his head. “Thank you, Pastor Gruber. I think you have helped me.”
“The Lord helped you, lad. I am just an old man waiting for my days to end.”
“Well, thank you anyway.” Simon walked to the doorway of the church, then turned to look back. Pastor Gruber stood in another beam of light from a window and raised a hand in farewell. Simon waved back, then plunged back into the streets of Magdeburg.
Chapter 29
Franz gave the downbeat for the next-to-the-last song of the night, what Marla referred to as her mother’s favorite ballad, “Those Were the Days.”
During the slow verse, Franz looked around as his bow made the slight tremolo under Marla’s voice. The Green Horse was standing room only tonight, as the up-timers would have said—if any had been able to get in, that is. But with the exception of Marla and Atwood, the crowd tonight was all down-timers.
Some he recognized: the table at the front where Friedrich von Logau and Johann Gronow were planted with several of their friends; the CoC men who were scattered throughout the crowd; even the cabbie that had brought Atwood from the pier to the house had managed to squeeze in and was standing in a corner with a couple of friends.
Marla was winding up the verse. Franz stopped the tremolo, poised to put a foundation of broad bow strokes under the beginning of the chorus. He could see her take the deep breath that led into it. And…now!
“Those were the days, my friend,”
They were off. For all that the lyrics seemed a bit maudlin in their constant dwelling on the past, even in German translation, Franz couldn’t deny that the chorus could almost raise a corpse. It was a chorus made for singing along, and sure enough, at the end of the second verse, when they hit the chorus half the men in the tavern were singing right along with Marla, from Logau and his pals to the cabbie in the back corner.
When they hit the chorus the third time, everyone was singing, even Franz, who, as he had remarked before, had the voice of a raven or crow. It was the only time he allowed himself to sing in public, when the public was being so loud he couldn’t be heard.
After the last verse, Marla cycled through the chorus three more times, the last two on the “Lai, lai” syllables. If it was possible, the roar from the crowd got even louder. Franz cast a sideways glance at the walls. He didn’t think it was possible for them to bulge, but…
Marla took to a high note on “Oh…” and held it. Even over the roar of the men her voice penetrated, and within a short time they had all quieted. She glanced sideways at Franz, who gave a nod back. With that, she drew the song to an end with “…yes, those were the days!”
The players all snapped to a halt with her, and there was a bare moment of silence before the patrons of the tavern erupted into applause; claps, shouts, whistles, and very quickly a rhythmic stomping of feet. This went on for a timeless moment. Franz’s ears were starting to ring when Marla held her arms up at an angle, and just stood there.
Bit by bit the noise died down: first the stomping; then the whistling; then the shouting; and finally the clapping slowly faded away. A roomful of flush-faced men, hot and sweaty, sat and gazed on Marla. Franz had to chuckle to himself—it was a good thing that he wasn’t the jealous type.
At last Marla lowered her arms. Franz knew she was going to say something, but he didn’t
know for sure what would come out. For that matter, he wasn’t sure she knew what she was going to say.
“Thank you,” Marla began. Someone in the back of the room started to clap again, but she held up a hand. “Please, just listen to me for a few minutes.”
The noise died down. Franz watched as she brushed her hair back behind her ears. At this moment, he was perhaps prouder of Marla than he had ever been in his life. He didn’t—couldn’t—know what she had been through the last few months. His own grief had been bad enough, but it wasn’t even a tithe of what she had felt; he knew that much. And yet now she stood before these men, mostly rough working-class men, to try to do something she thought was very important. He tucked his violin and bow under his arm and clasped his hands behind his back, crippled left cradled in whole right, squeezing them together as hard as he could as he breathed a silent prayer for the woman that had proven herself to be far braver than he.
“I’m not very fond of politics,” Marla started again. A chuckle ran through the room. “I mean, I find them boring, and tedious, and most politicians are stuffy people. At least they mostly were up-time, and except for Mike and Ed, they mostly are down-time from what I can see.” The laughter got louder.
“But,” she stopped and swallowed, “every once in a while something happens that forces people like me to pay attention. Every once in a while someone does or says something so wrong, so raw, so evil, so…I don’t know…hellish, maybe, that even people like me will take a stand.”
The room was utterly quiet. It seemed as if the mob of men sitting and standing cheek by jowl were all holding their collective breath, hanging on Marla’s every word. Franz even found himself not breathing, until he noticed and let his air out.
“I’m talking about what’s been happening in Berlin,” Marla continued.
If it was possible, attention in the room got even sharper.
“I’m not a wordsmith. I’m not a philosopher, or preacher, or poet, or playwright. But I can recognize good words when I see them, and I found some in an up-timer song. So I give you tonight—tonight and every night—‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’”