The older students were a different kind of challenge. There were twenty-five faces starting at her for the first of the higher-level sessions.
“I want to make sure I know all of your names, I want to go over this list so I understand who is here, first of all. And I'm going to run this like an up-time school. I've never been to down-time school, so I’m not even sure what you expect.” She took a deep breath and continued. “So I'm going to call you by your first names here in the classroom. If that offends some of you, well, that’s too bad. This is up-time instruction. You can all call me Fraulein Russo, or Fraulein Teacher. Up-time learning is focused, I think, more on the individual, and is casual, like a lot of our society.” She looked around the room, and saw the twenty-five faces looking at her. “Something that I think may be different is that I encourage questions. And secondly, as we go through the classwork I have, I want to understand where you are, what point in your knowledge you are, from an up-time perspective. And then I will need to understand your current levels of education in the subjects I have here, so I can more accurately provide the instruction you have. How it breaks out I don’t know, but we will see.”
She gazed at the faces in front of her. She felt like a fraud. Mary knew she was okay at teaching. At least better than her peers. But her peers weren’t known for being exceptional teachers. Some were really good radio operators, some were good at organization, some were good at languages. But none of her peers were experts. They were up-time high school seniors or slightly older. So to be better than her peers wasn’t saying much. The Fugger could afford world class instruction, and here she was, a very young, very inexperienced, very tentative teenager from a little town in West Virginia. And she was in charge. The feeling of being in over her head didn’t begin to cover it.
No pressure. The thought bounced through her head, dripping with sarcasm. Teaching was something she was planning to do back up-time. Maybe a math teacher, maybe a physics teacher, maybe physical education. Any of those would have been good. So she was always evaluating her teachers as role models for the job, as well as just being teachers. But to be in this position, and to be paid the amount of money she was being paid, made her feel very insecure.
She took a deep breath, and dived in. “I've reviewed all of your math questionnaires, and it looks like most of you have a good basic math background. Some better than others, but I think we can work individually where we have some issues. We are going to spend time on the basics as we get started, mostly so we can agree on terms and definitions. Unless we have a common language of math, and common symbolism, it will be difficult to move ahead. And since the up-time math symbolism is a product of a couple of hundred years of refinement, we will use that system.” She paused and looked around the room. Almost every face looking at her, including Johann, was attentive and focused. The one slightly older girl, Sybilla, who Mary remembered from her first night, was attentive, but in a different way. It stuck her as odd, as if she were paying attention to the entire room, instead of the lesson. As the week went on, it was clear Sybilla was more than capable of doing the work, and was keeping up well. The girl was smart.
It was a busy first week. In a week of firsts, an almost overwhelming week, everything was strange. The chalkboard was like none she had ever seen. It was a piece of black slate. A large hunk of rock, smoothed, and bolted to a pedestal. The chalk she used was lumpy. A piece of chalk, dug from the ground, broken into the size of a small stone, and placed in a box on her desk. Everything had a new feel, a new texture, a new smell, a new way of thinking. It was probably not until the third day she noticed the girl with the toddler. Every advanced session, near the end of it, a woman would come in briefly and stand in the back of the room. She always held a toddler in her arms, a little girl from the looks of it. She seldom stayed for more than ten minutes, and then left quietly and quickly before Mary could ever get her name. She assumed she was one of the older girls from the family, and was tending to her child instead of attending classes. Which was odd, given the number of servants. She was a slender girl, and quite tall, nearly as tall as Mary. The child was clearly hers, the resemblance was striking. Mary never saw her with the father, but he could be away somewhere on family business. And with this family that could be anywhere in the world. Mary simply absorbed the information, without processing. There was far too much to think of.
“Fraulein Mary?” Mary was brought out of her reverie by the voice of a girl, Maria Cecilia, from her morning classes. Maria was blonde, very pretty, and maybe thirteen years old.
“Yes, Maria, how can I help you?”
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“Of course you can. What can I help you with?” Mary put her notebook aside and sat at her desk, inviting Maria to sit next to her. The girl curtsied and then took a seat.
“Thank you Fraulein Mary. I-I'm not really certain on how to ask these sorts of questions….” The girl had a bit of a star-struck look about her. Mary thought she looked uncomfortable, and she kept glancing towards the doors in the room to see if anyone was coming.
Mary felt her eyebrows rise, and thought back to when she had seen pre-teen girls, some of them her friends; turn to teachers back home for answers to awkward questions. She might have done it a time or two herself, come to think of it. This had that sort of a feeling about it, and Mary began to get a little nervous. “Well, Maria I can try and answer for you, but I'm not sure I'm going to be the right person to ask. What sort of questions are they?”
“I have questions about up-timers.”
“Up-timers?”
The girl nodded, chewing on her lower lip. “Do you really get to choose your own husbands? Like in this book?” From her book bag, she drew out a down-time reprint of what looked to be a romance novel, complete with a dashing knight on the cover. It wasn’t quite as garish as an up-time original, but it certainly retained the flavor. Handsome and long-haired hero on the front, a girl gazing up at him, her bodice askew, and a castle that looked vaguely familiar with white crenellated walls. Mary felt herself smiling.
“Maria, you realize these books are fiction. This is an up-timer reprint, right?”
“Yes, Miss Mary.” The girl nodded with a smile.
“Are you sure this is appropriate for a girl your age?”
“Of course, Miss Mary. It was sent here by a cousin who got it from a printer near Grantville. They are very popular.” She stopped for a moment and looked at Mary with a bit of desperation. “Do up-timers believe in true love, Miss Mary? Love at first sight?”
Mary fought to keep from grinning at the girl too much. “Well, some do. In stories like this one”—she tapped the book—“the heroine will always believe in true love. And it will all work out in the end, for the most part anyway. The handsome prince, or count, or Senator will be her true love. And they will live happily ever after.” Mary paused again. “But you know these are not real, right Maria? They are a fantasy, escapist literature.”
“If the stories are not real, why do up-timers read them?”
“Well, we read them - at least some people do, for entertainment. For fun!” Mary shrugged playfully with open arms. “What do you read for fun?”
The girl shrugged, then looked sheepish. “But, do these stories ever happen?”
Mary felt her brow creasing a bit. “Well, I didn’t say they didn’t happen, exactly. I suppose something like those could be true, once in a great while. Up-timers liked to think so.”
“But in this story, the girl acts like an up-timer, even though it takes place in England. It’s in the future, I suppose. About a hundred and fifty years or so. And if they love someone, what do they do? Do they wait for the man to come to them? What if it’s a forbidden love?”
“Like what?”
“Like the boy is poor and the girl is rich?”
Mary felt herself pinch back a smile. “One thing about up-timer literature, if there was a poor boy that our heroine loves, over the rich boy, she would cho
ose the poor boy every time. And the heck with the consequences.”
The girl brightened up considerably. “That’s what I thought, thanks.”
Mary smiled. As hard as it was turning out to be, this teaching stuff had its rewarding moments. “You’re welcome, Maria Cecilia. I would like to read this book when you are done with it. Can you lend it to me then?”
The girl nodded, beamed at Mary, then turned and dashed out of the room.
Chapter 12 Meanwhile back at the ranch.
In a small office, tucked into a back corner of a textile warehouse, in a nondescript area of Munich, a skinny and angular man tapped on a door. The knock was specific, three short raps for the trinity, repeated three times. He adjusted his clothing as he waited, uncomfortable. He was dressed poorly, but his fidget was evident to the attentive observer. He was a fastidious man trapped in less than fastidious clothing.
From behind the closed door, a deep, harsh voice - a voice that conveyed an expectation of instant obedience when a command was issued - answered the knock. “Enter.” The voice belonged to a man named Grossembrot.
The angular man shuffled into the office, glanced behind him, and then closed the door. The office was windowless, dark, with an oil lamp sputtering on the work table. Another on the wall. Papers were everywhere. It smelled of pungent oil smoke, sweat, and damp papers going to mould. A very large man, soft and round, with tiny eyeglasses and several chins was sitting behind the desk, opulent doublet tossed to the side. A large crucifix hung on the wall behind him, while a bejeweled sword and scabbard leaned carelessly in the corner.
The skinny man bowed, and then looked expectantly towards his better. The large man nodded to him, and gestured for him to continue, fat fingers followed by a forearm wobbling like a turkey wattle when he gestured.
“There is an up-timer with the Fugger,” the skinny man said. It was almost a whisper.
The large man leaned back in his chair, tossing a paper aside, inhaling slowly. “In Augsburg?”
“No.”
The large man raised his eyebrows and rubbed his eyes, putting his spectacles away. Tiny blue eyes on a large face pierced the ill-kept man. “Then were?”
“With the branch in Tyrol, Near Schwaz, Excellency.”
The large man made a face that looked as if he had eaten something distasteful. “Bah! It would be difficult to reach him there.”
“It is a ‘her’, Excellency. Female. Mary Margaret Russo. Up-time catholic, military. Administrative duties while in their military. The Bavarian government office has a dossier on her, but it is thin. We are working on getting a copy. She was posted in Wurzburg before getting assigned to the Fugger.” The ill-kept man recited this from memory, he needed no notes. He tugged at the sleeves of his ratty doublet.
The large man stroked his chins. “Still in their military?”
“One would assume so. We have nothing to the contrary.”
The large man shook his head, slowly side-to-side. “It’s a shame she isn’t in Augsburg, or anywhere in Bavaria. It would be nice to have a hostage. Or whatever. It would be nice to have one. Inspect them in person for witchcraft. Could come in handy. They are supposed to be rather fierce. Dammed independent from what I see in the reports, something that would be a bad influence if allowed to spread.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
The large man rose from his chair, and the ill-kept man stepped back in deference. The large man began to waddle-pace behind his table. “What are the Fugger up to?” The ill-kept man understood that this was a rhetorical question, and not one he was expected to answer. He kept his eyes averted and his back to the door. “Fugger have been a challenge to my family, ever since the old man was alive. Always bold, always stealing business with insider moves. Upstarts. Pushy. I swear they are half-Jew. Wish I could prove that. And now, an up-timer. A Catholic up-timer, bringing with them that ugly abomination of true religion. They, those up-timers, call it Catholicism. An abomination. That woman is probably a witch…” The pacing slowed. “Are the Fugger trying something new, I wonder? Driving some new advantage? I wonder…” The large man ground to a slow halt, almost winded from pacing the half dozen times across the small office. The ill-kept man sensed it was time to speak.
“Do you want me to send someone to look into it?”
The large man sat down in his chair, and it groaned in protest of his bulk. His eyes brightened. “Oh yes. Yes indeed. Go ahead. In fact, send a small team. Can’t hurt. Maybe she will wander over the mountains into Augsburg or even visit us here in Munich, eh? Find out who her local handler is. Local contact is probably obvious in a small town like that. Schwaz used to be a big town with a lot of miners coming and going. It’s been a sleepy village again, since the new world mines brought silver back cheaper than the Fugger could dig it out of the ground. Monitor closely, we can see what develops. Get someone on the inside there. Look for witchcraft. If we can catch the Fugger with their pants down, committing real heresy, or even something that looks like heresy, or harboring a witch and trying to use it to their advantage, then we can kill two flies with one swat. Fight heresy and hurt the Fugger. Oh, yes!” He rubbed his hands together with glee, fat wobbling. “This is a good investment. Send a team. No. Go yourself. I want someone who can make decisions there. Who can capitalize on any mistakes the Fugger make. You go. I have others that can do what you can do here. Blend in. Do it.”
“Yes Excellency.” The ill-kept man paused a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Budget, excellency?” He brushed his tattered sleeves.
The large man dragged a strongbox from behind his desk and heaved it onto the table. It was very heavy. He pulled a key from around his neck and opened the box. A weighty leather bag of silver coins found its way to the outreached hand of the angular man. “Thank you, Excellency. I will do the usual accounting; bless you and this gift to our cause.”
∞ ∞ ∞
The large man leaned onto the desk with both hands and peered at the ill-kept man, his massive belly thrusting as he spoke. “God has provided my family with the ability to do such things, to do his work, and keep the faith pure. Use it well, my friend. There is more if you need it.”
“Yes, Excellency.” The ill-kept man closed the door behind him, frowning. He didn’t relish Tyrol and the rural backwater conditions there. But Grossembrot had a point. If there was an opportunity to capture an up-timer, and to embarrass the Fugger, or better yet, expose them as heretical, then maybe they could help to stem the tide of heresy. They had fought hard and subtly to keep Bavaria as pure as possible, and as far as the angular man knew, and could infer by reading between the lines, that fight included the support and blessing of Maximilian of Bavaria himself. Small steps to stem the tide. A man does what he can. With that thought, the angular man eased out of the warehouse, completely unnoticed.
∞ ∞ ∞
Addie Russo looked at the dark eyed little man sipping tea at her kitchen table. She knew he was Jewish, and somehow related to the Nasi clan. In fact, his last name was indeed Nasi. His cousin, also named Nasi, was high up in the government with people from her own time. So that would be related, she figured. She knew he did “spy stuff.” But he spoke with a Spanish accent, and went by the name Lorenzo. Lorenzo Nasi. It was really quite strange. He didn’t look all that different from your typical down-timer. Maybe a little shorter than average. She doubted that she knew any Jews back up-time, except for the one who ran the local jewelry store. Roth, his name was. Certainly she didn’t know any down-time. She met Morris Roth once when she needed a battery for her watch, before the Ring of Fire. He was now in Poland or somewhere like that – Prague, maybe? - was that in Poland? Anyway. She had always imagined that Jews would have a New York accent, like on TV. She shrugged inwardly. Everyone seemed to like them in town, and everyone who wasn’t an idiot said they could be trusted, especially her daughter Mary Margaret. Which was important. The fact that Mary trusted them was enough for Addie. At least she hoped it would be, fo
r Mary’s sake. Addie felt that her daughter Mary had to be safer hanging around with a bunch of rich people with a strange name of Fugger than trying to stop witch burnings and peasant uprisings in Wurzburg. Dear God, what a world.
“The tea is quite good, Mrs. Russo. Thank you.” The little man gestured to her with his teacup, and nodded. It made Addie realize she had been staring at him.
Addie felt herself blush. “You're welcome, Mr. Nasi. Is that what I should call you? Mr. Nasi? Or would you prefer Lorenzo? Or something else? I've never had a Jewish person in my home before.” Addie realized she blurted out that last part. She retreated to the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a cloth, dampening it with the faucet.
“You may call me Lorenzo, if that makes you more comfortable. May I call you Addie?”
Addie could hear a smile in his voice as she fussed at the sink. She finished wringing out the dishcloth, and started to wipe the counter. “Addie is fine, Lorenzo.” She turned to him, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Call me Addie.”
“Okay, Addie. First of all, please relax. I will be your point of contact for your daughter’s assignment. If you have any questions, and concerns, I will try to answer them to the best of my knowledge. Some things I do are such that, well, I must not talk about them.” He looked at her with a serious expression over the top of his teacup. “But if I can, I will always tell you what I know. I will also tell you what I think, and what others think. But this is something that you must never discuss with others. Never. The more people who know about the intelligence portion of her mission, the more danger that you could put Mary into.” Addie felt her heart flutter, and reached out a hand to steady herself. Lorenzo looked alarmed.
Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice Page 11