Grantville Gazette, Volume 70

by Bjorn Hasseler

  Through the rest of the evening, Hartmann alternated, dancing with Gerta, then with another woman. In each case, they all admonished him that they were there to allow him the dream that it was Marta in their place. The one thing he noticed was that unlike the up-time Christmas party, no one broke in to take a dance away from another. By the fourth dance with an adult partner, they were able to teach him the interlocking arms portion of the Ländler, and everyone stood watching as he danced it with Gerta. They giggled when the arm gestures caused a lot of additional shifting because he was so much taller. When the girl began to nod off because of the late hour, Hartmann took his leave, carrying the sleeping girl.

  ****

  Hartmann walked through the night with the girl wrapped in his greatcoat. It was snowing again, and he thought of what had happened. He paused at the sound of bells.

  "What is it?"

  He looked at the drowsy girl in his arms.

  “It is the new year,” he told her.

  The girl looked around, then leaned up to kiss him gently on the cheek. "Happy New Year, Richard." Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and went back to sleep.

  Hartmann looked at her with a gentle smile. For a moment, it was Marta he held, who had kissed him, and offered that greeting. Then he continued walking.

  ****

  The Monster Under the Bed by Tim Roesch

  On Top of a Little Boy’s Bed, Bamberg, July, 1636

  Joseph Drahuta knew how old he was—nine, but he also knew how old he felt—older.

  First, there had been the entire Ring of Fire thing, when his entire life changed down to his underwear. Who would have thought elastic waistbands were such a big thing?

  And socks! Who would have thought that even socks would change?

  From toilet paper to a change in diet, he had grown used to the lack of television and no cell phones and riding horses instead of cars.

  Then there had been his adopted brother and sister, which led to the whole sharing a bed thing.

  Ulrich snored lightly beside him.

  Joseph Drahuta was used to sharing a bed by now. It certainly was warmer on cold nights when there was no heating like he was used to, only creeping cold that seemed to be everywhere. In the summer, though, things were different. Joey turned toward the edge of his bed where it was cooler.

  “Hey,” Joseph whispered, “do you still hear ‘em?”

  The silence from under his bed was disturbing. The initial sounds, when they came, startled him even though Joseph knew well this ‘monster’ under his bed.

  This ‘monster’ was, after all, the shortstop on his little league team. At least baseball had survived the Ring of Fire.

  “Yes,” the monster answered, finally, “but not so loud and not so much. I think the tea was stronger this time. The tea tastes horrible.”

  Joseph listened to Ulrich’s soft snoring. Ulrich was used to crowded beds and bedrooms and could sleep through almost anything.

  “Momma says you’re …schiz …schizophrenic…” Joseph struggled but he had been practicing for some time. The word was even harder to spell but he could, at least, say it.

  “I thought the voices were God…” the monster whispered with a certain determined reverence. “…if the voices were from God …the tea would not stop Him.”

  “What do the voices say now?”

  “The same. They are just softer now. I can pretend they aren’t real now. Playing baseball helps. You have to keep thinking in baseball. Thank you for letting me hide under your bed.”

  “Sure,” Joseph stated, “any time. There’s a big game tomorrow.”

  The silence from the monster under his bed was unnerving.

  “I know,” the monster said, finally. “The voices don’t like me playing baseball. The voices say it is a sin against Hashem to play when I could be reading the Torah. I tell them it is a sin to pretend to hear the voice of God. Amen.”

  Joseph took a deep breath. It was always dangerous to talk religion with Shabby, the monster under his bed, when he was like this—in the middle, between listening to the voices and ignoring them.

  “It scares the other team when you shout verses from the Torah.” Joseph laughed slightly.

  “I know…” Shabbethai Zebi, the monster under the bed, said with a smile you could almost see in the darkness of the bedroom, even when it came from the monster under the bed.

  ****

  A Somewhat Larger Bedroom, Bamberg, July, 1636

  Meanwhile, in another bedroom, larger with a larger bed that refused to move despite what was happening upon its surface…

  “Thank you for not trying to wear the spurs this time,” Julie stated breathlessly. “The arguing just wastes time, Norman, and they ruin the blankets…”

  “I could still get them…”

  The answering slap was quite loud.

  “How do you still find this all funny, Norman? Talk about mental health issues …You are a walking, talking DSM full of psychiatric problems, Norman. Worse, you got your daughter thinking it’s funny, too. Karla has enough problems with simply heating water on a stove let alone wearing armor like her dad.”

  “Funny? Sex? With you? That’s never funny…”

  This time the slap was intercepted. Norman Drahuta giggled and even avoided the other hand.

  “Norman …let go of my hand…”

  “Never!”

  There were, in the dark room, the sounds of a largely friendly struggle then silence.

  “At least the bed doesn’t squeak,” Julie finally stated, somewhat breathlessly.

  “This bed would stop a tank. They don’t even bother to dress the trees in this century. They chop it down and force it into furniture here. It’s like …trying to sleep in a bunker. I think I could get the horse on this bed and it wouldn’t squeak. You know …didn’t Catherine the Great…”

  This time, the slap connected. There were, in the dark room, the sounds of a largely friendly struggle then silence.

  The knock at the door was largely anticlimactic but accepted with a certain reluctance.

  “You think it’s the neighbors?” Norman giggled.

  “No,” Julie growled, “it’s probably Karla. I bet her face hurts. Who is it?”

  “Ma…” came the muffled reply. The doors, even the interior ones in a place like this, were not hollow core garbage found up-time. You could, conceivably, bar this door and guarantee all but the most determined attempt at entry would be dissuaded. “…Ma…”

  “Pull the blanket over yourself, for Christ’s sake …come in!”

  The door opened slowly but not for dramatic effect. It was heavy, and Karla was barely seven. There weren’t even the sounds of scampering, childish feet. The floor wouldn’t notice a herd of Karlas stampeding across it. You required a solid, thick floor to support a bed like this one.

  The bed barely noticed her pouncing upon it and clambering across its rumpled expanse.

  “What is it this time, Karla?” Julie demanded of her daughter.

  “Joey’s got Shabby under his bed, Ma,” Karla said breathlessly. The bed was not something to be crossed lightly. Such things took time.

  “Shabbethai does that, sometimes, after he takes his medicine, Karla. We’ve had this discussion before. Now why are you up?”

  “I heard them giggling in there,” Karla stated suspiciously. “He’s scary when he giggles like that. He’s like a monster under the bed.”

  “They are probably talking baseball. Now, why are you up? How’s your face? Is it bothering you?”

  “It stings little. I miss my bed …back home in Grantville. And Sibylla snores. Sometimes she talks in her sleep, too. She talks in German. You got Joey a little brother why did you have to get me an older sister? She’s mean. We could still adopt a younger sister. Can’t we?”

  “Sibylla put out the fire, didn’t she?” Norman was trying very hard not to laugh.

  “That wasn’t my fault! If Sibby wasn’t always yelling at me I would
’ve been able to concentrate more …and it wasn’t really a fire …really. It was just real …Stop laughing, Daddy! My whole face almost burned off!”

  “At least you have one eyebrow left,” Julie muttered. “Snuggle up and don’t get the goop on the blankets.”

  There were, in the dark room, the sounds of a largely friendly snuggle then silence.

  “What are we going to do about that monster under the bed?” Julie whispered.

  “Get him his own bed?” Karla asked, nestled between her two parents.

  “People in town are watching you and him like cats watching twitching string. They want to see if this ‘medicine’ thing works or not. It seems a lot of people ‘hear voices’ in seventeenth-century Germany. That ‘tea’ is gonna be popular, I bet. I can’t believe my little wifey is introducing pysch-meds to the world.”

  “Call me wifey again, and I will introduce the world to level four trauma centers,” Julie growled.

  “Mom didn’t mean that, Daddy,” Karla stated from her position of authority. “That was her funny voice.”

  “If you are going to be here, Karla, then less talking and more listening. Better yet …go to sleep. Sleep helps healing time. If you think real hard maybe you’ll grow a new eyebrow before your brother makes a comedy routine out of it.”

  “Is the lithium working?” Norman asked.

  “He says the voices aren’t as loud. That goes along with what I know, which isn’t that much, about schizophrenia and lithium treatment. I just don’t know how much lithium I am giving him. I am driving on ice, on a mountain road, blind here. I have to talk to Stoner about extracting lithium. I heard you can get it from sea salt or something …seaweed …I remember hearing some holistic guy talk about natural supplements and treatment of schizophrenia. That’s how I heard about the seaweed thing. I am going to have to be the whole damn FDA, too.”

  “You shouldn’t use bad words …hey!” Karla whined.

  “Next time it will be your face I slap. Now be quiet and go to sleep.”

  “That’s child abuse…” Karla muttered.

  “She has a point, dear,” Norman nodded ‘loudly’ enough to almost be seen in the darkness of the room. The bed, far too sturdy, didn’t move at all despite his nodding.

  “In this day and age I would use a stick and be considered affectionate,” Julie grumbled. “The definitions of child abuse and even the term ‘child’ are very different now.”

  “And human experimentation,” Norman told his wife, “don’t forget that. I doubt you would get anyone to support you testing drugs on a kid up-time. Now? Even the pack of Rabbis are listening and watching carefully. Hell, some of the Germans think you should use Jews to experiment on. Makes for some interesting conversation, let me tell you. The CoC gets involved, and things get tense from there.”

  “They are not a pack of Rabbis,” Julie grumbled.

  “Shabby calls them…” Karla began.

  “Do not repeat what he calls them. It isn’t nice …even in Yiddish. There are some who think I should dose him with something stronger …like Drano or something. Solve the whole ‘Son of God’ thing once and for all.”

  “Do you think Shabby was really hearing the voice of God?” Karla asked in stark, though largely unseen, defiance of her mother’s previous and horrific edict concerning silence and the punishments for violating it.

  “According to the histories …a lot of people thought so,” Julie said softly. “He was a worldwide sensation.”

  “Wow, you shut up God, Mama,” Karla whispered.

  “Yeah, but I can’t seem to shut you up or stop you from trying to go all Joan of Arc in my own damn kitchen!”

  There were, in the dark room, the sounds of careful consideration, then silence.

  “Go to sleep, Karla. Tomorrow is a new day full of opportunities to incinerate more meals,” Julie Drahuta grumbled. “And, Norman, you say one more damn thing and I will slap you someplace as painful as Karla’s face! Now let’s get some sleep!”

  “You say that now but a little while ago you…”

  “Norman?” Julie whispered. “Do you want your daughter to see her mother kill her daddy?”

  “That’s her serious voice, Daddy. I’d listen to her.”

  ****

  NESS: Krystalnacht on the Schwarza Express by Bjorn Hasseler

  Tuesday, June 19, 1635

  West Virginia County

  Astrid Schäubin puttered around her room, straightening everything. She tugged at the solid but inexpensive table beside her bed, trying to square it up. It creaked across the wooden floorboards.

  "Astrid, are you still up?" Her brother Hjalmar leaned around the corner of the doorway.

  "Obviously."

  "Why? We have to be up early."

  Astrid sighed. "I do not know." She looked at her pack. "I have everything ready. Pistol, gun belt, neckerchief, hat, four days of clothes even though we should return Friday morning."

  "Is everything okay with Georg?"

  Astrid smiled. "Georg is fine. We had a nice dinner."

  "Uh-huh."

  Now she was a little annoyed. "Hjalmar, when have you ever known Georg Meisner not to be a perfect gentleman?"

  Hjalmar's head bobbled in acknowledgment of her point. "So what is it then? Lukas getting shot?"

  "Well, ja, sure. This is my third Saxon Run since those bandits tried to hijack the train. And Krystalnacht."

  "That is not anywhere near here," her brother pointed out.

  "I know. But I have a bad feeling."

  Hjalmar frowned. "So do not take chances and do not wander off."

  Astrid threw her pillow at him. "I said I had a bad feeling, not that I had forgotten everything you and Neustatter ever taught me."

  Hjalmar handed back the pillow he'd caught. "Maybe you noticed something you have not figured out yet. Sleep on it."

  "Maybe. Thanks, Hjalmar."

  Hjalmar went back to his and Ditmar's room. Astrid tucked her .22 under her pillow, doused the lamp, and went to bed.

  ****

  Wednesday, June 20, 1635

  Schwarza Junction

  Astrid hadn't slept particularly well. Nor had she been able to put her finger on what was bothering her about this mission. All her fellow NESS security consultants looked alert but comfortable.

  "I am looking for Neustatter's European Security Services!" a man in an SoTF blue uniform called out in Amideutsch. He had a cloth armband with the letters MP around his right sleeve.

  "You found us," Neustatter answered in the same language.

  "Sergeant Johann Sandhagen, SoTF National Guard, military police."

  "Edgar Neustatter." They shook hands. "Hjalmar Schaub here runs Team Two for me. Karl Recker, Otto Brenner, Jacob Bracht. Astrid Schäubin—she is Hjalmar's sister—will be running Team Three. Me. Phillip Pfeffer. Wolfram Kuntz. Wolfram is our medic, certified EMT."

  Sandhagen shook hands all around. "Good to meet y'all. How many of these have you done? This is only my second one."

  "We are on a schedule with the other security contractors and mercenaries," Neustatter told him. "Every seventh trip. This is NESS's fourth Saxon Run and my third personally, not counting the attempted hijacking."

  Sandhagen nodded. "So y'all were on the train that was hit?"

  "Ja. Astrid, Wolfram, Phillip, Lukas Heidenfelder, and I," Neustatter confirmed. "Lukas is still in the hospital."

  "How is he?"

  "He will pull through," Neustatter said.

  Astrid knew that was what the doctors said, but she was still worried.

  "Good."

  Neustatter nodded his appreciation. "How do you want do this? A team in each railroad car?"

  "Ja, that is good. How did you train for this? You have done more of these than I have."

  "I watched Murder on the Orient Express last night."

  The MP looked shocked.

  "Relax. I have also seen Breakheart Pass."

  ****

  Astrid lis
tened to the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails while she watched the left side as the train rolled north to Jena. The cars were about half-full, which she understood to be average for recent weekday runs—although that was still down a bit compared to before last month's attack. So far the ride was uneventful. Which is not surprising, Astrid reminded herself. It's always uneventful south of Jena.

  But as the train slowed to a stop alongside the platform in Jena, Phillip called out from the back stairs, "Neustatter! Squad of men approaching the platform!"

  Astrid quickly reached for her pistol. Neustatter's was already out. But then her boss called out, "Their weapons are shouldered. And they have tickets."

  The approaching men sorted themselves into a file, and the first one swung aboard. He caught sight of Neustatter's pistol right away. Astrid saw his hand tighten on his rifle sling, but he had the presence of mind not to make a sudden move.

  "Who are you?"

  "Neustatter's European Security Services. Train guard on this run. And you?"

  "The Yellow Circle Regiment." Astrid noted that emblem on his coat.

  "In civilian clothes?"

  "We are specially trained to operate behind the lines."

  Astrid had to strain to hear Neustatter's response, even from three feet away.

  "No, you are not. Who are you?"

  Equally quietly, the man replied, "CoCs. We are returning to Magdeburg."

  "Yellow Circle because you are defending the Jews."

  "Ja, preemptive attack."

  "What I said. Like Esther, ja?"

  The CoC soldier cracked a smile. "We have ten rifles. Let us work together."

  Neustatter nodded and called forward. "Sergeant? Five in each car? I will show you where the Saxons tried to hijack the train when we get there."