by Eric Flint
"Grantville, is it?" Joachim's eyes opened wide again. "So, you have seen that place, have you?"
"Yes, Reb Joachim. I have seen Grantville, and Magdeburg as well. And seeing Grantville, my sense of wonder awoke again, and I reasoned that if the Holy One, blessed be He, could work the miracle of that place, then perhaps He could somehow work another… the return of one from an exile which, if shorter than that of Babylon, was no less bitter."
"And did such happen?"
"Aye. I dared pass the doors of the Sephardic congregation in Grantville, and found that which proved to be the very balm of Gilead for my hurtful soul." As a hint of confusion passed over Joachim's face, Isaac was forcefully reminded that that passage from Jeremiah was not one that was commonly read in the synagogues. "And no less than Reb Pinchas told me with his own lips that I was welcome with the Sephardim of Grantville and Magdeburg, not just as a visitor, but as a member."
"Good." A smile appeared amidst the gray beard, and Joachim's eyes almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his face. "That is good to hear, and an answer to prayer." To Isaac's querying look, he responded, "Each day as I read the Amidah, I would also ask in my heart that The Lord of the World would remember you, keep his hand upon you, and draw you back to His chosen people. Blessed be He who gathers in the exiles."
"Amen." Isaac felt the familiar response come to his lips.
Just as the old man opened his mouth to speak, the door to his shop flew open, and a young woman, hardly more than a girl, whirled in and shut the door behind her, calling out, "Reb Joachim, Reb Joachim, Mama said for you to…" She stopped suddenly, obviously at the sight of the strange man standing in the shop.
Isaac was facing away from the door when it opened, and he stiffened at the sound of the voice. Joachim laid a hand on his arm, and he could feel the tension in the old man.
"Softly, Devorah, softly. You would not want our visitor to think we are uncultured."
"No, Reb Joachim. Sorry, Reb Joachim."
"That is better. Now, I dare say that your mother wants the sewing needles she asked me to get her, nu?" The girl bobbed her head. The old man shuffled behind the counter, searched for a moment, and placed a packet on the countertop. "Here they are." Devorah reached out, and a moment later the packet had disappeared into a pocket. She started to turn and leave, but was stopped by Joachim. "Devorah, give a good day to Yitzhak ben Levi, from Magdeburg, who brought me some of the fabulous coffee that we have been hearing so much about." Isaac schooled his expression to calm, and turned to face her.
Her eyes widened. She dipped her head as she said, "Good day to you, Reb Yitzhak."
"And this is Devorah bat Shlomo, Reb Yitzhak, the eldest daughter of our rabbi."
Isaac gave a very slight bow. "And a good day to you, Devorah. I have heard good things of your family."
She began to blush, and dipped her head again. Uttering a strangled sounding "Goodbye," she bolted from the store.
Isaac turned on Joachim, and hissed, "What are you thinking? How could you do that to her, to me?"
"Calm yourself, young man." Joachim raised a hand. "It has been almost six years. You are a hand taller and at least two stone heavier. She should not recognize you, but you recognized her, did you not?"
In Isaac's mind, the face of the young woman was set beside the face of the girl that had been in his memories for so long, and he felt wonder and joy at how she had grown, and become a beauty. "Yes. .. yes, I did." A moment later, "Thank you."
"They are well, all of them, even the rabbi, although he is changed." At Isaac's look of alarm, Joachim hurriedly said, "No, no, nothing is wrong. But after a… certain event… our rabbi was long cast down in his spirit. Eventually, however, his remaining children gave him ease, and he again found some joy in life. But we all noted, we who remembered… before, that he is a somewhat calmer man, now, less harsh, slower to judge."
Isaac swallowed, then swallowed again. "Those are good words to hear. I wish him only the best in life."
"From your mouth to His ear."
After a moment, Isaac asked in a harsh voice, "Why did you name me ben Levi? I am fatherless."
"Well, it is true that your birth father no longer acknowledges you. However, is not your bloodline descended from Levi through both your mother and father?" Joachim looked to Isaac, who was forced to acknowledge that truth. "Then you are a son of Levi just as much as Moses and Aaron. You can in truth be named Yitzhak ben Levi, can you not?" Isaac stared at him for a moment, feeling a knot in his chest begin to loosen, and then he felt a wide smile spread across his face.
The two men stood smiling at each other what seemed like an hour to Isaac. Finally, he sobered, and asked, "Are they in need for anything?"
"They are not destitute, but neither are they quite comfortable."
"Who is the president of the community now?"
Joachim smiled wryly again, and said, "As it happens, I am."
Isaac dug in his pocket, and pulled out a pouch, which he placed on the counter. "See to their needs, please." As Joachim opened his mouth to object, Isaac raised his hand. "Please. As I am not of that family any longer, this is part of my tzedakah."
"Is this works in secret, then, or may I tell the congregation so that prayers may be offered for your travels?"
"Secret," Isaac said. "Do not tell them where it came from." The old man nodded. "Send word if more is needed. For now, send it to Reb Pinchas, Don Francisco. I will get word to you somehow of where I eventually end up."
"It is good." Joachim set the pouch on the counter. After a moment, he looked up at Isaac, and asked gently, "Will you not go to him? Will you not try to reconcile?"
Isaac flinched. "How can I?" He threw his hat on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair, yanking at it as if he wanted to pull it out. "I am not just herem, shunned-he named me dead! How can I go to him?" The pain in his heart was so sharp he felt as if he had been stabbed. "He said Kaddish, did he not? No, no one told me, but I know he did. He even sat Shiva for me, I wager. He would not be the man he is if he had not performed the full mourning ritual." Joachim said nothing, but Isaac could see the confirmation on his face. "How can I face that? How can I appear before my mother and sisters and brother, only to be turned away? How can I hurt everyone like that?" Slower, softer, he said, "I could not bear it, RebJoachim, to be turned away again. I am sorry that they grieve, but the wound he dealt me is deep… so deep I despair of it ever fully healing… so deep, I cannot chance another."
The old man looked at him, sadness on his face. "It will be as you will it, Yitzhak." Isaac flinched again as Joachim quoted back to him the phrase he had said to his father that night years ago. "You do him an injustice, though, I believe. Rav Shlomo is not the man he was then."
Isaac shook his head, and said in a very low tone, "I cannot… please, I cannot." They stood together in silence for long moments. Finally, Isaac regained his composure and picked up his hat. "I must be on my way. I am traveling with others who wait for me, and we must travel many miles yet today."
"For Reb Pinchas?"
Isaac said nothing, feeling slightly dishonest about letting the old man draw mistaken conclusions. He felt so drained at the moment, however, that he could not bring himself to explain. He moved toward the door. Joachim stepped in front of him, and grasped his arms.
"The blessings of God Above, who held His hand over Avraham, Yitzhak and Yakov as they wandered in the wilderness, go with you, Yitzhak ben Levi."
Isaac was flooded with emotion as he considered everything this old man had done for him. "And with you, Joachim ben Eleazar. And with you."
Moments later Isaac was walking back up the streets of Aschenhausen, hands in pockets, feet automatically following the right path. At last the tavern came into sight, where Reuel stood outside adjusting harness on his wagon team. He called into the tavern. Moments later the others trooped out. While the rest of them climbed into the wagons, Marla came to him and peered into his eyes.
&
nbsp; "Is everything all right?"
Isaac smiled gently. "Yes."
***
The door to Joachim's shop flew open. This time it admitted a short, stout woman who wore an apron over her dress and a cloth that contained her iron-gray hair. She was followed by the young woman who had come to the shop earlier. He was surprised-not that she appeared; he had been half-way expecting that ever since Devorah left-but that she was dressed so… informally.
"Good day, Rebitzin Rivka…"
"Where is my son?"
"Who?"
"Play no games with me, Joachim ben Eleazar." She advanced on him, eyes aflame. Joachim was very glad that the counter was between them. "I may be the rabbi's wife, and you may be the president of the congregation, but forty years ago I gave you a bloody nose and kicked your shins black and blue when you pushed me in a mud puddle. I will do it again here and now if you do not tell me the truth! Where is my son?"
"Gone." God Above, she was in a towering fury. Grown men had been known to pale on the rare occasions that her ire was stirred. Devorah was backed into a corner, wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to stand there and weather the storm.
"I see that, you old fool! Where has he gone?"
"I know not." That stopped her in mid-tirade. "He said he was traveling with others, and that they were leaving Aschenhausen immediately." Joachim watched as the fire of the strong-willed young woman he had known all those years ago guttered out, leaving behind the gray-haired, arthritic matron who was the wife of his rabbi.
"Leaving? But… why? Did he not… could he not…"
"He was traveling on business of someone important." Joachim had his doubts about whether it was Don Francisco, but he let Yitzhak's story stand.
Rivka visibly collected herself, and looked up at him with naked pain shining in her eyes. "Did he not come here to reconcile?"
"No."
She flinched. "Nevertheless, I should not have heard about him from Devorah. Why did you not bring him to us, Joachim? Could you not do that for him, for us?"
"I tried, Rivka." Joachim sighed. "I attempted that very thing."
Now her face whitened. "He will not reconcile? God Above knows that I love my husband dearly, but he is as stubborn as an angry ox, and Yitzhak is his father's son, in that much at least. Will he not at least attempt to reconcile?"
"I would judge, rather, that he cannot." Rivka obviously did not understand. Running his fingers through his white beard, Joachim said slowly, "I believe he loves his father dearly. For that reason, the words that were said that night hurt him very deeply. Now, like a wounded fox, he is curled around the pain and grief and cannot reach out. He is afraid that if he tried, he would be rejected again. I tell you truly, if that happened, I would fear for his life."
Tears filled Rivka's eyes and spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. "All this time, we never heard from him, never heard about him. I was afraid he hated us, and would never return. And all this time he was bleeding from his soul, he was grieving. Oh, my son, my son!" She covered her face with her apron and sobbed brokenly. Her own grief and heartbreak caused Joachim to set aside the tradition that Jewish men would not touch another man's wife. He came around the counter and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Devorah stepped out of the corner and placed her arm around her mother's waist.
Finally the sobbing slowed, then stopped, except for the occasional sniffle. Rivka lowered her apron, exposing reddened eyes and nose. She dabbed at her face, then resolutely faced Joachim, who had retreated back around the counter again.
"So there can be no reconciliation?" Her voice was dead.
"I did not say that, Rivka," Joachim said gently. "I said that he could not begin it."
A light of hope dawned in her eyes. "You think if his father approached him…"
"A possibility only, but the only one I see." Joachim fingered his beard again. "But as you say, Rav Shlomo is somewhat… strong-willed."
The light of hope became a beacon of purpose.
"Yitzhak was born of this womb." Rivka laid her hands on her abdomen. Shifting them to her bosom, she said, "He nursed from these breasts. He is my son as much as he is his father's." She leaned over the counter, fiery gaze locked on Joachim's eyes. " And I will have my first-born back!"
Fussen – Early February, 1634
Johannes Fichtold watched as his brother Hans, having seen to wine being provided to all his guests, took a cup of his own and then came to stand beside him. "Let us not spend time in useless conversation," Hans said. That was so like his brother; if the talk was not about the crafting of lutes and viols, then it was time and effort that was misspent. "You all know that last summer the Italian, Master Girolamo Zenti, came through Fussen on his way north. He placed an order for woods to be delivered to him when he reached this Grantville that we have heard so much about. You also know that Johannes here," who almost staggered from the clap on the shoulder that Hans delivered, "went with him, to learn more of the Italian methods of crafting while working in his service. I am sure that you all wonder why Johannes is back in town. That story is his to tell." And with that, Han sat down.
Licking his lips, Johannes looked around the room at the men seated there: Matthias Gemunder, August Neuner, Ludwig Koehler, Christof Eichelberger. With the addition of his brother, Hans Fichtold, these were the senior luthiers and geigenfabrikants in Fussen. These were the craft masters of the guild. There were other families that made instruments, but the families headed by these men made the best, and everyone knew it. These were the men he must convince to make the instruments desired by Frau Simpson and Franz Sylwester. He straightened his cuffs and pulled down on his waistcoat. Remembering Master Zenti's instructions to stand tall and look confident, he straightened to his full height and did his best to assume that air.
Hans cleared his throat. Johannes, realizing he had been woolgathering, began his speech. "I know that all of you have heard of this Grantville. The rumors of its appearing in the countryside of Thuringia had long been floating here even at the time when Master Zenti and I were here last year, as Hans said. I am sure that you have discounted most of those rumors, as had Master Zenti and I before we arrived there. We were wrong to do so.
"Oh, to be sure, there are no angels walking the streets of Grantville, and those streets are not paved with cobblestones of gold. But the people of Grantville are possessed of mechanical arts so advanced that many times our best efforts seem like child's play. They have other wisdoms as well. You know they have allied with Gustav Adolf, and they are spreading out throughout Thuringia, having become a force even in Magdeburg.
"When we arrived, Master Zenti discovered, to his chagrin, that this was often true of music as well. His companion, Master Giacomo Carissimi-yes, that Carissimi." Johannes paused in response to raised eyebrows. The masters obviously recognized the name of the renowned Italian composer. "Master Carissimi told me that he will be years learning of all the changes in styles and forms, that it will perhaps be his life work simply to amass the knowledge.
"I have seen with my own eyes trumpets and horns that can play diatonic and chromatic tones in all registers. I have seen transverse flutes made of metal that are capable of incredible sonorities in the hands of a virtuoso. And I have seen an instrument called the piano that overshadows the harpsichord and clavichord as the Alps overshadow the hills that cling to their skirts. Master Zenti has dedicated his life to building pianos. I will stay and learn of them with him, to return to Fussen at some point with that knowledge."
"If these Grantvillers are such paragons of artistry," interrupted Matthias Gemunder in a testy tone of voice, "then why are you here?"
"As it happens," Johannes said, glad of the question, "what they know of viols and stringed instruments in general is not far advanced over our knowledge and skills. Which is why I am here." He turned and picked up a leather case from the chair behind him. Extracting a paper, he handed it to August Neuner, the youngest of the men in the room. Unlike the oth
er masters, he did not require spectacles to read. "Master Neuner, would you please read this missive aloud?"
Holding the page up in the best light, Master Neuner began.
"Royal and Imperial Arts Council of the United States of Europe on this 10^ th day of January, 1634.
"To whom it may concern:
"This is to signify that Johannes Fichtold is authorized to negotiate and sign binding contracts on behalf of the Royal and Imperial Arts Council with the Geigenfabrikant Guild of Fussenregarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.
"This authorization will expire on the 30^ th day of April, 1634."
Master Neuner looked up and said, "It is signed by Lady Beth Haygood." He stumbled over the name. "With an additional title of Attorney-in-Fact, and is witnessed by Master Zenti and by a Master Hans Riebeck."
"Riebeck, Hans Riebeck," Master Koehler said. "I know that name. I thought he was in Mainz."
"He was," Johannes responded. "Last year he left his son in charge of their shop in Mainz, and brought his most talented journeyman and several apprentices to Grantville to learn of pianos and other innovations." That struck a note with the masters, he saw. It was one thing for an Italian, master or no, to chase after what might be a phantasm, but when one of their own hard-headed German brethren began pursuing the same goal, then they must take notice and examine the Grantville issue more closely.
"So," Master Eichelberger said, finally joining in the conversation, the last of the guild masters to do so. "At last we get to the heartwood. You are here because they want something from us, these not-quite-angels of Grantville. Something that we can produce faster or for fewer ducats than they can. So, enlighten us, ambassador."
Johannes did his best to ignore the sarcasm in Master Eichelberger's voice. "Such is not only my intent, it is my charge. I said the Grantvillers were not far advanced over we down-timers…" He paused for a moment as a variety of confused expressions passed over the masters' faces, then realized what he had done. "Your pardon, masters, let me explain. Since the Grantvillers believe they were sent back from the future, they refer to themselves as up-timers, and to we native Germans and our neighbors as down-timers."