by Eric Flint
Simon could see that scene in his mind; Hans cradling Ursula and walking as far as he had to go.
“It was months before she healed and could walk again. The leg didn’t heal straight, and it’s shorter than the other. You’ve seen what she’s like.”
Hans stared ahead, rocking his clasped hands. Simon said nothing, just waited.
“She’s a saint, Simon. I know her leg hurts, but she hardly ever complains. And she never blames me, even though it’s my fault she got hurt. She’s a saint,” he repeated. “She hardly ever gets out, because of the leg. It hurts her to walk, and she doesn’t like people staring at her, but she does what she has to do. She takes in embroidery and sewing. She reads her Bible. And she’s so good it almost kills me to see her like she is.”
There was another long pause. Simon broke the silence. “Is…is that why you brought me here? To meet her, I mean?”
Hans looked into his eyes. “Yes. I mean, I thought…You’ve got a weakness,” Simon’s pride flashed a bit at that statement, but he forced it down, “I thought you would understand what she’s going through.” Hans looked down again. “You’ve been my luck tonight; I thought maybe you could be hers, too. Maybe even be a friend.” Simon could see his hands twist together. “I think she may need a friend, maybe soon.”
The big man looked up again with a strange expression on his face. Simon looked back at him solemnly. “If Fraulein Metzger will have me, I would like to be her luck, and her friend as well.”
The biggest smile of the evening broke out on Hans’ face. “Great! That’s great, Simon. We’ll talk to her about it in the morning.”
They sat together in a companionable mood, neither speaking. At length, Hans rose and went through a door opposite the one into Ursula’s room, returning with a thick blanket.
“Here. You can pull the two chairs together, or roll up in this on the floor for the night. We’ll do something better if you stay over longer.”
Simon took the blanket, marveling at how thick and warm it was. “Oh, this will be fine. I’ll just roll up in front of the fireplace.”
“Go ahead, then, before I blow out the candle.”
Simon wasted no time in kicking off his wooden shoes. Suiting his actions to words, it was the work of moments to lay the blanket out in front of the fireplace and roll up in it.
“Good night, lad.” Simon heard Hans blow out the candle. Darkness descended in the room, alleviated only by the glow of the banked fire in the fireplace.
“G’night.”
Hans walked across the room in the darkness. The door closed behind him.
It had been an exciting day. Simon had never dreamed when he awoke in his cramped little nook this morning everything that he would do. New people to meet and adventures of a sort. He yawned, and fell asleep thinking that Fraulein Ursula was an angel. He’d never met an angel before.
* * *
Marla stepped into her study and pulled her lighter out of her pocket to light a lamp. She and Franz hadn’t been able to afford a generator package yet, so they were still making do with lamps and candles. After getting the light started, she stared down at the old stainless steel Zippo for a moment. Odd how something that had belonged to her cigar-smoking grandfather and had almost been thrown away by her nonsmoking dad was now something that never left her possession, especially now that someone was producing up-time style lighter flints. She’d heard that the stuff they made it from came from India. She didn’t care if it came from Antarctica, as long as she could keep using the lighter.
She looked around the room, knowing without hearing them that the guys were asking Franz how she was doing. Truth was, she didn’t know how she was doing, so how was poor Franz supposed to know?
Some days Marla felt almost back to normal, that the miscarriage was past and over and done with; others, it was all she could do to get out of bed. And mood swings, oh my—on a bungee cord, it seemed like.
The worst thing was that she couldn’t seem to focus. That was perhaps the most frustrating thing of all to her, that she just could not seem to finish anything. The room was filled with music books, all open to pieces that she had started to learn or review, only to drift away from them when something else caught her attention.
She didn’t want to be that way. She was tired of being that way. She could feel a dull knot of anger forming in the pit of her stomach; anger partly at her circumstances, at the unfairness of life that had robbed her of her daughter, but also anger at herself, for drifting and not standing firm to start again.
Marla felt a snap of decision. “Enough,” she said out loud. Order would return to her life, beginning with this room. Before she retired to bed tonight, this room at least would be clean and orderly again.
With that resolution, she began. Each book was picked up, place marked and closed, then returned to the waiting shelves.
As she worked, Marla’s mind kept returning to what Mary Simpson had told them earlier in the evening, and some of the things she had heard from others about what was happening in Berlin. It worried her. She didn’t want to live in a place and time that was ruled the way the reactionaries seemed to be headed. She definitely didn’t want to…
Marla realized she was standing stock still, frozen, hands locked on the last book she had picked up, unwilling to complete that last thought. She definitely didn’t want to…raise children under such a regime. The very thought made her angry.
Funny how finishing that thought gave Marla some release. Hard and painful as it might be to think about at the moment, she knew there would be other children. She even could see herself holding them. What happened with Alison would not be the end of her story as a mother.
She turned to put the book away, and the cover illustration caught her eye. The young waif on the cover with her blouse sliding off her shoulders morphing into the Tricolor always sent a chill through her. Les Misérables the musical had had a huge impact on her when she was first studying voice. She still loved it, and hoped one day to stage it at the new opera house, for all that Andrea Abati, her mentor, looked askance at it.
Opening the book again, Marla flipped through the pages slowly. “I Dreamed a Dream,” “Castle on a Cloud,” “Master of the House”; the songs flipped by one by one, until her fingers stopped seemingly of their own accord. She stared down at the title and the first line of the song, transfixed.
A slow fire began to burn within her as her mind raced. Yes, this is the one.
The fire bloomed. Yes, it had the message she ached to throw in the teeth of the Swedish chancellor.
Blossomed. Yes, the lyrics would need some adjustment and translation. Surely there is a poet in Magdeburg.
Brighter. Yes, although it was a man’s song in the musical, she would make it hers.
Hotter, surging. Her hair seemed to float away from her head, the feeling was so strong.
Marla snatched up the lamp so quickly the oil sloshed. A moment later the study was dark and empty.
* * *
“So, we have The Lemminkainen Suite by Sibelius, Mazeppa by Liszt, von Suppé’s ‘Light Cavalry Overture,’ the Schubert ‘Military Polonaise,’ ‘Procession of the Noblemen’ by Rimsky-Korsakoff, and ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’” Franz looked up from his notes. “What else can we add to our concert slate that we can polish quickly?”
“We need a symphony,” Thomas Schwartzberg responded.
“Suggestions?”
“Beethoven’s Third,” Josef Tuchman said.
“Good thought,” Franz replied as he noted it down.
“I know we’ve already got Sibelius on the list, but his Third Symphony is beautiful,” Herman Katzberg said, “and it has some stirring passages in it.”
“I like that,” Franz said. “It’s a beautiful piece, and since Finland is connected to Sweden here and now, that would suit our purpose.”
“Shostakovich’s Fifth,” Thomas countered.
“Too dissonant,” one of the others said. “Even Frau S
impson’s backers aren’t ready for that one yet. It’s way more dissonant that the Sibelius, or even the Vaughan Williams and Barber pieces we did back in ’34.”
“I agree with that,” Franz added. “In a few years, maybe, but not now.”
Thomas crossed his arms and leaned back in an exaggerated pouting pose. “But the fourth movement is so cool!”
“Bide your time, Thomas,” Franz laughed, “bide your time.”
Before any of the others could respond, the door into the back of the house flew open and Marla strode through. Franz managed to refrain from jumping, but some of the others didn’t.
“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I need something now.” By then she was standing directly in front of Thomas, and she thrust an open music book into his hands. “Thomas, I need two arrangements of this song as soon as you can produce them—one for our Green Horse Tavern group, and one for full orchestra accompaniment.”
Franz looked at his wife as Thomas scanned through the song. Her posture, the way she held her shoulders and her head, they spoke of resolution, of determination. A sense of excitement began to build in him. She looked at him and grinned, and his heart soared to see the fire in her eyes.
Thomas looked up. “A piece of cake, as you say. Two days for our group, two weeks for the orchestra, less if you have a recording for me to hear.”
“I have the recording,” Marla said. “You can hear it at the school tomorrow.” She lifted her head and almost danced as she looked around at their friends. “Gentlemen, we are going to give Mary and the emperor all the support they could ask for, and we’re going to give old Ox more than he bargained for.”
“So what is the song?” Franz asked over the snorts and chuckles of the others.
The fire in Marla’s eyes seemed to blaze even brighter. “We will give the people a voice with ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’!”
Franz could only nod in agreement.
Chapter 9
Morning came. Simon came awake gradually, aware that someone was nearby. For a moment he panicked, until he remembered where he was. He opened his eyes to see Hans crouched by his feet, feeding sticks into the rekindled fire. A yawn came upon him without warning and tried to unhinge his jaw. When that was finished and his eyes were open again, he saw Hans looking at him.
“Good morning.” Hans’ voice was grumbly in the early morning air.
“Good morning,” Simon replied. The tip of his nose was cold, so he reached up and rubbed it. Hans stood and walked over to a table in the corner, where he took cloths off a loaf of bread and a partial wheel of cheese. Simon unfolded the blanket—the nicest, warmest blanket he’d ever seen—and sat up, smacking his lips and rubbing his eyes.
“Hungry?” Hans asked over his shoulder.
“Yah, but…”
“There’s a chamber pot in my room.”
Moments later Simon walked back into the main room. As usual, arranging his clothing with only one hand took a bit of effort, but by backing up against the wall to hold things up he managed to deal with the buttons.
“Here.” Hans handed him a plate of bread and cheese.
Simon sat on the stool and began eating just as the door to Ursula’s room opened. Her progress was no faster in the morning that it had been the previous evening, but she finally made it to her chair and lowered herself with care. She sighed and hooked her cane over the edge of the table as Hans approached with another plate.
“I like this cheese,” Ursula said with her mouth full. Simon smiled at the sight of her plump cheeks. “You need to get some more when this is gone.”
“If I can remember who I got it from,” Hans said as he brought two cups over, one for his sister and one for Simon. “This is the last of the small beer. I’ll need to go get some here in a little while, so you’re not left dry when I head out for work.”
There was silence for a while as the three of them munched on hard bread and soft cheese. Midway through their repast, they heard the piercing whistle of the night soil man with his wagon. Hans stood while his cheeks were still bulging and went into his room. He returned with the chamber pot, went into his sister’s room, then carried the two pots down to be dumped in the wagon’s barrels. Simon grinned as he saw that even Stark Hans did not want to be confronted by the CoC and their mania for sanitation.
“All right,” Hans said as he came back into the main room. “I’ll go get the beer now. Nay, Simon,” as the boy started to rise, “stay here. I won’t be gone long.” He picked up a small keg in the corner and left.
Simon and Ursula looked at each other. After a moment, Ursula gave a tentative smile, which Simon echoed.
Fraulein Metzger seemed even more like an angel today, Simon thought to himself. She was dressed in a forest green skirt, with a brown bodice and a cream colored linen blouse. Her hair was braided and wrapped around her head under a soft cap. A glint of humor was in her eye, and a flush was on her cheeks. All in all, she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
Aware that he was almost gaping at her, Simon tore his gaze from the young woman and crammed the last of his bread into his mouth. He looked around the room as he chewed the bread, and noticed the traces of mud that he and Hans must have tracked in last night. “Um,” he started, then strained to swallow the wad of bread in order to clear his mouth. “Do you have a broom?”
“In the corner,” Ursula pointed. She had set her plate on the table next to her, and removed a bundle of cloth from a bag sitting beside her chair. Unfolding it carefully, she pulled a needle out of the cloth and started sewing.
Simon stood and crammed his feet into his wooden shoes. They were cold, and he shivered at their contact. He walked over to the corner and picked up the broom, then turned to address the dried mud.
It took him a few moments to find the balance of the broom. That was always a bit of a challenge for him. But he was sweeping away before long.
Simon decided that as long as he was sweeping, he might as well do a job of it, so he swept the entire room. He was well begun when Ursula spoke.
“Is your other arm hurt?”
He felt his cheeks flush a bit. “No. It’s useless.”
“An injury?”
“No. It’s always been like this.”
“Did Hans bring you here because of that?” She looked up with a frown.
“No…at least, I don’t think that was the only reason.” Now she had a quizzical expression on her face. “He calls me his luck.”
Ursula chuckled, and now it was Simon’s turn to feel confused. “My brother, for all that he is hardheaded about most things, is surprisingly superstitious. If something is lucky to him, he’ll keep it around until it absolutely wears out and falls apart.”
“Well, I hope that doesn’t happen to me.” They both shared a laugh over that comment.
Simon swept around the room, brushing all the dirt toward the outside door. He built the pile with care, then opened the door and swept it all outside onto the landing. It was the work of a moment to sweep the dirt off the landing, then he returned inside and placed the broom back in its corner.
“Do you have a family, Simon?” Ursula asked from where she was plying her needle.
“No, Fraulein Metzger.”
Her laugh rang out. “Please, call me Ursula. You make me feel like an old maiden aunt.” The smile left her face. “Not that I won’t be an old maid someday. No one will marry a cripple.”
Simon sat down on his stool. “Me neither.”
“So what happened to your family?”
“Mutti and Vatti died before the soldiers came, along with my little brother Johann. The pastor came and put me in a family to foster me, because I had no uncles or cousins to take me in. That was okay, I guess, but then the soldiers came and we had to leave.”
“That’s when I got hurt.”
“Hans told me last night.”
Ursula sighed. “He would. He gives no thought that I might like some things to remain private.” Sigh again. “
Brothers.”
“Anyway, when we came back, they didn’t want me anymore. The pastor tried to find me an apprenticeship, but no one wants a one-handed apprentice. Especially a left-handed one. He found me another family to take me in, but they were hateful folk, so I left. I’ve been on my own ever since.”
“So what do you do?”
“Whatever I can. I can carry messages and small packages. I can watch over things. I can sweep.”
“You seem to be surviving.”
“I do okay.”
Simon stood up, restless all of a sudden. He wandered around the room, looking at different objects, wondering what it was like to be able to pay for rooms like this, and have your own things in them. His path took him by Ursula’s chair, where he looked at what she was working on. He discovered she wasn’t sewing, she was embroidering.
“That’s pretty,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” Ursula replied. “It’s a good thing I like to embroider, since that’s about all I can do to earn money.”
“Someone pays you to do this?”
“Oh, yes. I work mostly for Frau Schneider, seamstress for many of the best families in the city. Sometimes I’ll do something for someone else, but Frau Schneider keeps me pretty busy.”
Simon watched her for a while, watched the precise stitches being placed just so, watched as a bit more of the pattern was revealed. “I wish I could do something like that.” His voice was very wistful. “To be able to make something beautiful, that would be…wonderful.”
Ursula looked up at him. “Perhaps someday you will.”
“Not with only a left hand I won’t.”
She started to say something, then stopped all of a sudden. A smile crossed her face. “Did you know that one of the heroes of the Bible was left-handed?”
Simon was startled. “Really?”
“Really.” Ursula set the embroidery in her lap and reached over to the table, where she picked up a worn Bible. She handled it with care, opening it with a delicate touch. “It’s in the book of Judges.” She turned the pages, one by one. “Here it is.” She cleared her throat and began to read:
