by J. M. Briggs
“So what do we do?” Alex asked, dropping her head forward to lean it on her hand. “What exactly is your plan Morgana?”
Green eyes met her own and the world shifted a little. Some old instinct had her holding her breath and waiting. Morgana sighed, the sound somehow echoing through the whole coffee shop. There was a moment of silence and in the corner of her eye, Alex saw several people stop with strange looks on their faces as if they’d felt something odd. Shaking her head, Morgana picked up her coffee and took another sip as the rest of the world seemed to regain its proper rhythm.
“Well,” Morgana finally said as she set down her coffee. “Before I headed here I took the liberty of collecting all of your passports and arranging six tickets to Paris. That’s your lead and you kids have a week off school. The way forward seems obvious.”
Alex barely held back a sigh as the others let out small gasps and in Jenny’s case a short squeak of excitement. The only thing on her mind as she and Morgana stared at each other was the realization that in three thousand years her sister hadn’t changed all that much.
12
Occupants of Paris
April 1942 C.E. Paris, France
Papers were spread out in front of him on the large desk with the faint breeze from the open window fluttering the edges slightly. The sounds of the city formed a pleasant background hum. His SS cap was placed just to the right of his hand and he glanced at it as he picked up a pen. A blank sheet of paper waited in front of him, but the words were not coming. The Nazi flag in the corner rippled in the light breeze and drew his eyes up to the photograph of Hitler hanging opposite his desk near the door. A silent watcher in the small office. There never seemed to be a shortage of those photographs.
He set his pen down at the top of the page and started with a sweet greeting and Ilse’s name. Then he stopped. It was always so difficult to know what to write. It was too depressing to go on and on about missing her, the children, and Germany though it was all true. He had no doubt that she’d read parts of the letter to the children and didn’t wish to bring them down. His earlier letters had spoken about Paris and some of the sights, but that was quickly losing any attraction for him.
Putting the pen to paper he started writing a little about his daily routine. He made sure not to put anything too detailed about locations and schedule in. Ilse wouldn’t react well to the letter full of censorship holes. There wasn’t much to say in truth. His role in intelligence was fairly minor compared to other officers. A knock on the door a moment later drew his attention up from the letter.
“Come in.”
It was one of the younger offices who strode in. His Second Lieutenant uniform was perfectly pressed and judging from the shine on his belt all of the metal had been recently cleaned. He recognized him from a few of the French refresher classes though with his neatly cut brown hair, small mustache and blue eyes nothing about him really stood out. The man saluted him quickly.
“Hiel Hitler!” It was almost a yell.
Rising to his feet, he returned the salute automatically in at a much lower volume. “Hello Lieutenant Baumann what can I do for you?” He sat back down in his chair and folded his hands patiently.
“I apologize for the intrusion, Captain Eckstein.” Baumann held out a letter towards him. It had no official markings and he quickly accepted it. “News from home, sir?”
Eckstein turned it over and examined the name and address. His shoulders slumped a bit despite himself. “Yes from an old colleague. I haven’t heard from him for a few months.”
“From Cologne?”
“Yes.” Eckstein had to force himself not to give the other officer an annoyed look. No doubt he’d seen Cologne marked on the letter. “I taught at the University there.” The man didn’t react to the statement. Baumann probably already knew that.
He watched Baumann for a moment before he pulled out the two page letter. Baumann didn’t move even as he began to scan the letter. Only a couple of lines had been blacked out and otherwise it was just news from the university. Apparently a few more of his former colleagues had been brought into service. There was a report on the marriage of a former favorite student of his and the birth of another professor’s first grandchild. To his own surprise he was smiling a little even if it wasn’t the letter he’d been hoping for. Baumann however was still in his office and showing no signs of moving. Gritting his teeth for a moment, Eckstein watched Baumann shift towards the window.
“And your family do they live in the city?” There was a real hint of worry in the officer’s voice that calmed Eckstein’s nerves.
“No, our home is a ways outside of the city in a smaller village. A bit more peaceful so the Allied bombings haven’t been a personal issue.” The yet hung in the air and Eckstein almost shivered at the thought. Sooner or later a bomber would miss the targets by a greater margin or they’d simply run out of things to bomb in Cologne. “My family is safe.”
“Barbarians the allies,” Baumann almost growled as his face twisted into a sneer. “Cologne is one of our culture jewels and they bomb it with no regard for all the history there.”
Eckstein nodded in agreement though he couldn’t help but feel that the same could be said of London. This twice damned war was destroying everything everywhere. All he could be grateful for was that when he’d been secure at the university Ilse had insisted that she didn’t want to the live in Cologne proper. The commute in for both of them had been long, but before the restrictions on women working he’d rather enjoyed the time together it gave them. He couldn’t fathom the worry others must feel daily knowing that loved ones were right in a target city.
Baumann had moved over to his open window, still making no move to leave. Eckstein narrowed his eyes suspiciously and glanced around his desk just to make sure that there was nothing he didn’t want in view. There wasn’t of course, but paranoia had long since wormed its way into his daily life.
“It’s sad sometimes. Watching the Parisians move about down below,” Baumann suddenly said. “They’re so angry, self-loathing about their own cooperation despite it being for the best. This resistance of theirs is useless. All it does is destroy more of Paris and French lives.”
“Their city, their country no longer belongs to them,” Eckstein observed carefully. He watched the other man’s body language closely, but he gave nothing away. “I supposed I can’t blame them. If the positions were reversed and I feared for the safety of my own children I would do anything to protect them, but I would resent it.” Tilting his head slightly, he noted an uncertain expression the other man’s face. “But in time I’m sure that they will recognize that German rule is best for them.”
“A fair point, sir.” Baumann nodded and glanced at the photographs sitting on the side table. Eckstein stayed silent and gave the man a moment to take them in. His favorite was of the whole family with his wife Ilse smiling warmly as she held the six year old Elsa. There were more recent ones of the children, but none of them all together since then. The photo had been taken back 1936, almost six year ago he recalled sadly. “You have a beautiful family. Four children?”
“Yes, that photo is a few years old I’m afraid. Two boys and two girls.”
“A fine mix sir, you and your wife must be proud.” He picked up one of the more recent photographs that showed a teenager and a boy in Hitler Youth uniforms. “Your sons Captain? A member of the Hitler Youth I see.”
“Yes, Enrich and Reinhold. Enrich is sixteen now. His brother is fourteen. My wife tells me that it keeps them very busy with different activities.”
“Excellent, sir. I’m sure your boys will be fine additions to the army in a few more years.” Baumann almost smiled, the expression was off putting on his features. Then Baumann put his hands behind his back. There was a flicker of hesitation on his features that Eckstein wasn’t sure what to make of. The other man was trying to make his mind up about something, but what exactly he was uncertain of. “I’m considering marriage myself, but th
ere are so few German women here in France. I would of course only start a family with a true ethnic German girl.”
“Perhaps you will be transferred home soon.” Eckstein shifted in his chair and pulled out a file folder from his desk, giving Baumann a pointed look.
“I can hope.” Baumann merely moved over in front of the desk again and folded his hands behind his back. “When was the last time you were home sir?”
“It’s been over a year now.”
“So you used to work at a university? I heard you were a professor, did you teach French then too?”
“On occasion,” Eckstein answered with a nod. “I was a linguist. I taught several languages in classes, but I occupied myself studying the proto-languages for the most part. Sometimes I consulted on lesser known languages. It was interesting work.”
“It’s almost a pity then to have someone of your skill merely teaching soldiers and translating documents,” Baumann said. There was a hint of something in his voice that Eckstein didn’t trust.
“Well it is important that our men are able to communicate with the French.” He fought to keep his features neutral and added, “Bilingualism is important in gathering information and administrating such a large city.”
“At least until they all learn German,” Baumann added.
Eckstein looked up at the younger man, wondering how long he was going to linger. And if he’d been sent to make small talk and probe him. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done to draw attention to himself. The instruction he was giving the locally posted soldiers kept him busy in addition to his duties assisting with reports. Eckstein couldn’t even remember the last he’d spoken to a local.
“That will be a long process and one I suspect many older Frenchmen will resist.” Eckstein closed the folder on his desk and decided to be frank with the younger officer. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Lieutenant? I appreciate you bringing me my mail, but I don’t wish to detain you further.”
Baumann’s features shifted for a moment between surprise, anger, and a hint of worry. Then the younger man squared his shoulders, apparently having made his decision. “Yesterday you and Captain Fuchs were having a conversation in an unknown language,” Baumann said almost smugly. “I overheard you in the Officer’s Mess. It wasn’t German or French, but unknown.”
“Low German.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s called Low German, it is a regional dialectic.” Eckstein tried to look calm despite the line of questioning. Had this younger lower ranking officer decided that yesterday’s conversation might give him a chance for advancement? The idea made him angry and he tightened his twined fingers. “I’m guessing that you are from Eastern Germany yourself.”
“Berlin,” Baumann answered, straightening up proudly.
“Ah yes, then you wouldn’t be familiar with it I suppose. Low German is mainly spoken in northern Germany and the eastern Netherlands. There are pockets of speakers in other areas of course, but I doubt you’d hear it much in Berlin though there are certainly those who speak Low German.”
“It didn’t sound like German.” Baumann looked younger than before, almost like a petulant child and Eckstein had to remind himself to be careful.
“Well, as I said it is also spoken in the Netherlands. To be frank while it is linguistically part of the Germanic language family it is descended from Old Saxon and shares similarities with Dutch. In the Netherlands they call in Low Saxon in fact. Even amongst my fellow linguists there is debate of how to categorize the language.” He chuckled in an attempt to defuse the tension in the room and added, “My father was very fond of it and my grandfather spoke it all the time. It is the reason I became a linguist.”
“I’m not sure it is appropriate for a Nazi Officer to be speaking a language other than German and that your fellow officers don’t understand.” Baumann looked flustered and angry. Tipped his hand too quickly, Eckstein thought with amusement. Did the boy think he’d be paying blackmail? Clearly he did. Been spending too much time around the Gestapo. “I should report it, sir. You are a Nazi officer!”
“Report what exactly? That a linguist is seeking to keep in practice with the languages he speaks?” Eckstein’s amusement was washing away the earlier fear. “I’m in Paris for now due to my fluency with French, but at some time I might be needed in the Netherlands. Low German is also used by parts of the Polish population as well. And by ethnic Germans in the Baltic States.”
“And Captain Fuchs?”
“Also comes from an area in west Germany that dabbles in Low German. We discovered it a few weeks ago and he’s agreed to give me a chance to practice. Before the war I made use of the dialect by teaching it to my children.”
“I see,” Baumann replied tightly. “What were you talking about?”
“Mostly the weather and the recent Black Market report,” he answered calmly. That part was a lie, but Baumann had no way of confirming that. He could see that the younger officer knew it. “Captain Fuchs is working with Gestapo on the rationing problems and wanted my opinion.”
“Very well sir. Thank you for putting my mind at ease.” He saluted quickly and all but ran out of the room.
Once the door was shut Eckstein allowed himself a sigh of relief. He’d have to let Fuchs know that they needed to stop taking advantage of their fluency of Low German for private conversations, no matter how innocent. He could hear the stomping in the corridor outside his office fading away. Leaning back in his chair, he looked towards the photographs of his family and felt a twinge of guilt. He’d allowed himself to forget the primary rule of living in Nazi Germany: someone is always listening.
Shaking his head, he set the blank sheet of paper to the side. He couldn’t write home with this on his mind. Instead he opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder with the latest documents the SS had seized along with an intelligence report from downstairs on the latest black market findings. He scanned the first opening lines and almost grumbled. Did it honestly surprise anyone that farmers were directing part of their yields into the black market? At least they could make a decent living that way when the rest of France was only one level above starving.
He finished the report and set it to the side. That was the administration office’s problem now, not the SS. At least not yet. The Gestapo would probably be the ones that jumped in on that one. He picked up the next document, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to translate the poorly scribbled French writing.
13
The Earthen Cache
It was good to be back in Wales. Merlin breathed in the crisp air with a small smile tugging at his lips. Morgana would no doubt roll her eyes at the simple joy he experienced from being back in the land of his birth, but there remained a connection. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much the technology and landscape changed and no matter how many places he lived this would always be home. They could change the name, they could change the language, but the land still echoed with the world he’d know.
“I’m getting sentimental in my old age,” Merlin said aloud as he followed the hiking trail up the hillside. “And now I’m talking to himself.” That made him chuckle and eased his worry a little more.
Far behind him was a car park where he’d left the small rental car he’d secured in Cardiff. Around him the greening hillsides were damp with the remnants of an early morning rainstorm and he could smell the oil of the plants in the air. It was fresh and put a spring in his step despite the seriousness of his mission. The simple black backpack he was carrying was light with a bottle of water tucked in the side. His phone was tucked in his pocket and he knew it was only a matter of time until Morgana called him again.
He paused and turned his gaze towards the north where he now knew a dragon slumbered. It was a touch embarrassing to know that it- Emrys had been there on his previous visits to the region. They’d dismissed too much all those centuries ago when it came to Gofiben, Bran, and Galath. It pained him to thi
nk of how many times the Iron Chalice could have changed the course of a life of another Iron Soul. Merlin wished there was time to find the dragon Emrys and speak with him. Alas time was not on their side. He need to find the cache and to return to Ravenslake to keep Alex safe until they decided the next course of action.
Of course his plan was to return with a working option for them. Scáthbás and Medraut had both already proved themselves capable of returning from death and they couldn’t afford this fight to drag on. They needed something permanent, something there could never be any coming back from no matter how distasteful it might be. Morgana… well he didn’t want to think about the conversation this would trigger with her just yet. Merlin shook his head, dismissing such thoughts. This wasn’t the time to be wool gathering. Pulling the map of the area out of the pocket of the grey coat he was wearing, Merlin examined the hillside carefully to see how far he was from the tunnel entrance.
