by Blake Pierce
For a few moments they walked in silence, then London resumed speaking as they emerged from the tunnel into a maze of stairs and suspended walkways that overlooked an array of excavated sites.
“This subterranean museum is called the Document Neupfarrplatz,” London told them. “It’s an archaeological site where excavation began in 1995.” As they wended amid fascinating underground ruins, she pointed out some specific ones. “Here you see the foundation of a Gothic synagogue.”
Emil now spoke up.
“According to tradition, the presence of Jewish people here in Regensburg dates back before Christ. Starting around the eleventh century, this area was Regensburg’s Jewish quarter, making this the oldest Jewish settlement in Bavaria.”
Emil looked around the ruins thoughtfully before he spoke again.
“For several centuries, Regensburg didn’t wreak the same persecution and intolerance upon its Jewish population that was so horribly widespread elsewhere in Christian Europe. Jews were relegated to a lower social status, but by decree they were also protected and defended from harm.”
Emil sighed bitterly.
“Alas, this tolerance came to an end in 1519, when Regensburg expelled its entire Jewish population. The citizens razed the beautiful synagogue that stood in this spot.”
London let the silence that followed hang in the air for a few moments before she led the group under a stone arch and farther into the maze.
“Now we’re stepping even further back into history,” she told them, “to when this site was home to the Roman military camp Castra Regina. You saw that old gate when we came into the town. These ruins give you a different look at Roman legion life.”
Pointing to some wall foundations and the remains of an ornate tile floor, she continued, “We are standing where a high-ranking Roman officer lived back in the second century.”
The group murmured with interest.
Emil added, “Further excavations may delve yet deeper into Regensburg’s past. Long before the Romans came, the Celts settled here and called this place Radasbona. And before even that …”
Emil shrugged and smiled.
“Well, I’ll leave it to your imaginations. Suffice it to say that this ground has been inhabited for many thousands of years, all the way back to Stone Age times.”
When the group was ready to leave these remnants of ancient cultures, London and Emil led them back up onto the sunlit Neupfarrplatz square. The jazz ensemble was still playing—an even more startling contrast than before.
Emil smiled and nodded in time to the music.
“Excellent!” he said. “‘Basin Street Blues,’ immortalized by the great Louis Armstrong.”
He chuckled and added, “If I’m not mistaken, it was composed quite a few years after medieval times and the ages of the Celts and Romans—and yet those early inhabitants surely sang and played music of their own, century after century, millennium after millennium. Imagine what kind of music they made!”
The passengers who had stayed to listen to the performance rejoined the group.
“Great music,” one of them commented.
“When do we eat?” another asked.
It was about noon now. London certainly felt ready for lunch herself, and she knew exactly where she wanted to go for it. She told the group they were now free to explore on their own, and reminded them to get back to the ship in no more than three hours.
She added, “Those who’d like a hearty German lunch can follow us.”
She and Emil led the group back toward the Stone Bridge. As they neared the river, a familiar rich aroma filled the air.
“There it is—that delicious smell again!” one tourist commented.
“I’m really hungry now,” another said.
London laughed and said, “Don’t worry, you won’t be hungry for long.”
They turned a corner near the end of the Stone Bridge and arrived at a charming little building. It was shaped oddly, like a trapezoid, and it had a red-tiled roof and a large outdoor area full of picnic tables and benches overlooking the river.
This was obviously the source of that sausage odor that had enticed a few of the group away this morning. Fortunately, the lunch rush wasn’t yet underway, so it wasn’t terribly crowded.
Before London or Emil could explain to the group where they were, a cheerful voice called out.
“Willkommen im Historische Wurstkutchl!”
A stout, smiling woman wearing a black dress, a white old-fashioned apron, and a white fluffy hat came toward them.
“You are the Americans, ja?” she said. “From the boat that arrived just this morning?”
Members of the group said yes.
The woman continued in English, “Excellent! I am Hilda, your hostess, and I am here to welcome you to the Historic Sausage Kitchen of Regensburg. We have been continuously open for longer than any other restaurant in the world, maybe. We opened almost nine hundred years ago, in the year 1146, soon after the old Stone Bridge was finished. As you can imagine, the construction workers had worked up quite an appetite by then. We have been doing a thriving business ever since.”
With an impish chuckle, she added, “Or so I have been told. I have not been working here quite that whole time. I do not want you to think I am that old!”
The tourists were amused, and many of them laughed aloud.
Hilda continued, “And we use the same mustard recipe created by Frau Elsa Schricker when she owned the place in the eighteenth century. We still make our sausages from pure pork ham, and we cook them the same way we’ve done for two hundred years, over an open grill. And we serve them over a bed of sauerkraut fermented in our own cellar. Come, let us make you feel at home.”
Hilda led them onto the patio, where a group of similarly aproned women bustled around among the tables helping the tourists find places to sit. Not surprisingly, many of them chose the picnic tables with the best view of the Danube.
Before London could decide where to sit herself, she noticed the tall, gangly Audrey Bolton standing alone, staring out at the water.
She didn’t look happy—but then, that was nothing new.
Judging from their unpleasant encounter yesterday, London knew that it might be impossible to cheer up this prickly woman.
I’ve got to give it a try, she thought.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London saw that Audrey Bolton even had a disapproving expression on her face as she gazed out over the beautiful blue Danube.
I wonder if she’s going to complain about the color, London thought. Or the rate of flow, or …
She brushed aside her own thoughts and smiled her best professional smile.
“Are you enjoying Regensburg, Ms. Bolton?” London asked.
The tall woman’s curly hair bounced as she wheeled around to reply.
“As well as our brief stop here will allow,” she said in a haughty tone. “But I understand that we will be leaving quite soon for our next stop.”
“That’s true,” London replied. “But we have plenty of time for a nice lunch here by the river.”
Audrey glanced around at the other passengers seated at the tables. Then she glared back at London. “I’ve been informed that our itinerary hasn’t changed.”
Uh-oh, London realized. Here it comes.
“That’s true,” London replied again, realizing she was being repetitious.
“I assume you told the captain we must skip our visit to Bamberg.”
“I did,” London said.
“And what did he say?”
London swallowed hard.
Just be truthful, she told herself.
“He said you should talk to him about it,” London said.
Audrey let out a grunt of dissatisfaction. This clearly wasn’t the answer this woman wanted to hear.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” London suggested.
Audrey crossed her arms and frowned.
“Yes, I would like too. But all the seats with a v
iew of the river have been snatched up. I’m afraid you’ve bungled things again. If only you’d let the group know in advance we’d be eating here today, I could have called ahead and reserved a table for myself.”
London felt stumped, much as she had yesterday. How could she have anticipated this problem? She herself hadn’t known for absolute certain where the group would be having lunch today, or how many people there would be. And she was pretty sure the peasant-style restaurant with its outdoor grill was too informal to take reservations.
But before London could think of what to say or do, she heard a friendly woman’s voice nearby.
“Why, there’s plenty of room out our table.”
London turned and saw a pair of familiar faces—Walter and Agnes Shick, the kindly elderly couple. They were the only people sitting at this particular table with a view of the river. They both scooted over on their benches to leave plenty of room.
Walter smiled and patted the bench he was sitting on.
“Come on, make yourself comfortable,” he said.
Audrey’s frown deepened, as if he had said something offensive.
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” she told him.
“Nonsense,” Agnes said with a warm smile. “You wouldn’t be imposing at all.”
“We’d like some company,” Walter added. “We came on this trip to meet people—and I don’t think we’ve gotten to know you. I’m Walter Shick and this is my wife, Agnes.”
When Audrey didn’t reply, London volunteered, “Walter and Agnes, I’d like you to meet Audrey Bolton. And she’d really like a seat with a view of the river.”
“Be our guest,” Agnes said.
Audrey’s eyes switched nervously.
London felt as though she was starting to understand what made the woman tick. Audrey simply liked to complain—and to complain for complaining’s sake. Apparently she didn’t quite know what to do when people kindly offered to resolve those complaints. At the moment she seemed thoroughly stymied. Nevertheless, Audrey sat down on the bench next to Agnes.
London stood and watched for a moment as the couple set right to work trying to draw Audrey out with conversation. The woman wore a perplexed, deer-in-the-headlights expression.
The Shicks are such nice people, she thought. They certainly deserve a pleasant vacation.
Several days ago, she’d found out something strange about the couple. Walter Shick had slipped her a note telling her that he and Agnes had been in the witness protection program for thirty years. In his note, he had implored London not to tell another living soul. His note had concluded with the unsettling words …
Our lives might still be in danger.
London still found it hard to believe that anyone could possibly mean any harm to such a sweet and amiable couple. But she would never think of asking either of them to tell her more about their past.
As London turned to look for a place for herself to sit, she noticed that Emil was sitting at a table alone reading a book.
London felt a spasm of indecision.
Should I sit at the table with him? she wondered.
Given how distantly he’d been behaving lately, she wasn’t at all sure she’d be welcome.
She walked over to his table and asked cautiously, “May I join you?”
Emil looked up from his book as if surprised to be spoken to.
“Of course,” he said with a slight smile, then went right back to his reading.
He looked and sounded almost as if London were a stranger and he was only trying to be polite. She wondered whether it might be best to look for someplace else to sit, but she figured that just walking away would make things even more awkward than they already were.
As London slipped into a chair on the other side of the table, she saw that Emil was reading a collection of poems by Rainer Maria Rilke. She happened to like the early twentieth-century Bohemian-Austrian poet, although she’d only read his work in translation. She was tempted to break the ice by asking Emil to read her a poem aloud in the German original.
But Emil seemed to be taking no notice of her presence.
Instead, London picked up the menu and started to look it over.
She was relieved when a waitress dressed like their hostess in a black dress, white old-fashioned apron, and white fluffy hat came over and took their orders. Then the two of them fell silent again.
London was feeling more awkward by the moment.
“Emil, is there something wrong?” she asked carefully.
Emil lowered the book and squinted at her curiously over his reading glasses.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Yes, that’s what I’d like to know, London wanted to say.
Instead she said, “Well, things seem to be … a little off between us.”
Emil tilted his head and knitted his brow.
“Off?” he said. “How so?”
London stammered, “I—I’m not sure, exactly. But you’ve been very quiet. Toward me, I mean.”
Emil leaned back as if in surprise.
“Really? I was not aware of that.”
He sat looking at her as if he expected her to explain herself further. For a moment, London didn’t know how to put the matter into words. Then she remembered something Amy had said to her yesterday.
“Maybe he doesn’t like being accused of murder.”
Of course, as she’d told Amy at the time, London hadn’t accused Emil of anything.
But even so …
She took a deep breath and said, “Emil, I’m sorry I ever imagined …”
“Imagined what?”
“Well, that you might have been guilty of … you know.”
Emil’s lips formed into a flicker of a smile.
“Oh, there is no need to apologize. You simply had to follow clues wherever they happened to lead you. And as it happened, they temporarily led you toward me. It could hardly be helped. It is—what is the English phrase?—‘water under the dam,’ as far as I am concerned.”
Of course, London knew he really meant to say “water under the bridge.” Sometimes she’d gently correct him over little mistakes like that. But that didn’t seem like a good idea right now.
He shrugged slightly and added, “As for my being quiet … well, it is just my personality, I suppose. I can get quite introverted at times. Please do not let it bother you.”
Then he lifted his reading glasses and went right back to reading his book.
Does that explain it? London wondered.
She’d only known Emil for a few days, which was hardly long enough to get a sense of his moods. And he certainly wasn’t being deliberately unpleasant toward her, at least not at the moment. In fact, he seemed to be quite sincere.
I guess I’d better get used to his moods, she thought. She didn’t plan to get involved with him, or anybody else right now. But she did hope to regain their good working relationship.
She gazed around at the rest of the people she’d brought on this tour. They were chattering and smiling and seemed to be having a good time—which meant that, between the two of them, she and Emil had been doing a good job. Even Audrey Bolton seemed to be carrying on a conversation with her lunch companions.
It was a lovely setting here on the bank of the beautiful Danube. Those spectral eddies swirling around the pilings of the ancient bridge made it almost easy to believe the fanciful story Emil had told about how it had gotten built. And the aroma of sausages on the grill promised that a satisfying meal was well on the way.
In fact, the waitress soon returned and placed their orders on the table. As London looked down into a dish of sauerkraut topped off with a generous row of grilled sausages, she wondered briefly whether she could eat the entire meal.
Well, I am pretty hungry, she realized.
Then she took a bite of the bratwurst. The taste of garlic was rich without being overwhelming, and the meat was smoky from being prepared on an open grill. Her taste buds detected just the right flavoring
s of pimentos, cloves, and marjoram. Elsa Schricker’s legendary mustard was pleasantly flavored with honey and horseradish, and the bed of yeasty sauerkraut was also delicious.
She sipped the clear, foamy lager, which was cold and refreshing after the morning’s activities. Everything seemed to be just right.
Yes, she decided, I can eat it all.
By the time London finished her lunch, Emil had gone back to reading his Rilke poems, and neither of them seemed to have anything to say to each other. Seeing that others in the tour group were still enjoying their meals and multiple drinks, she got up to take a look around the little restaurant building.
Peeking inside, she saw that the cooks were working cheerfully over their fiery grill. The hostess and waitresses bustled back and forth, keeping their customers happy.
On the outside wall of the building was a large bulletin board covered with a collage of messages and advertisements, including a poster announcing the line-up for the upcoming Bavarian Jazz Weekend. Some of the smaller messages advertised boat rides and personal tour guides and classes of all kinds.
Just before she turned away, one thumbtacked message caught London’s eye. Although it was mostly covered over by other notices, its opening words captured her attention.
Sprachleher zu mieten.
Translating aloud, London said, “Language tutor for hire.”
For a moment, she wasn’t sure why those words gave her a peculiar chill.
Then she remembered the woman she met back in Salzburg telling her that Mom had been working as an itinerant language tutor.
London gasped aloud.
Is it possible … ? she wondered.
She pushed aside the tangle of messages to view the entire note.
Language tutor for hire.
I teach mostly English, but other languages as well, for students at all levels, children and adults.
