by Carl Trotz
“Oh, they certainly do. Department of this or that... There are so many of them that claim jurisdiction, it's hard to keep track. They come in here, they swagger around with their big bellies, they try to scare you, and they take things. It’s really obnoxious. One of them took fifty pounds of our honey, he said it was for testing, but you know it was for himself. What can we do? They have the power. Now we hide the big jars in hollow trees, secret root cellars, and places like that.”
Erin shook her head. “Just a few days ago, I would have thought you should file a complaint or go to the press. But I see things differently now. You all seem to have it figured out pretty well. You play along, and hide what you can, as Bern put it.”
“Our history has taught us. There was a time, not so long ago, it would have seemed worth fighting, but that time has passed. They're all so corrupt now. Speak up and you become a target. And sure, we hide things. But that's time and effort lost, so it makes us poorer, on account of that. Everything they do just makes everybody poorer. I don't know where it will all go. There are never any guarantees, and we can't know what tomorrow will bring. But at least we’ll have ham tonight.”
The front door opened and closed; footsteps could be heard coming down the hall.
“Oheim!” called the happy voice of a young lady approaching the kitchen; a pretty and statuesque sixteen-year-old entered, her tawny hair braided over her left shoulder. She wore jeans and a denim shirt, with a soiled beige apron tied around her waist; she looked around in disappointment.
“Wo ist Oheim?” she asked, and glanced in confusion at Erin and Hughie.
“Say hello to our guests,” Hilda said, “Erin and her son Hughie. They're neighbors of Uncle Harm’s. Erin, this is my daughter Frieda.”
“Oh. Hi,” the girl said. “Dad said we had guests, but he didn't explain.”
“Your uncle is out back somewhere with Axel,” Hilda continued, “setting out the plants he brought.”
“Can I go find him?”
“No, I need your help here.”
Frieda nodded and hung her apron on a hook in the hallway.
“How did it go out there today?” Hilde asked. “No thieves or weirdos, I hope.”
“No, everything went smooth,” she said, rolling up her sleeves as she went to the kitchen sink. “Seems like we made a lot. Three hundred, at least, and a lot in silver. And they're still buying. Dad says he’ll close up soon.”
“You have to worry about thieves?” Erin asked.
“Oh, sure,” Frieda said. “They'll put vegetables or jars in their jackets when they think I'm not looking. Sometimes they pay when I say something, other times they take off. When I recognize a return thief, I signal my dad on the two-way and he comes out.”
“And you said... weirdos?”
Frieda looked at her mother.
“It's okay,” Hilda said. “You can tell Erin about it.”
“Three weeks ago,” Frieda said, “some strange man tried to pull me into his car.”
“Oh my God!” Erin exclaimed, leaning forward. “What did you do?”
Frieda smiled, went back to the hallway, and retrieved something from her apron pocket; then, with a flick of her wrist, the stiletto-like blade of a telescoping knife appeared at her fingertips.
“I sliced his face open, to the bone,” she said with a wide grin, “and he ran off screaming like a little girl.”
“Wow. I'm impressed. And that's quite a knife.”
“Illegal, of course. Like all the good things are. It was a gift from Uncle Harm. He's also the one who taught me how to use it. The weirdo never saw it coming, he even dropped his revolver. My dad says it's a piece of junk, though.”
“So did you call the police? Did they catch him?”
Again, Frieda looked to her mother.
“We like to deal with these things ourselves,” Hilda said. “We don't need government people snooping around, if we can help it. They're so mixed up, they would probably arrest Frieda for owning an illegal knife. But she has a natural right to carry it, to protect herself, whatever their stupid laws say. We answer to laws older and truer than theirs. But they're like soldiers, they don't think, they just march around and follow orders.”
“And they probably would have let him out in no time,” Frieda said.
“That seems true, too much of the time,” Erin agreed.
“Government laws are for protecting the government, not us,” Hilda added.
“So then, what happened?”
With a nod of approval from her mother, Frieda continued.
“I wrote down his license plate number, and my dad got it to Uncle Harm. Then, Uncle had one of his... colleagues... find him. That weirdo won't come back again, or grab any other girls. Ever.”
She returned the knife to her apron and went to work setting the table; as she did so, her grandmother and little sister entered from the hallway.
“Did you have good naps?” Hilda asked.
“Ja” said Bertie. The old woman grumbled inaudibly and sat at the end of the table, casting an unpleasant look at Erin.
Frieda, having finished setting the table, took a large bowl under her arm and started for the back door.
“Should I go pick the salad now?” she asked.
“Go on,” Hilda said, “but don't lose too much time looking for Oheim.”
Frieda started out but paused at the threshold to wait for her little sister, who came running to join her.
“Would you like to come, too, Erin?” Frieda asked.
“Oh, I'd love to! I haven't seen much of the farm out there.”
Happily escaping the unfriendly glances of the old woman, she hoisted Hughie onto her arm and followed Frieda out the door.
Chapter 23
“Any favorites?” Frieda asked as she held open the gate of a wattle-fenced yard that was a short distance from the house, with tidy rows of green that glowed in the balmy afternoon sun; Bertie squeezed past Erin and ran into the garden, where she began jumping the rows like hurdles.
“I'm sorry? What do you mean?”
“For the salad,” Frieda said as if it were obvious. “I'll pick a mix of things, but I can throw in more of something, if you want. Spinach, sorrel, cress,” she listed, pointing to various locations in the garden, “lettuce, roquette, purslane, burnet, dittander, sweet violet, mallow, fennel, salsify, chicory....”
“Oh, anything. I'm not fussy. At least not about salad greens.”
“Corn salad? Or maybe I should call it mâche. That usually impresses you English. It’s funny. They'll pay more sometimes, just because of the name. You can sort of guess which ones by how they look.”
“So you think I’m the sort to be impressed by a name?”
“I'm not positive, but I think so.”
“Your first impression of me isn't all that favorable, I take it.”
“I didn't say that. I'm just saying I think you’re a mâche type.” She knelt down and picked a few handfuls of spinach leaves, then stood and moved along the row. Erin wearily shifted a restless Hughie from one arm to the other.
“You can put him down, you know,” Frieda said. “It won't hurt him to play on the ground.”
“Oh, I think I'll just hold him.”
“Suit yourself.” She moved quickly over the burnet, taking just a few of the young fern-like leaves, before continuing to the violets, where she picked both leaves and flowers; after glancing up and locking eyes with Erin, she paused and stood.
“So... you and my uncle are friends?” she asked with suggestively raised eyebrows.
“Well, no, not like that. I don't really know what we are. He saved our lives. But I’ve only known him since yesterday morning.”
“I'm glad to hear it, because your baby sure doesn't look like him,” she said flippantly, and knelt to gather lettuce.
“But he's done a lot for me, more than any of my so-called friends,” Erin added.
“That's my uncle for you. And English friends, I s
uppose.”
“I was only acquainted with Bern before yesterday. I thought he was my only neighbor.”
“Bern. He’s a hoot.” She handed a lettuce leaf to Bertie as the girl paused to look in the bowl; the youngster took a bite and kept running. “He waited until he's an old man to decide he wants to be a smuggler and adventurer. But my uncle found a place for him.”
“Part of that - brotherhood?”
“No, that's something different. They only do things to protect the Kreis, our community, and answer to the heads of the families.” She straddled the next row, placed the bowl on the ground, and leaned over to pick the tiny leaves of corn salad. “They've been around forever. Uncle Harm helps them whenever they need him, but he has other men he works with for his business enterprises, men he's picked himself, who've been thrown out of the Kreis for some reason he doesn't agree with, or who live half on the outside like he does. That's where he makes all his money.”
“He has his own private gang, in other words?”
“I suppose you could say that. But they're just men trying to survive. It's not easy to be a farmer if you've been shunned. You lose the family help, the know-how of the old folks, the tools and equipment you could borrow, the pitching-in if your barn roof collapses in a snowstorm, so many things.” She slid the bowl along the ground to where small, succulent purslanes were growing under glass cloches; after tipping the cloches aside, one at a time, her hands moved deftly to harvest a few leaves from each.
“Like Torsten, who -” she emphasized with a flourish of her arm, “is unfortunately married, and doesn't have any twin brothers - he fell for a hillbilly English girl whose family is neighbors with his. He was completely shunned by his family for marrying her. But he still tried to be a farmer, until the debt was too much. He couldn't pay his bills after a year.”
She stood and propped the bowl against her hip.
“That's when my Uncle Harm made him an offer, and now they work together doing underground market things, like raising hogs in the woods, or growing tobacco they hide in fields of weeds. I'm sure there are others like him, but Torsten is the only one I know much about, because I know his brothers and sisters.”
“So Harm doesn't think he should have been shunned for marrying - an ‘English’ girl?”
“He’d say it’s none of his business what the families decide, and that he’ll make up his own mind. I think that’s how he put it.” She shrugged her shoulders, then cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
Erin blushed.
“Oh, I just find it interesting, how all this works.”
“Do you plan on staying with us for a while?”
“Maybe,” Erin said with a shrug. “If you’ll have us. I really don't have anywhere else to go.”
“I see.” She stared at the ground in contemplation, then lifted her gaze with a smile as she heard the hum of an approaching tractor. They both looked over to see Harm and Axel returning - Axel now on Harm’s lap, intently gripping the steering wheel, while Harm leaned back with his hands folded behind his head.
“Can you bring this in for me?” Frieda asked, handing the bowl to Erin and heading for the gate. “Bertie, you go inside with this lady.”
Erin stood for a moment unsure how to proceed with her hands full and the gate left open, then became flustered when Bertie ran after her sister.
“Frieda!” she called out in panic.
“Don't worry, I'll get the gate,” Frieda answered, then waited to take her sister’s hand; together they hurried off to meet the tractor.
Chapter 24
Erin sat at the table with Hughie on her lap while Hilda put food on the plates and the family assembled for dinner; Frieda entered first, leading Bertie and Axel, and proceeded to the sink where she helped them wash their hands. Next came Oscar and Rudy, who washed as the others took their seats; the small children were seated across from Erin, while Frieda sat on her right. Rudy then took the chair next to Frieda, by his grandmother. Oscar was settling in at the head of the table, opposite his mother-in-law, when Harm entered. After washing he looked at the table indecisively.
“Right here, little brother,” Hilda said as she piled a heaping portion of mashed rutabagas on the plate between Erin and Oscar. “Where’s Herman?”
“Harm thought it best,” Oscar said, “to have someone keeping watch all the time, given how common the brigades are becoming, and the Asesinos moving around east of here. And I agree, it's for the best. We’ll take turns. And of course we’ll save him some dinner.”
Each plate had thick slices of ham topped with a ring of sliced apple, balanced with a helping of mashed rutabagas, and a few sautéed hop shoots laid out like spears of asparagus. Everyone also had a bowl of salad on the side, with a warm dressing of honey, vinegar, and generous amounts of chopped bacon and scallions. Hilda sat once everyone had their portions, then all fell silent, as if waiting for a signal. Oscar spoke.
“Das Heil unsere Haus ist die Huld unser Boden,” he said quietly. ”Vergessen wir nicht.”
With that they began to eat. Erin attempted to manipulate her fork while holding Hughie to one side, out of reach of the food, but he grabbed the plate and pulled it towards the edge; as she frantically caught it, her fork fell to the floor. Hilda sprang to her feet.
“I'm sorry that we don't have a high chair. We gave it away,” she said as she moved around the table. “But I can solve this. You need to eat.”
She took Hughie from Erin’s lap and handed him to Harm.
“Here, little brother,” she said with a mischievous grin; Harm stiffened and glared at her as she returned to her seat. Frieda fetched another fork as Erin looked anxiously at Hughie.
“But... Harm needs to eat, too,” she said. “Doesn't he?”
“He can wait,” Hilda said. “I'm sure he's been munching on wild leaves all day. That's what he does. Isn't that so, Axel?”
“Yeah, we both were,” the boy answered. “Leaves and flowers. We ate some called spiderworts!”
“Sounds delicious. So you see, Erin? He’ll be fine. Harm, don't hold him like he's a nettle. You have to cuddle him!”
Hughie, upset, began to smack at Harm’s face.
“A fighter!” Hilda laughed. “He has good instincts.” Everyone but Harm and the old woman chuckled.
“The portable crib is in the car,” Harm said.
“I'm sorry, Harm,” Erin apologized, then scolded Hughie. “That's not nice. It's not nice to hit people.”
“Depends on who they are,” Rudy quipped, and again they all laughed.
Frieda stood impatiently and came to Harm’s aid; she took Hughie from him and returned to her chair - which she pulled out from the table - and sat with her legs splayed, so that Hughie was unable to reach the table, and bounced him on her knee.
“I can do that, too,” Erin offered.
“Don't worry,” Frieda said curtly. “Just eat.”
“Well, thank you. Thank you all for the hospitality you’ve all shown us. It gives me hope. It shows me that people really are basically good.”
“You mean, like the Culls?” Rudy asked.
“No - I don't know,” Erin blushed. “I can't explain everything. I just -“
“Dad,” Frieda interrupted, “are people basically good, or not?”
Oscar’s eyes moved from Frieda to settle on Erin while he finished chewing; then he quaffed some apple wine and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I think all we can say,” he began diplomatically, “if we observe, is that people are basically driven. Mostly they don't understand what drives them, or where they're going. Leaders and governments count on that, they channel it for their own wealth and power. Now, if you have people free of distortions like that, from an old culture, and from a solid family, then they will tend to be kind. They’re informed by the natural law, even if they don’t realize it. But without those, and with the manipulations of empire thrown in, you'll just as likely be dealing with cru
elty and depravity.”
“But then,” Erin protested, “which is it? Which is more basic?”
“You English,” Oscar smiled patiently, “or, in fairness, I should say you people of empire - have the unfortunate tendency to believe in absolutes, the notion that there is such a thing as perfection, as reduction to a single principle. Of course you can see how those in power would benefit from this belief, because it locks out so many other possibilities. It's a kind of mental fatalism, and it makes the world they rule seem inevitable.
“So as to the question, I see it as, maybe, a slightly confused question. All people are not much of anything you can fit into a neat category. The world isn't so neat. To think so is to close your eyes to other possibilities. If we say people are basically good, then perhaps we trust in this, and fail to arm ourselves? But unarmed people, always and everywhere, become the victimized. On the other hand, if we say that people are basically bad, life would be unlivable, we would live in fear of our neighbors, we might run to some higher authority for protection. The rulers win, however we might answer, because the absolute nature of the question leads to absolute answers. Absolute thought is fertile soil for the roots of tyranny.
“So I don't begrudge your question, but understand that your thinking has been molded by how your manipulators want you to think.”
“Okay,” Erin began in a doubtful tone that indicated her willingness to debate, “but you speak a lot about natural law. Isn’t that kind of an absolute for you?”
“No,” Oscar smiled, “because it’s not a concept. No more so than life itself, or a plant turning toward the sun.”
“So then -” Erin started again with a hint of frustration, “will you at least let me say that I'm glad you're nice people?”
“Of course you can,” Hilda interrupted, “and forgive my husband’s lectures. Frieda should know better than to get him started.”
“Idle brains are fodder for tyrants,” he said, folding his arms across his chest; Hilda ignored him and went on speaking to Erin.
“We know that you're not so brainwashed as most of the English are. You fought to keep your boy. And I can see, by how you watch us, that your mind is churning. You're trying to figure things out. That's a good sign.”
