She dragged him inside. "Then I hope you are willing to be a little late."
****
The driver noticed the big smile on the faces of both of the people heading toward him and shook his head. Some people had all the luck. Hartmann stopped at the side, kissing his wife deeply. "Do try to pick up what tobacco the little one didn't waste."
"I will, Richard." Marta suddenly gasped, digging into the pocket of her apron. "Here. To hold you over." She pressed the pouch into his hand. "Something good came out of the raid, at least."
Grantville
Late September, 1632
Richard Hartmann walked into the Thuringen Gardens. He looked around but didn't see Marta. He tapped one of the women carrying a tray of beers. "Pardon, is Marta off today?"
"Marta? Oh, she quit last month."
"Quit?"
"Yes, sergeant. She got a job at the Bowers Center—" The woman spun and unleashed a torrent of invective at a patron. "She would not wish you to come in and see what this schwein just did if it were her."
Hartmann smiled, then grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, frogmarching him to the door, and threw him into the street. "You mean that?" he asked.
****
Marta didn't really understand the game, but Bingo seemed to be very popular. The biggest problem she had with it was English-speakers used different sounds for the letters. She turned the basket and reached in picking up a ball. "Bay 15, Bee 15." The residents merely marked their cards silently. She rolled the basket again, taking the second ball. She looked up as she began to speak, "Oh—Richard!" She charged around the table, running across the dining hall to leap into his arms.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then a querulous voice asked, "What was that number again?"
Betsy O'Connor took over as caller because Marta refused to let go of her husband. They went up the hill from the town, and the instant they were out of sight, she showed exactly how much she had missed him.
****
Marta purred as she hugged her husband, one leg across him. Her fingers ran across his chest, making him squirm. "May I ask a question?"
Hartmann looked down at her head. "Of course."
She looked up. "How many women have you been with before me?" He looked at her confused. "It is just, you are so…satisfying to me. I hope I am not prying."
"Oh." He moved his arm from behind her head, both hands palm up on his chest, and one by one, he raised a finger. She watched when he went to ten, then began on twenty. Her eyes widen when he went to thirty, then began of numbers higher than that when Hartmann began to laugh.
"Oh, you!" She sat up slapping his chest. "The truth! Or I will—I will never speak to you again!"
I am sorry." He replied. "It was just seeing your eyes grow wider every time I started again. It is four—"
"Four what? Fourteen? Forty? Four hundred?" She leaned up, "Mein Gott! Four thousand?"
Hartmann touched her face. "Four women before you, between when I was sixteen and now."
"In truth?" she demanded.
"I was never a typical soldier. I was always quiet, gentle with children and women, and polite." He looked wistful. "I never considered women as something to use and discard. They chose to be with me and taught me how to please a woman before I pleased myself."
"Will I ever meet any of them?" Marta asked.
Hartmann's face became sad. "All were women I met in winter quarters. I checked when we returned through the towns and cities where they lived. None of them are still alive."
The phone rang, and she leaned up.
"A phone? When did I get a phone?" He asked.
She sat up. As she did her breasts rubbed his face, and he lost track of what was happening for a moment. "Since I had one installed," She caught the receiver. "Hallo?" She plumped up her pillow, sitting up a little, which removed her body from his face. She listened, then looked at Hartmann. "Richard, Reverend Doctor Wiley spoke to the Catholic priest, Father Mazzare. He wishes to speak to you."
Richard lay back. "And if I do not wish to speak to him?"
She looked at the phone in her hand. "I spoke to him after you left to return to Suhl. He told me to tell you this, 'I will not condemn you for marrying the girl. I merely wish to discuss your belief that God hates you.' "
He thought about it. "Well, soon enough he will use force. Let us go now to get it over with."
****
Enoch Wiley saw the man and worried a bit at his expression. Marta introduced them, and while polite, his face was still hard. He made idle small talk, and while Marta replied, Hartmann was merely a mannequin moving along with them. They got to St Mary's and instead of going into the church or the rectory, he led them to the back. Father Mazzare was busy at his hobby, which was working on cars. Or at least he thought those were the Father's legs that stuck out from below the engine compartment.
“Larry?”
“Oh, Enoch, give me a moment, this nut is tight—there!” There was a splashing sound, and Mazzare slid out on the mechanic's board, setting down the wrench he was using. “We have to wait for the oil to drain.” He wiped his greasy hands on a rag. “Hello again, Marta. This is your young man?” She introduced them, and Mazzare went to a small container, scooping out a small portion of hand cleaner. “Give me a moment, son. We have to be careful about wasting the hand cleaner. They aren't making more of it yet.” He rubbed the spoonful into his hands, then wiped them again with another, cleaner rag. Then he turned and offered his hand, which Hartmann ignored.
“I came to listen to your words, Vater. I do not expect them to help.”
“Richard.”
He looked down at Marta.
“At least do him and me the courtesy of listening.”
He sighed and nodded.
“I was alarmed when I heard you thought God hated you. May I ask why you think so?” Hartmann looked down at Marta.
“Oh, she didn't tell me why you do, only that you believe it. Reverend Wiley also told me nothing.”
“Everything in my life the last eleven years has taught me it must be true.”
Mazzare cocked his head. “Everything?” At Hartmann's nod, he motioned for them to sit. “Please, sit down, Sergeant. Talk to me.”
“Why? The last priest who spoke to me of it was not helpful,”
Mazzare's face asked the question.
“When my sister died, one of the priests with the army said the requiem for her. When I asked why she had died after all I did to keep her alive, he told me God had taken my family from me and placed them in purgatory so that I would focus on killing every Protestant I met to free them; that they would escape only when either I died or every last Protestant did.”
Mazzare shook his head. “Please, sit down, Sergeant.” Hartmann did so, but he was sitting almost at attention. “I know how the Church is in this time, but if I had been there, I would have chastised the man, not you. Do you honestly think God is that cold-blooded? To take a child? To use their souls like hostages to demand your worship?”
“God is what the priests say He is. But if you listen long enough, He is not loving, but brutal and cares more about money than souls and sometimes He loves to see us in pain.”
“Do you believe that?”
“From the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” Hartmann shrugged, “I honestly do not think God cares about the property the Lutherans seized. Or the money the Church has lost because of it. It is not what my father taught me as a boy. But ask any Heilig Vater, and they seem to think God counts coins above a man's life.”
“Not every priest, my son. Do you know what we called this war up-time?”
Hartmann shook his head.
“The Thirty Years War. It ended in our history in sixteen forty-eight, and if you wish to know who won it, no one did. It cost eight million lives—over a quarter of the population of what we called Germany. Most of them civilians; just people who wanted to be left alone to worship as they wished.
&n
bsp; “Yet it did more than that. It caused a deep anger in the people who did the most dying, the people of the Germanies. It caused the rise and fall of an empire that wanted to strike back at the world, and when it fell twenty years later, a new nation tried again. That cost not a mere eight million. Combined, it cost almost a hundred million.” Mazzare listened, then motioned. “The oil is drained. I have to pull the filter, then put the plug back in so we can change it.” He motioned, “Come, I will work with my hands, and you will talk.”
After putting the plug back in, Mazzare bent over the engine. “What are you going to do now that the war is over at least for a time?”
“Me that 'ave been what I've been—Me that 'ave gone where I've gone—Me that 'ave seen what I've seen—'Ow can I ever take on with awful old England again?” he quoted.
“Ah, Kipling. It is odd that you would have heard of him.”
“Thank Dudley Do-Right.”
Mazzare chuckled, setting down the used filter and taking out the new one. “Then you are going to stay in the Army?”
Hartmann shrugged. “It is the only skill I have, Father.”
“I understand. Hand me that bottle, please.” Hartmann looked around, then handed him the bottle of oil. “God does not hate us. People die, and God does know when they will. But He doesn't take them to be vindictive. It is all part of His plan, and we poor humans cannot know the whole of that plan unless we were ourselves gods.”
“Then He should be clearer,” Hartmann snapped.
“That is why I am here, Sergeant.” Mazzare motioned for another bottle. “I regret that the church did not think your family worthy of their attention, and the least I can do is try in my own small way to make up for that. If you like, I can do a requiem mass for your family and pray that they have gone to heaven.”
“Thank you, Father.” He reached for his wallet.
“What are you doing?”
“I would pay for it.”
Mazzare shook his head. “After what that priest did, I think the church owes you. But I would ask for something from you.”
“Oh?” Hartmann's face went blank again.
“Enoch tells me the old-timers at the Bowers facility were a bit upset that you didn't have a church wedding and reception. Would you allow me to perform the ceremony?”
“Only if I am allowed to pay for that, Father.”
****
Karen Reading looked at the woman. Marta fit the term petite, less than an inch over five feet tall and built to match. She wasn't sure she had a dress small enough to fit without serious alteration. Usually, women came with others their own age. But Marta's attendants were a minimum of twice her age, and a couple older than that.
"So it's a military wedding?" she asked. Karen had enough information on weddings done by the up-time Army or Navy, but they were seriously too modern for what she had to deal with. Wait a minute…"Your man is a sergeant, right?"
"Yes, Frau Reading."
"Call me Karen, we're going to have to work too hard for the next couple of days for you to be formal. Give me a minute." She bustled back to her office. Ollie Reardon had a slew of reenactment uniforms. She dialed. "Hello, Debbie. Ollie has a sergeant's uniform from the First West Virginia, right? Fifth? It's all good. Could I borrow it for a wedding? Ask him, please. Thanks, you're a lifesaver!" She hung up, then went through her list. Diane Jackson sometimes dressed for the reenactments. She dialed.
"Hello, Diane. If I remember correctly, you have a ball dress from the Civil War reenactments? Yes, the cream and green. Could I rent it from you? Outstanding! I'm sending one of my girls over there. You're a love!"
She returned to the main room. "All right, we're golden."
"Do we have everything?” Barbara Reed asked. “You know the rhyme, 'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.' "
"Took care of the old." Mary Sue opened the book on her lap. She peeled back the plastic cover on her book of memories and took the old garter out. "I kept this from when I caught it back before Alex and I were married. If the elastic is no good, we can rig ties."
"Something new?" Barbara asked.
Mary Sue grinned. "Oh, you haven't seen Alex's present for Marta!"
"And the dress belongs to Diane, so it's borrowed," Karen commented.
"And blue?" Mary Sue asked.
"Ollie's uniform."
"Ah," the up-timer women said. Marta had no clue why they were satisfied.
Grantville
Early October, 1632
The crowd moved into St. Mary's. Most of them were elderly. Dozens of descendants had been dragooned into moving people who needed either a steadying arm or someone to push a wheelchair.
Marta was not amused. She loved the dress, and she had hugged Alexander when he gave her the choker with the cameo of her and Richard. But the heels! She and Alexander were waiting for the musical cue. "Alexander, I will kill myself walking in these shoes!"
"Don't worry, little one," Alex commented. "I offered to walk you down the aisle so you can use my wheelchair for support."
"What am I supposed to do afterward, Alexander?" She whined, "When I am on his arm instead of your chair?"
"Ask him to bend down and talk to me first."
"All right." Marta wasn't sure it would help.
Suddenly Alexander stiffened. "The bride's processional!"
The door opened. Ahead of her— her eyes locked on Richard. He was in a blue uniform with three wide gold stripes on each arm. He looked as if he were stunned by her dress.
The wheelchair helped. She had to walk slowly, and that helped her stay steady. The music started over, but no one else seemed worried. Richard stepped down, taking her hand. "Speak with Alexander, please!" she whispered. Her husband bent down, listened for a moment then nodded. He held her hand tightly under his forearm. She leaned down, kissing the old man on the cheek. Richard brought her up the step as Alex rolled his chair back to where Mary Sue waited.
She held onto Richard's arm through the ceremony, like and yet unlike what she had seen during her life. But she listened. Father Mazzare had used the ceremony he was used to, not what either of the participants remembered. He did not use Latin. Instead, he used the German he had learned since the Ring of Fire.
But it was beautiful. Richard looked into her eyes as he spoke his own vows, and she repeated her own with joy. Then the Father had told them to kiss, and she lifted to tiptoe. She had known she was married before, but suddenly she realized she was.
Now she heard a different music, and Richard held her arm tightly as they walked down the aisle. Her feet hurt, and the first thing she would do is get rid of these damn shoes! They reached the door, and outside a voice shouted, "Center Face!" One of Richard's students, now a newly made sergeant himself, then shouted, “Arch Sabers!” Six swords gleamed as they were drawn, then formed an arch before them.
"Richard?" She whispered.
"Walk forward, my love." They came down the steps, under the arch as birdseed fell about them.
"Swords, to!" Behind them the arch vanished as the men sheathed them, then the men came forward to shake Richard's hand.
He smiled, but as the one who had given the commands shook his hand, Marta heard Richard tell him, "Greif, we WILL discuss this later."
****
"So there I was in the Ardennes. Most of the squad were either dead or had run away from the Nazis when I ran outta ammo for my BAR. I was scrounging around the bodies for more when this Tiger tank came over the hill right in front of me, his eighty-eight aimed right between my eyes." John Aloysius O'Malley puffed on his pipe.
Marta smiled as Richard did what he was supposed to do. "So what did you do?"
The old man looked him straight in the eye. "Well I always wanted to play professional baseball, so quick as a wink I jumped up, and using my BAR as a baseball bat was just in time to hit the shell up into a high lob. It came down, landed on the engine compartment and exploded, killing the Tiger."
"Ah" was all Richard said.
Alex laughed. "Pay up, John. He didn't say your story was bullshit or laugh."
O'Malley reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, and peeling a dollar out to hand to the older man.
"So tell him the true story about that tank."
"There really was a tank?"
"Yep. Johnnie here was a member of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. They were in Bastogne and held the Germans until relieved."
O'Malley shrugged. "A German tank was rolling on my position, so I rolled aside as he came over it. I stuck a grenade in the tread on the right side, and it blew the tread off. Then I jumped up on the back deck, and as the tank commander opened his hatch, I shot him, and dropped another down, and sat on the hatch until it blew."
"He got a DSC for that," Alex commented. "Distinguished Service Cross. The second highest medal you can get in the Army."
"Then why did you not merely tell me that?" Richard asked.
"My version is more fun."
"Ah."
"Bout time for your wedding dance, kids," Alex reached into his pocket and handed a small box to Hartmann. "Then the wedding gifts. This one, I held out instead of putting it with the others."
Hartmann opened it carefully. Inside the cardboard was an up-timer pocket watch with a cover. When he pressed the button it opened, and he stopped breathing. A cameo had been set in the cover. It was Marta, her hand cupping her chin. "I do not know what to say, Alexander."
"Say thank you, and go out there and dance."
"Thank you."
"Must I put on those torture shoes again?" Marta asked.
"Just do it barefoot, kid. No one's going to complain."
****
Alexander looked at the shape before him. It looked like a block of white material, with a hole drilled in the top, and another with a bent pipe stem attached. At the moment, he didn't have any orders for cameos, so he could start on this. With a gentle hand, he began carving the meerschaum. Occasionally he looked up at the couple now opening presents at the far table and smiled at the cheering from the residents of the home. Maybe he'd have it done before Christmas. As they headed toward the table again, he hid it. Well, not if they kept interrupting him.
Grantville Gazette, Volume 67 Page 5
