It was late August, 1632, when Georg Bauer climbed out of the ditch he'd been digging for Jena's new sewer line. Sweat was still pouring off him when he first heard about Grantville.
Almost twenty-two, with dark hair and a strong build, Georg was the fourth son of a farmer who threw him out after he beat one of his brothers senseless. His older brother had been an overbearing bully and Georg knew his father would never willingly let him leave the farm without a major cause. So he gave him one. Georg soon found a small town and was a tough for a year until it was destroyed by one of the passing armies. Escaping unhurt, he joined another army as a mercenary. After almost dying of camp fever three months later, Georg decided any place an army wasn't in Germany would be healthier. So one night while he was supposed to be on guard duty, he slipped away, ending up in Jena ten days ago.
Georg poured cup after cup of water down his throat during his break. "Hans, who's the big blond with the short hair talking with the boss?" he asked one of his fellow ditchdiggers.
"That's Herr Chip Jenkins," Hans answered, taking a quick glance. "He works with the Jena Committee of Correspondence. He drops by here every now and then. He also does some administrative work for this project. I hear he's also the son of a rich landowner in Grantville. Came here less than a year ago. After the Americans captured that small mercenary army."
"Grantville? Doesn't sound German."
"You're right. I hear some witchcraft dropped the entire town west of Rudolstadt. They call themselves Americans and say they're from across the Atlantic Ocean. Some say that no one has to work hard there, there's as much light at night as there is in daytime and they have carriages that don't need horses. Bunch of crap, I say. You want to find out about it, ask Herr Jenkins. Break's over," Hans said when the bell rang again. He picked up his shovel and jumped down into the ditch.
That evening at the crowded Crazy Fox tavern, Georg was hesitant about walking up to Herr Jenkins and asking anything. The Crazy Fox had a different feel. It took several moments to figure out why. Then it came to him. It was the women! Granted this wasn't a low tavern but somehow the atmosphere was different from the usual respectable neighborhood tavern as well. There was more . . . vibrancy. Here, while there were barmaids and a few women who looked like they might be prostitutes, there were many other women—maids, laundresses, common working women, wives of working men, older and younger women. In fact, he didn't take a count but there seemed to be far more women in the room than men and they seemed to be in anticipation.
Herr Jenkins was standing near a table with a small mug of beer in his hand. For one with such a position, he seemed remarkably accessible. He was joking with the men and women, occasionally winking humorously. He was not slim but Georg could distinguish a muscular body under his clothing. Tall, inches taller than Georg, Herr Jenkins didn't act at all like a wealthy landowner's son. Certainly not the one whose father owned the land Georg's father and brothers farmed. Arrogant snot. Perhaps like Georg, Herr Jenkins had been thrown off the land.
Then what looked like a rough customer carrying a short quarterstaff walked in. He tapped on Herr Jenkins' shoulder, said something into his ear and Herr Jenkins followed the man out the door. Since two or three other young men, all dressed like the local students followed, Georg did too.
Out on the dark street, a young man who'd obviously had too much to drink was singing loudly and off-key. He wasn't dressed like most of the local workmen but rather like one of the university students. Herr Jenkins walked over to the young man. Facing him, he put his hands on the student's shoulders. He softly talked for a short while before hugging the student to his chest and then putting his arm around the student's shoulders. The two young men walked away towards the city gate.
"What was that all about?" Georg asked the student next to him.
"One of Chip's old students just found out today that he's come into his inheritance," the young man said blandly. "Kurt was happy to be his own master but on the other hand, he didn't want his father to die. Besides, this means he'll have to leave the university and go home to manage his late father's estate. So he was very drunk."
"Oh . . . I didn't know Herr Jenkins was a professor."
"He's not. He's a docent, a teacher at the university, but all of his students are close to him," the other man said and turned to go back to the tavern.
Half an hour later, the same young man stood up at the end of the tavern. "We're going to start a meeting of the sanitation subcommittee shortly, so those of you who don't want to learn about why you should keep flies off your food may leave." Georg looked around him as several workmen grimaced and finished their meals quickly before leaving. Most of the women on the other hand, took places at the tables nearest the young man.
Just as Georg stepped into the street behind the departing workmen, Herr Jenkins approached the tavern. "Uh, Herr Jenkins?" Georg asked, taking off his hat, holding it nervously between his hands.
"Yes?"
"Uh, Herr Jenkins, I, uh, was wondering. I mean, my name is Georg Bauer and I, uh, just started working here in Jena, uh, digging the ditch for the sewer . . ."
"Go on."
"Uh, Herr Jenkins, I, uh, wanted to know about Grantville. Is it true what they say?" he blurted out. "I mean, witch . . . no, uh, by some means and uh, lights that . . ."
"Probably," Chip answered humorously. "No streets of silver, though. It would be easier for you to just go there for a few days than for you to believe what I'd tell you. Not everyone who goes there wants to stay because of our different customs. It is very different from Jena. If you want to work and are prepared to change, there are jobs that will pay much more than what you're making now."
"Uh, thank you, Herr Jenkins," Georg answered quickly. "Uh, I hate to ask but, uh . . ."
"If you want to leave the work here to go to Grantville, I can probably persuade your boss to hire you back on. In fact, come on inside and I'll write you a note of recommendation to someone I know."
Georg couldn't believe his luck. Herr Jenkins was going to recommend him? After just meeting him? Fantastic!
Chip got a piece of paper from Jan, the tavern keeper and scrawled a quick note. He folded and was about to seal it when he looked at Georg. "I assume you don't read or speak English. This is a note to the head man at one of the businesses my father owns. It gives your name and says you've been working here as a ditchdigger." Chip used the wax from a candle to seal the note. "Follow the Saale down to Rudolstadt. When the river bends to the south, follow the road that goes west. Ask anyone on that road where Grantville is. When you get to Grantville, ask anyone where the Laughing Laundress Company is. Do you have all that?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, Herr Jenkins." Georg tucked the note in his pouch. "Thank you. Thank you," he repeated and practically ran out the door.
"Who was that?" Jan asked.
"One of the ditchdiggers." Chip sighed. "Give you two to one odds that he'll be back in Jena in less than a week."
"I don't make sucker bets," Jan said, chuckling.
As soon as Georg saw the macadam road, he knew Grantville was definitely different. He tried to imagine how many men it must have taken to build such a wide, flat, smooth road and shook his head. He also had no idea what was the purpose of the double yellow stripe in the middle of the road. Guards had stopped him shortly after he'd turned west. After answering a few questions and having a medic look at him, he was free to proceed to Grantville.
An old man with a donkey pulling a small cart loaded with produce was passed through while Georg was being questioned and inspected. Georg quickly overtook him. The man seemed happy for some company.
"That's the school over there where the older students go," the old man said, waving at a large brick building above them on the hillside a short while later. "Few weeks ago, Gustavus Adolphus himself rode in with his cavalry. Killed a bunch of Croat cavalry who had come to slaughter the children in the school. One was my Martha. She's sixteen now. But between the men, even some women of Grantville and Gustavus Adolphus' men, they killed lots of those bastards."
"You mean, you let your girl that old go to school rather than making her work at home or somewhere else to earn money? How can you afford it?" Georg asked, surprised.
"Why not?" the man asked with a twisted smile. "Don't cost me nothing and girls are just as smart as boys. Well, I don't know that for a fact but my Martha's smarter than her two older brothers. Speaks English now and is talking about becoming a bookkeeper, too. I was farming here and we were visiting my brother in Rudolstadt when what they call the Ring of Fire happened. Practically everyone our family knew was gone and this place was here instead. Some call it witchcraft but I don't know. I didn't know of any witches living anywhere near us. There aren't any here in Grantville as far as I can tell."
As they walked into Grantville, the old man said, "Would have moved, but where to? I don't like Rudolstadt anyway. Besides, Grantville took care of us, gave us a nice house to live in when we came back. I won't say I like not farming, but Grantville's not that bad once you get used to its strange ways. Martha's in school and both my boys are working in jobs that don't require them to be apprentices."
"Do you know where the Laughing Laundress Company is?" Georg asked, looking at the address on the note.
"Just over there," the man said, pointing to a sizeable one-story building with large glass windows in the front. "Looks like it's open."
There were eight Germans sitting on opposite sides of a workbench in the huge room, half of which had been closed off by an eight-foot wall. Each man performed a particular task having to do with two cylinders of wood. Then he'd pass the partial assembly to the next person.
"Hello?" Georg called.
An older man wearing light brown trousers which fell to his ankles and a soft green shirt with two buttons below the neck walked stiffly up to him. Georg hadn't noticed the door on the side of the workroom. "Hello," he said softly in an accent more pronounced but like Herr Jenkins'. "What can we do for you?"
"Hello, sir. I have a message from Herr Chip Jenkins in Jena." Georg held up the note.
The man glanced at the name on the front and gave a small frown before opening the note. "Hmm. Well, fortunately for you, Johannes decided to move on to where he could make more money. Of course, it's harder work as well, so . . . Bernhard! This is Georg Bauer. Show him what needs to be done and give him the usual rules. Get him settled in town."
"Ja, Herr Jenkins." Bernhard was in his mid-thirties with a deeply lined face, dressed like an American with a short-sleeved shirt and narrow-legged long trousers made from a material Georg didn't recognize. "Come with me."
Georg couldn't help but stare at the back of the man who was walking to the glassed-in room. "That is the father of Herr Chip Jenkins? The landowner?" he asked, puzzled.
Bernhard shrugged. "He is Herr Chad Jenkins. He owns this company and has many properties. His son works with the CoC in Jena." He looked over at Georg, seeing his expression. "Don't look so stupid, standing there with your mouth hanging open. Grantville is different."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Georg muttered.
It was midafternoon when Georg arrived. By the time six rolled around, he was hungry. "Where did all those women come from?" he asked, seeing several walk out the exit towards the road ahead of them.
"They work on the other side of that wall making washboards. You must have heard their squawking," Bernhard said. "This way neither the men nor the women distract or bother one another while they work. We don't see much of them during working hours, even have different lunch times."
"Speaking of food, where can I go to eat?"
"There are many places but do not go into the Club 250. They do not like Germans. Besides, they don't have any food except beer and pretzels." Bernhard waved a hand. "But let's get you a bed first. Grab your bag. I'll take you over to the workingman's dormitory. There is no public bath but there are what they call showers."
Bernhard led him to the dormitory a short walk away. It was a large three-story brick building. An old German with one arm was sitting behind a desk. He was dressed American-style in a plaid shirt that buttoned down the front. "Name?" he wheezed. He dipped his quill into the ink.
"Georg Bauer."
"How long will you be staying?" he asked, looking up from the form he was filling out.
Georg shrugged. "A week at least. I don't know. I just came from Jena and started work today." The old man wrote down where he came from.
"Where are you working?"
"The Laughing Laundress." The old man nodded and wrote that down.
"Two dollars per night or ten dollars for a week," the old man said, putting down the quill and lifting his palm expectantly. "Won't find a bed anywhere for less. If you have any valuables, I can put them in the cage. No swords, pistols or other weapons in the dormitory. I lock them up here. You can keep your dirk."
After a short discussion, Georg handed over his money and got some American change. "Brigitta!" the old man called.
A yawning woman wearing a long skirt and a linen blouse came out of the room behind the desk. A comfortably fleshed dark blonde and not unattractive, Georg noticed. Probably getting a little sleep before working tonight if she's napping now, he smirked.
"This is Georg Bauer. Put him in room 302. Bunk seven."
"Come." The woman led him down the hallway to the stairs. "One day they will fix the elevator but until then we use the steps," she grumbled and began climbing. Georg had no idea what an elevator was but following two steps behind her, his mind imagined what lay beneath the skirts not far from his eyes.
Once on the third floor, Georg walked next to her and smoothly slipped his arm around on her hip. "Will you come see me tonight, darling?" he asked.
Without commenting, Brigitta reached down, gripped the middle finger of the hand on her hip and bent it back.
"Aahh!" Georg yelled, going to his knees as she turned towards him, cruelly pressing his finger and hand backward. "Let go! Please!"
"A lesson to you, good sir," Brigitta said, releasing his finger. "There may be prostitutes in Grantville but let them find you. Never, but never, make an assumption that any woman, no matter how she is dressed or where she works, is a prostitute. Is that clear?"
Georg's eyes were watering as he worked the finger. "You might have told me before!"
"Of course." She smiled wickedly. "But you'll remember it so much better this way. You can see the room number above the door. 302. Your bunk is number seven and you can see the number on it from here. Remember its location. If someone finds you sleeping in his bunk, you may lose some teeth. There is a cabinet for each bunk and yours is number seven. The showers are at the middle of the hallway and . . . wait, I'll have to show you. Put your bag in your cabinet and join me down the hall."
A few minutes later Georg was standing inside a room as large as his own bunk room. There were colored tiles on the walls and it had a strange smooth rock floor. At a level just above his head there were four spaced pipes sticking out from the wall with something bell-shaped at their end. Two knobs were on the wall below each pipe and a square opening was built into the wall above the knobs.
"This is how you turn on the shower." Brigitta stood to the side and turned one of the knobs. Water sprayed out of the bell-shaped device. "There are two knobs. The one I just turned on, the one on the right, is for cold water. The one on the left is for hot water. You can adjust the temperature of the water coming out to your liking. Clear? When you are finished, be certain no water is coming out of the shower head. We do not waste water here."
Georg thought he understood but figured he could watch or ask someone else when he took his shower.
"One more thing," Brigitta said, with that nasty smile of hers. "There are four showers in this room, the only one on this floor. Only one person per shower. Try to share and people will think you're . . ." She gave a sign for a homosexual. "Wait in the hall with a towel around your waist or in your trousers or go back to your room. Use a towel to dry before you leave the shower. People slip on these floors and there's enough dirt on them without making mud. I have enough work to do. Understand?
"The hallway lights come on at sundown and go off an hour before midnight so everyone can get a good night's sleep. At dawn a bell will be rung so everyone can get to work on time. Any questions?"
Georg had a thousand but decided he'd try showering now that men were coming into the hallway from where they'd been working.
Half an hour later, freshly showered, he joined Bernhard at the door of the dormitory.
The Thuringen Gardens was busy when Bernhard and Georg walked in. "It's always like this from middle afternoon until late at night," Bernhard explained. The waitress bent forward next to Georg showing a generous cleavage as she set the quart-sized beer mugs before them. Georg was about to slip his arm around the woman's bottom as he often did in taverns but as he reached out, a twinge from his finger reminded him that Grantville was different. He carefully withdrew his arm. Bernhard was sitting across the long table from him. The corner of his mouth curled up slightly.
"That'll be five dollars," the waitress said. "Would you like to order a meal?"
Georg did a quick calculation and was horrified. So much for a beer? That was more than triple what it cost in Jena! More! How much had they devalued the money here? Did he even dare to spend his good Jena money?
"Order what you want, Georg." Bernhard smiled at the look on Georg's face. "I'll buy your meal tonight and you can return the favor after you get your first pay. They have herbed roast chicken, which is very good but that you can buy for yourself. The dish is expensive but the price has been coming down in the past month or two as more people have begun raising chickens."
Georg ordered first. After Bernhard put in his order for a round of cooked ground beef on a bun and pickled red cabbage, he continued Georg's orientation. "I guess someone must have told you that grabbing the ass of a waitress in Grantville is not a good idea."
Embarrassed, Georg told the story of his brief encounter with Brigitta to Bernhard's amusement.
Bernhard grinned and leaned forward with his forearms on the table. "You got off easy. I've met her before and she knew you were new to Grantville. She's attended several unarmed combat classes. Easier than using a knife on someone who wants to get too friendly, you know. If I or most of the other men around us had done that, I might have gotten a look of what's between her legs. Of course, her foot would have been standing across my throat. Not worth it. Not worth it at all." He chuckled and took a large swig of beer.
Georg shrugged. "Everyone tells me that Grantville is different. How much different?"
Bernhard looked around for a moment. Then he pointed towards a large table in a back corner where eight people were dressed in American and German clothing. "See that table? The new principal of the school for teenage children, the last having been killed in the Croat raid a few weeks ago, is sitting there. Another man is the manager of the steel plant in Swarza along with his wife who is also highly educated in physical mechanics. Another is Herr Wesley Jenkins, the brother of our employer and a senior civil servant. There's talk of sending him somewhere else in Germany whenever Herr President Stearns and King Gustavus Adolphus come to an agreement. The woman sitting next to him is a German who's a widow from Badenburg but who has also been working with Herr Wesley. The woman next to her used to be a camp follower but she's with the CoCs now. The last man is a Scottish weaver, specializing in wool.
"Now name me a place in the world where you can find such a diverse group that isn't traveling or drinking heavily. Each and every one of them is working hard not only for themselves but also to better Germany as a whole. Think about all the people you've ever known. Where else have you ever seen a people like these here?
"Now I won't say that everyone in Grantville is that way. In fact, there are a lot of Americans who wish they were back where they came from, working for little more than subsistence pay because back there they had so many conveniences. Didn't have to work half as hard for them, either. Which is also why most of those people will never leave Grantville if they can help it.
"I'd known of your Herr Jenkins before he left here because I was cutting timber for Herr Chad Jenkins. Frankly, he did not have the best reputation. In fact, he . . . well, never mind. Now I can't help but admire him. Of all the Americans who left Grantville, I think he's about the only one who doesn't work closely with other Americans, only Germans."
"You're German. What makes them different?" Georg asked, as their meals were placed in front of them.
Bernhard shrugged and had a bite of his sandwich before continuing. "It's something inside them, in their education, that they refuse to be defeated by events. You've already heard how long they were educated. Do you realize that in this city less than one child in ten dies of illness? They claim that number is ridiculously high, that in a few years it will be less than one in a hundred. What medicines they can produce keep many children alive but cleanliness is the single largest reason they say. It's nearly an obsession, the insistence on washing their hands before eating and after using the facilities. The sewer you were building in Jena is part of that insistence.
"Next month I will return to my home town to bring my sister and children here. After the Croat attack, I figured if Wallenstein and Richelieu are that afraid of Grantville-educated children, then I'd better get mine here as soon as possible. Can you imagine what an education is worth from the most knowledgeable place in the world?"
"Interesting." Georg bit into his toasted roll. It was sliced lengthwise and contained sauerkraut and sausage that was slathered with mustard. Expensive but not bad, he thought, letting its sharp and spiced flavors fill his mouth. He put it down and tried some pickled cabbage. It was . . . different, definitely not as good as what his mother used to make but then whose was?
"Is this place open for breakfast as well?"
"No. Just keep sniffing when you leave the dormitory tomorrow morning and watch where the other men go. There's a few different places. I live in a house owned by Herr Jenkins with five other men and we have a German woman who cooks for us every morning. Care for another beer?"
When Brigitta walked down the hallway ringing the bell the next morning Georg woke up with a headache. Not his usual headache caused by drinking too much. His head hurt in different places. He opened his eyes or at least tried to. Something was definitely wrong because he couldn't open them more than slits. What was in that beer last night?
Georg threw back his blanket. He walked stiffly over to his cabinet, got out his clothes and, sitting on the bench, put them on painfully. He hadn't felt this bad since that drunken fight in . . . Checking his pouch before putting on his trousers, he found that he had most of his money. Well, that was good news.
Slowly, painfully he put his head up and walked out. It was cool for being the just past the middle of summer he thought, taking a deep breath. Ouch. That hurt too. He breathed in through his nostrils and . . . cooking sausage. Breakfast!
Georg looked around at the other men coming out of the dormitory. "Hey, where's a good place for breakfast?" he called.
One of them looked at him strangely and then nodded. "This way."
"What the hell happened to you?" Bernhard asked when Georg walked into the shop almost an hour later.
"I don't know," Georg admitted. "I remember leaving the Gardens. I don't remember much past then. I saw another tavern. I think it was a tavern. I guess it sold food because I remember a sign in English saying, 'No Krauts'. 'No' meaning 'nichts' and 'Krauts' I figure was for 'cabbage.' They didn't have any cooked cabbage for sale. Stupid sign to put up. I'd already had enough to eat anyway. I opened the door and well, that's the last I remember from last night."
Bernhard sighed. "Kraut is a derogatory term for German. Remember when I told you not to go to the Club 250 yesterday because they don't like Germans? Guess what you did. Somebody, probably a lot of somebody's beat you up. Let me take you over to the restroom. I'll clean you up."
When Georg looked in the mirror, he was shocked. First of all, he'd never seen himself in a decent mirror. Second, it was no wonder he felt bad. Both eyes were swollen almost shut and his face had been brutalized. There were smears of dried blood from his nose on his chin and cheeks where he'd wiped his face last night. Thank heaven he'd been feeling no pain.
"I hope you can see well enough to work," Bernhard said. He washed and rinsed Georg's face until it was cleared of all blood. "We've got a shipment going out on Monday. If we don't get enough finished today, we're going to have to work on it tomorrow."
"Are you all right?" Herr Jenkins asked as soon as he saw Georg.
"I feel hurt but it could have been a lot worse," Georg said bravely. As time went on, he was feeling more aches and bruises in various parts of his body. But he still had all his teeth and he'd given worse in fights. "They weren't really trying hard to injure me. Either that or I defended myself well and my knuckles don't look that bad."
Bernhard brought over two light blue pills with a glass of water. "Here. This will make it hurt less."
"What kind of pills are these?" Georg asked, putting the pills into his mouth and taking a drink of water to wash them down.
"Like an essence of willow bark in pill form. They call it aspirin. It relieves pain. There's a doctor in Jena who compounds it for us."
Fortunately, being the newest member of the assembly crew, Georg's job was the easiest. All he had to do was hammer square-ended metal caps on each end of the cylinders and lightly tap gears with a small hammer onto each cap using a covering piece of wood before passing them to the next position.
Since Georg was paying for his own meal tonight and wouldn't be paid by Herr Jenkins until noon tomorrow, he only had a sandwich and a beer at the Thuringen Gardens. Well, one more beer. He could afford it and it really was good beer.
By the time he left the Gardens, the sun had been down for hours. He still had enough in his pouch for tomorrow's breakfast.
The streetlights were on, which helped as he stumbled the short distance from the Gardens to the dormitory. It was a warm, beautiful night and Georg was feeling one with the world. He would have sung but in the past people had compared his singing to the braying of a mule and he was determined to be a good boy here in Grantville.
Should have used the facilities in the Gardens before he left, Georg thought as his bladder began to feel uncomfortable. Probably not a good idea to piss in the streets here. He'd wait until he got to the dormitory.
Umm, the dormitory was just a little far away. Nobody will notice if I duck into an alley for a few moments. He was feeling awfully tired . . .
"Hey, you! Yes, you with your schwantz hanging out. What do you think you're doing?" the German patrolman asked. Georg was propping up a wall with one arm, the other holding his trousers as he returned the fluid of at least one large mug of beer back to the earth from whence it came.
Georg turned, slumping sideways against the wall without stopping the flow. "Jesus Christ! He's whizzing all over the place," the second of the two patrolmen shouted.
The first patrolman laughed. "I should have let him keep going the way he was. Now he's wet his trousers as well, Jonathan. I thought you would have seen this in the army. Come, we'll take him home. After he pulls up his pants."
"Shouldn't we take him in?" the younger man asked as the two men helped Georg continue walking back in the well-lit street.
"Why? He hasn't done anything wrong except relieve himself in the wrong place. Besides, look at his face. He's had enough trouble already and he's not violent. Putting him in a cell would be a waste of the taxpayers' money."
About that time Georg began to feel sick. Very sick.
The next morning Georg's head exploded when Brigitta walked down the hall clanging that infernal bell. Wearing only his pants, he stumbled into the bright hallway headed for the showers. At least he knew why his head hurt this morning.
Brigitta was coming towards him from the end of the hall, still ringing the bell. She grinned at Georg's expression as he clamped his palms over his ears. "Herr Bauer! When you take your shower, keep your trousers on." She laughed.
Georg looked down and just as the urine and vomit on them registered in his mind, his pants fell to his knees. Brigitta burst into loud peals of laughter and started ringing the bell again.
Bernhard looked over at Georg an hour later when he came in to work not looking much better than he had the day before. Only now his trousers were soaked as well. Bernhard just shook his head with a sad smile.
"Georg?" He saw the younger man wince. "We've got enough rollers prepared. Today you'll press and then stencil the name of the company on the slats that will be on both sides of the top of the wringer assembly."
Georg took a piece of paper out of his pouch and handing it to him. "Bernhard, what does this mean? The old man at the front desk gave it to me when I came downstairs this morning."
Bernhard took a quick glance at the police citation. "Drunk and committing a public nuisance. You understand the drunk part. The public nuisance probably means you were pissing somewhere that was not a restroom. Probably in a street or alley. Right?"
"I . . . uh . . . don't remember too well," Georg admitted, his face screwed up trying to remember. "You mean that's a crime in Grantville?"
Bernhard nodded. "Remember what I said about cleanliness? Now you'll have to go to the police station and pay a fine. Probably about ten dollars. That's most of what you've earned your first day. Don't forget you're going to owe for another week at the dormitory before you get paid again."
"What? What am I going to live on? How will I pay for my food?"
Bernhard shrugged. "Perhaps you can get an advance on your pay from Herr Jenkins before that comes due. Come, I'll show you the pressing equipment and how to place the stencil so you can paint it."
When Bernhard had explained Georg's situation to Herr Jenkins, he looked very unsympathetic. In fact, Chad pulled out a folder with Georg's name on it and inking a quill, wrote down the circumstances.
"I don't like this. I don't like this at all, Georg. I hired you based on my son's recommendation. Now you're letting him down as well as me. Frankly, I'm tempted to let you go right now. But I won't. This time. The next time you get into trouble . . . But I will advance the amount of your fine from your pay for next week before court because I understand your situation and that will be the last time. Understand?" Herr Jenkins asked sternly.
Georg felt he should have been grateful but . . . a fine for just being drunk and taking a leak against an alley wall? It wasn't like he was doing it in the middle of a street in front of a group of schoolchildren. "Yes, Herr Jenkins. It won't happen again."
"Good," the older man said, closing the folder. "Bernhard tells me you did good work today in spite of your problems. As I understand it, both nights you had been drinking. Try ordering water instead until you're almost ready to leave and then have one beer. I guarantee the water won't make you sick. I hope you will be able to improve your skills even more next week. All right?" He rose from behind his desk and walked over to Georg. He put his hand out. Georg took it, giving a quick shake.
Half an hour later, with an unfocused anger and still feeling out of kilter, Georg was walking hurriedly on the sidewalk with his head down. When someone came out of a doorway, they collided and both men went down quickly.
Georg bounced up ready to fight before he saw who knocked him down. A Jew! A filthy, stinking, lousy, Jew! A Christ-killer, one of those who Martin Luther had condemned and who Georg's former pastor had said it would be a blessing to smite! Pastor Keller had devoted considerable time telling to how to identify Jews. Here was this long-bearded man wearing a Jewish prayer shawl, its knotted tassels sticking out from beneath his coat. Georg didn't stop to think. He punched the other man in the stomach just as he was rising to his feet. What right did this man have to be in a Christian town?
Georg was about to kick him in the privates when he suddenly found himself on the ground with one arm twisted behind him. Someone's knee was in the middle of his back.
"Are you all right, Rabbi?" the German policeman asked with concern.
"No. I most definitely am not," the older man said weakly, catching his breath. "This young man hurt me. I suspect he would have done much worse if you had not intervened. I was coming out of the shop and we ran into each other. I guess you saw the rest."
"What's the matter with you?" shouted Georg to the policeman from his viewpoint on the sidewalk. "He's a Jew!"
"Ah, that explains it," the old man said scornfully. "Another who feels that the slaughter of thousands of Jews in Spain and elsewhere is still not enough to make up for the death of a single Jewish carpenter a millennium and a half ago. I would rather he hit me because I inconvenienced him. But what can you do against consummate superstition?"
"I can take him in and charge him with assault and battery against you, Rabbi. That ought to teach him something. All you have to do is sign the charge sheet."
The old man bent down. He looked at Georg's face then sighed. "No, I don't think I will. In fact, I forgive him. Isn't that the Christian thing to do?" he said with a bitter twist of his mouth.
"I don't want your goddamn forgiveness, you stinking Jew!"
"Nevertheless, like God's love, you have it anyway," the rabbi said with an ever so patronizing smile. "Whether you want it or not. Even if you are not one of my people." Then he walked away.
Georg was hauled to his feet only to see Herr Jenkins standing right in front of him. "I don't think you're the type of person I want working for me," Chad said coldly. "Get your bag and get out of town. If I see you again, I'll insist that the police press charges. Have I made myself clear?"
Halfway back to Jena, Georg came to two conclusions. First, Grantville was different. Second, he never wanted to go there again.