Grantville Gazette VI Read online

  * * *

  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 standi
ng 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.

  THE WOMAN SHALL NOT WEAR THAT

  by Virgina DeMarce

  Summer, 1634

  No. Pastor Ludwig Kastenmayer put it out of his mind. His eyes must have deluded him. The cleaning woman at Countess Katharina the Heroic Lutheran Elementary School, here on the outskirts of Grantville, could not have been wearing . . . that.

  He put it out of his mind until, while walking along the road to Rudolstadt, he observed some others of his female parishioners among a street-sweeping crew, among a gutter-cleaning service, and a window-washing crew. In each case, some of them seemed to be wearing what? He tried his best to pretend that he had seen no such thing.

  Until the day that he entered his own home and observed the nether garment that Salome—Salome? his wife Salome?—was wearing as she bent over to clean the hearth.

  * * *

  He sat in his study and checked the appropriate references contained in Martin Luther's Table Talk—comments on whether or not it was worth a pastor's while to preach in regard to female modesty. They brought him no joy. Luther's thesis had been that it was not usually worthwhile to preach on such topics because, as a result of the German climate, one's female parishioners were ordinarily wearing multiple layers of skirts and petticoats that covered them from head to toe, a head scarf or hat, and not uncommonly a cloak, wool socks, lined boots, and mittens, with a hot brick under their feet.

  This, the venerable Luther had pointed out, relieved German pastors of worrying about the topic of modesty, which had preoccupied so many of the early church fathers. They, living in a Mediterranean climate, had naturally been more concerned with the impact upon morals and mores of skimpy coverage, flimsy fabric, and revealing that which was better concealed. If a pastor had an affluent parish, an occasional sermon on the topic of luxury in dress might not be amiss, but that applied at least as much to men as it did to women. Usually more. For the average rural village church, even that was scarcely a problem, though.

  The German climate had not changed significantly. Most of the time, at least in winter, the up-time women went around dressed in items such as "sweat shirts" which provided full coverage and did very little to emphasize those female attributes which many men found tempting. The garments were, in fact, Pastor Kastenmayer thought, quite literally as ugly as sin. The up-time men wore "sweat shirts" also, but surely only the devil himself, Kastenmayer thought with some humor, could persuade a female to put one on.

  In the summer, however . . . Pastor Kastenmayer sighed. Although the up-timers were not his direct concern, their impact upon Grantville's Lutheran women was. It looked like it was going to be "back to patristics" for the themes of some of his sermons this year.

  Plus, there was a more serious theological concern.

  Only a few of the younger down-time women and almost none of the respectable married women in St. Martin's in the Fields parish had been tempted to try "jeans." Pastor Kastenmayer suspected that more and more of the girls attending the up-time high school wore them on weekdays, when they did not expect to be under his eye. Little Anna Krausin, Maria's sister, came immediately to mind. He occasionally had a depressing feeling that he really should try to do something about that. Although what he could do other than preach a sermon was something of a quandary.

  Even Anna Krausin came to church wearing skirts of a respectable length. If not, precisely, of a respectable width, and almost certainly lacking petticoats beneath them. He referred this concern back to the topic of modesty, which appeared earlier in his notes.

  If "jeans" were a peripheral matter because they had not made great inroads in his congregation—he added a mental "yet" to this analysis—those . . . things . . . that Salome had been wearing were not.

  Upon inquiry, he found that the offending garments were sometimes referred to as "divided skirts" or "culottes" but the most common variant was called "skorts." Apparently these disguised trousers had become widely accepted among his parishioners.

  He had refrained from reproaching her directly because . . . Salome, although an excellent wife in most ways, did not always accept reproaches as meekly as theory indicated that she should.

  His first wife hadn't, either.

  Hardly any wives did.

  This was unquestionably one of the more lasting effects of original sin.

  Except, of course, that if one read the narratives quite literally, which one certainly should do, Eve had not been inclined to obey either Adam or God Himself even before the Fall of Man. Which was most perplexing, no matter how various theologians attempted to explain it, since supposedly things had been perfect in the Garden of Eden. Did this imply that God regarded a woman with an independent mind as a proper component of paradise? Surely not. But, then . . .

  Nevertheless. He pulled his thoughts together and focused them.

  It was his clear duty to do something. In the Bible, more precisely in the Old Testament, more precisely at Old Testament, Deuteronomy 22:5, there was to be found the statement, in Luther's German translation: "Ein weib sol nicht mans gerete tragen/vnd ein man sol nicht weiber kleider an thun/Denn wer solchs thut/der ist dem Herrn deinem Gott ein grewel."

  The English language Bible that Gary Lambert had loaned him agreed. "The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God." King James Version.

  Anxiously, he checked it in the Greek translation of the Septuagint. He followed this by reference to the original Hebrew. Why waste all those years of education in the biblical languages that had been forced down his throat, after all?

  His obligation was clear. He must enter the confines of Grantville proper to discover the exact cultural status of skorts and such related items as divided skirts. Did they, or did they not, pertain to a man?

  Feeling vaguely morose, he wandered into an otherwise empty classroom at Countess Katharina the Heroic Lutheran Elementary School, next door to the church. Where he observed his daughter, Maria Blandina, teetering on the top of a too-short step stool, trying to tack up a new set of alphabet letters. Experiencing a panicked concern that she was going to fall off, carefully avoiding startling her, he suggested that she come down. She did manage to make her way down safely, surrounded by his anxious admonitions to "find someone taller to do that." In the process, alas, he observed that she was wearing what? Yes. That. Under her full skirt, but wearing it.

  Of course, he had to admit, worn as an undergarment that did contribute a great deal to the preservation of appropriate feminine modesty. Far more than petticoats did. Hmmmn.

  * * *

  "I do feel obliged to do it," the pastor said to Jonas Justinus Muselius and Gary Lambert a few days later. "To determine the status of these 'culottes' and 'skorts.'"

  After a few moments of further contemplation he said, "Jeans, on the other hand. They are obviously male clothing."

  "Actually," Gary said, "they're sort of both. They come in two kinds. Sometimes girls do wear guys' jeans, but not usually. Not if the girl has a shape. If she does, guys' jeans are, ah, mostly the wrong shape, if you get me." He gestured with his hands. "Since Sheila was left up-time, I gave her clothes to the Ecumenical Emergency Refugee Relief Committee early on, so I can't show you. Unless we could borrow a pair from someone else."

  Kastenmayer looked a little daunted by the prospect of a demonstration.

  "Maybe Ronella Koch would lend us a pair, if we asked her," Gary continued.

  August, 1634

  "There you go," Ronella said. She had almost finished mounting Maria Blandina's new alphabet cards. She was only four inches talle
r than her friend, which didn't make a lot of difference, but had arrived from the trolley carrying the Kochs' eight-rung aluminum stepladder, which did.

  She would start her adult career, teaching at Grantville high school, in a couple of days. Mathematics department. Advanced algebra and trigonometry. Her mother's determined tutoring had paid off. Combined, of course, with the incredible turnover that the high school faculty had experienced in the past three years, as experienced teachers were yanked out for other work in government or industry, replaced at first by retirees and teachers called up from the lower levels. Then the retirees, getting no younger themselves, were often unable to maintain the pace of full-time teaching and grading indefinitely.

  Up-time, these plum courses would have gone to a teacher with more seniority. Here and now, down-time, Victor Saluzzo, himself the third principal in four years following Ed Piazza's move into government and Len Trout's death, counted himself lucky to get her. Even without anything resembling a teaching certification.