Grantville Gazette, Volume X

  "So, Willi, how are you today?" Willi liked Frau Zenzi's voice. It was deep and warm and furry sounding, but would never be mistaken for a man's voice.

  "Today I am fine, Frau Zenzi. And how is your business today?"

  "Eh, well, it is not as good as I would like, but it is good enough. God provides." Willi heard her clothes rustle as she bent down. "Hold out your hand, Willi."

  He did so, and felt a cup placed in it. The tang of buttermilk came to him as he sipped.

  "It's not much," she said. "I would have more, but the bread sold out early today, even the rolls that were burned on the bottom."

  Willi licked his lips, feeling the thick coating of the buttermilk on them. He lifted the empty cup and felt it taken from his hands. "Thank you, Frau Zenzi. It was good." He hesitated. "Frau Zenzi? Why do you give this—the bread, the milk—why do you give them to me?"

  He felt her kneel down in front of him, then her hand touched his head. "Do you not know, young Willi?" He shook his head. "'Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.' Those are the very words of Jesu Christus. I don't understand many things about the Bible, or about the words of Luther or Calvin, but these words of Jesu I understand. To the least, I will give. And you, young Willi, are among the least."

  She patted his head gently, then stood. Willi's throat felt swollen from the emotion he was feeling that moment. To think that someone did care for him even a little fueled a warmth in his belly that made him forget the cool day.

  "Uff." Frau Zenzi sounded disgusted. "Here comes that Dürr woman again, wanting us to bake something for her. If ever a name was fitting it is hers, for she is as thin and dry as an old stick."

  "She sounds mean," Willi ventured.

  "Ha! That's because she is mean, Willi my lad, for all her trying to sound sweet. Well, I'd best go deal with her. Soonest begun, soonest done."

  Willi heard her steps move off. He sat quietly in his darkness for a moment, feeling the warmth inside, then resumed his whistling.

  * * *

  Byron pushed away from the wall of the building. "Come on. Let's go for a walk." Gotthilf was beside him as he started down the street.

  The pace was more of an amble than a walk. Byron kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he looked around. He decided that most of these folks would have been right at home at an up-time flea market either as buyers or sellers. The energy, the conversations, the raised voices, even some of the gestures were all the same. If the people had been speaking English instead of German, this could have been the Saturday morning meeting at the old drive-in theater over by Fairmont.

  One trade in particular caught Byron's attention. He was looking the right way to see several silver coins exchange hands for a single table knife, fork and spoon setting of stainless steel flatware. The vendor looked nervous when he saw Byron staring at him after the exchange was made.

  "Don't look now," Byron said after they were several steps past that point, "but the fellow in the faded green coat may be dealing in stolen merchandise. Don't look," without changing expression as Gotthilf started to turn.

  "Why aren't you confronting him?" Gotthilf was scowling.

  "Because I can't prove it . . . or at least not yet."

  "But you saw something back there."

  "Yep. I saw him sell something that could only have come from Grantville." Gotthilf started to turn again, and Byron grabbed him by the arm. "But . . . that doesn't mean it's stolen. Only that it might be."

  Gotthilf settled beside him again. "So, you just ignore it?"

  "No. Because it might be stolen. So it's our responsibility to look into it. We'll ask some questions in Grantville about what I saw. We'll ask some questions around here about this fellow. We'll start putting the pieces of the puzzle together, and depending on what picture we get we may arrest the guy."

  Gotthilf stopped. "Pieces? Puzzle? Picture? What are you talking about? And what does that have to do with stolen property?"

  Byron's jaw dropped for a moment. "Um . . . I think we just tripped over an up-time thing." He spent some time describing jigsaw puzzles, until Gotthilf understood the concept. "So, police work is a lot like that process, except we have to make the pieces ourselves."

  "I understand . . . I think. But it seems like a lot of work when we could just arrest him now and have done with it. You saw it, you think the items were stolen, the magistrates would probably be satisfied with that."

  Byron wanted to smack his forehead. "Gotthilf, it's about the truth. It's about what I can prove, not what I think." He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a piece of paper. "Listen, this is even in the Bible. From Deuteronomy chapter seventeen, verse six: 'At the mouth of two witnesses, or three witnesses, shall he that is worthy of death be put to death; but at the mouth of one witness he shall not be put to death.' That's basically establishing that justice will be based on more than one man's opinion."

  Gotthilf still looked stubborn. Byron was glad that he had talked to Lenny Washaw about this stuff. He had had a feeling that having something from the Bible that would support his teachings would impress at least some of the down-timers. He wasn't much of a church-goer himself, but he knew Lenny through his wife Jonni and her sister Marla. Lenny was a Methodist deacon, so he knew more Bible than Byron did, that's for sure. Once he had explained his need, Lenny had come up with several passages for him.

  "Listen, Gotthilf, have you ever read the story of Susannah and the Elders?"

  "No."

  "It's in your Bible. Read it. You'll see what I'm talking about."

  * * *

  They continued strolling down the street. Byron had quit talking and was just looking around. Gotthilf was trying to see what the up-timer was looking at, but he saw nothing noteworthy.

  His feelings ran through a cycle of confused, irritated and frustrated, over and over again. He thought he understood what Lieutenant Chieske was saying, but it just didn't make any sense. If you thought something was wrong and you knew who did it, everything in him said you should do something about it. It didn't make sense that you should just talk to people.

  Gotthilf shook his head, walking two steps past the up-timer before he realized he had stopped. He turned and stepped back to where Byron had his head cocked to one side. "What is it now?"

  "Listen."

  After a moment Gotthilf could hear it; someone was whistling. Someone was whistling well, although he didn't recognize the tune. Byron had caught the direction and headed toward the sound. Gotthilf trailed in his wake, shaking his head again. Now the madman wanted to see someone whistling.

  Byron stopped so suddenly that Gotthilf almost trod on his heels. The whistling was in front of them. He stepped around the up-timer, only to see nothing—nothing, that is, until he looked down to see a small boy seated in front of a bakery, whistling.

  Gotthilf had to admit the boy was good. For a moment, he stood there and listened. He didn't think he knew the tune, but something about it . . . He shook it off when Byron knelt before the boy.

  "Hello." Byron's voice was light, but his expression was serious. "My name is Byron. What's yours?"

  Gotthilf noted the dirty rag tied around the boy's eyes and the wooden bowl with several coppers in it sitting on the ground in front of him. A beggar. His mouth twisted in distaste.

  "Willi." The blindfolded head turned to look up at Byron, as if the boy could see. "You sound funny. Are you from Jena?"

  Gotthilf was ready to wager there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

  "No," Byron responded, "I'm from a lot farther away than that."

  "Mainz?" Willi was obviously trying to think of someplace far away.

  "No," Byron laughed. "I'm from Grantville."

  Willi's mouth made an O. He started asking excited questions, which Byron answered patiently, one after another. When the boy ran down, Byron asked his own question.

  "Do you know the name of the song you were whistling?" Whe
n the boy shook his head, Byron said, "It's called 'The Rising of the Moon.' My wife's sister sings it a lot at the Green Horse tavern."

  "Oh, I never heard the name. That's pretty. I just heard the song when Un . . . when someone I know would hum it."

  Gotthilf snorted and nudged Byron with his foot. When the up-timer looked up with a frown, he said, "We have work to do, or so you told me, yet you sit here talking to a beggar who can probably see as well as you can."

  The boy's mouth set in a hard line. He reached up to pull off the bandage, then raised his face to them. Gotthilf swallowed a curse as he stepped back from the sight of the scarred and cloudy eyes.

  Byron took Willi's face between his hands, tilting it this way and that to let the light shine upon it. "Can you see anything at all?" The question was asked in a tone that matched his gentle hands.

  "Some light, some dark." Willi's voice was low.

  "Has it gotten worse?"

  Willi nodded.

  "When did it start?"

  "When the soldiers came." The boy started putting his bandage back on to hide his eyes.

  Byron looked up to Gotthilf. The sack of Magdeburg—four years ago. Gotthilf swallowed in sudden nausea. "Where's your mother and father?"

  "Soldiers killed them." Willi's voice was now almost inaudible.

  "I'm sorry." Byron rested a hand on the boy's hair for a moment. "Who do you live with now?"

  "Uncle."

  "What is his . . ."

  "Willi! It's time to go." Byron was interrupted by another boy running up to Willi's side. "Come on, you know Uncle doesn't like us to be late." The boy helped Willi pick up the bowl and put the coins in his pocket. "Come on!"

  "Wait." Byron reached in his pocket and pressed something into the boy's hand. "Goodbye, Willi. Nice talking to you."

  Gotthilf stood beside Byron as the two boys hurried down the street, Willi being led by the other.

  "You know when I said I'd let you know when I found what I was looking for?"

  "Yes."

  "I think I just found it."

  "The boy?"

  "Yep. Boy that size shouldn't be begging, blind or not. On my watch, you don't abuse or take advantage of kids. Someone's not taking proper care of him, and I think I'll find out who."

  "But he's just a beggar." Gotthilf was astounded at the up-timer's thoughts. Astonishment fled in the next instant, however, as Byron turned to him with a transformed face. His eyes were cold. His face was still, as if engraved in stone, except for a muscle tic in his left cheek.

  "'We hold these truths to be self-evident' . . ." Byron's voice, cold enough to match his eyes, was obviously quoting something. ". . . 'that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" After a moment, he continued. "That's from the American Declaration of Independence. It expresses our belief that all men are created of equal worth. And that includes Willi."

  Byron's hands snaked out and grabbed the front of Gotthilf's jerkin. He suddenly found himself nose to nose with the taller man, feet dangling inches above the ground. "That boy is a victim." The up-timer's voice was, if possible, even icier than before. "And no victim is ever going to be dismissed as 'just' anything. Not on my watch. If you don't learn anything else today, learn that."

  The up-timer released his grip. Gotthilf landed hard on his heels with a jar that brought a clack from his teeth and set his head spinning. He looked up to be transfixed again by the cold glare from Byron's eyes.

  "You've got some Bible reading to do. While you're doing that, I'm going to do some research."

  Still a little wobbly, Gotthilf watched the back of the tall up-timer recede down the street.

  * * *

  Willi was two streets over before he was able to dig in his heels. "Erna!" He wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you out of trouble," she hissed in his ear. "One of those men was an up-timer."

  "I know that. His name is Byron. He was nice."

  "Well, I think the man he was with was one of the city watch. He looked like one I saw wearing the sash a week or two ago."

  Willi swallowed. "He wasn't nice."

  "That's right. And you just remember that. We're going to have to tell Uncle, and he's not going to like it. Now come on."

  "Wait." Willi held out his hand. "Byron gave me this. What is it?" He heard the sound of breath sucked in. "Well?"

  "It's a silver pfennig. Uncle will like that for sure. Now put it away and come on."

  * * *

  As it turned out, it was two days before Gotthilf saw Byron again. He spent a frustrating morning trying to locate the Bible passage he had been directed to read. Finally he gave it up and went to visit his pastor. The ensuing reading and discussion lasted most of the day. Verse by verse the old scholar walked him through the account, in the process showing him the wisdom and knowledge owned by Daniel, the hero of the tale.

  "It is a cautionary tale from several aspects," the pastor concluded. "First, to those who are in positions of authority: it says to guard themselves against temptation, and warns them that if they do succumb to temptation, nothing they can do will hide their sin. They will be found out."

  He turned a page. "Second, to the community: to not be quick to judge without first carefully weighing the facts. Things such as this must be diligently examined, and even the highest ranked involved should be questioned carefully.

  "Third," and here he gave a direct look to Gotthilf, "to those charged with these examinations: to be diligent to look for the facts, and not be swayed by opinions or statements from others. It is reprehensible to allow someone to be falsely accused and convicted of a crime."

  "That's what he said," Gotthilf muttered.

  "He?" the pastor asked.

  "Byron Chieske, the Grantville lieutenant I'm supposed to be working with."

  This led to a discussion of the events of the previous day. Somehow it didn't surprise Gotthilf to find that his pastor agreed with the up-timer.

  "He sounds as if he is a man of wisdom, integrity and insight. I suggest, young Gotthilf, that you listen to him."

  "Yes, sir," Gotthilf sighed.

  The following morning Gotthilf tried to apologize to Byron for not showing up the previous day.

  "Don't mention it," Byron waved it off. "I was up to my eyebrows in looking for an orphanage."

  "Orphanage?"

  "Yeah. A place where kids who lose their parents and don't have kinfolk go to live."

  Gotthilf struggled to absorb another new up-time idea. "We have no such things."

  "That's what I found out." Byron shrugged. "So then I asked what happened to the kids whose parents were killed in the sack."

  "And?"

  "Most of them were placed with kin. If no kin was found, older children were placed as apprentices and younger children were placed with families who would care for them until they were of an age to be apprenticed." Byron looked satisfied, to Gotthilf's eye. "The church kept records, they did. When I explained my concern about Willi they not only opened those records, they gave me a clerk to read them. And here," he reached in his pocket and drew out a notebook which he threw open, "is a list of families who accepted young boys into their foster care about that time."

  Gotthilf reacted to Byron's smile with an uncertain smile of his own. "Let me guess: we go to talk to these people."

  "Right. Here's the addresses. Let's go."

  * * *

  They turned away from the next to the last address on their list. "All children accounted for and healthy," Gotthilf muttered as he pulled the address list out one last time. "We're down to one Lubbold Vogler."

  "It's called the process of elimination," Byron assured him. "You work through all the possibilities until you arrive at the one that fits. So, we've eliminated all the others, we should get our answers from Herr Vogler at this last address."

  But th
e face that opened the door at their knock disappointed them. "No, no Vogler here."

  "Did he live here before you, do you know?"

  "No." And the door was firmly closed.

  They stepped down to the street. "Where do we go from here?" Gotthilf wondered.

  Byron looked around with narrowed eyes. "C'mon. And think of a question you can ask." Gotthilf followed him over to an old man sitting on a step, one hand on a cane and another holding his pipe. The up-timer nodded his head to the old man. "Good afternoon, Großvater. I am Lieutenant Chieske, and this is Herr Hoch."