Grantville Gazette, Volume 40 (4 page)

That got a smile from the boy. "Thank you, sir—I mean, John. But I don't have friends or family anymore. They are dead."

"What do you mean? Where are you from?"

"Darmstadt."

Rice shook his head. "Don't know it. Is it close?"

Oswin nodded. "It is not too far away, I suppose, but it is gone now. British bombers set a fire in it. A fire that would not stop. It destroyed almost everything. My mother, father, my little brother. All are dead."

Rice had heard of this kind of bombing. First, incendiaries were dropped around the city. Then, high explosives were released, which ignited the incendiaries and created a self-sustaining fireball that grew and grew as winds were sucked in to feed the flames. It was a terrible, brutal way to wage war, and rumor had it that more of these kinds of attacks were coming.

Oswin stopped talking and turned his head away.

From his coat pocket, Rice pulled a black-and-white wallet sized picture of a girl. He smiled and ran his fingers across her bright face, trying to remember the color of the dress she had on. Red? Green? It hardly mattered. She looked good in anything.

"Is that your wife, sir?"

Rice ignored the "sir" and shook his head. "No, but I'd like her to be. I promised myself that when . . . if . . . I returned, I'd propose. But she's young. Not much older than you. Her father doesn't approve." He laughed. "He doesn't like me very much, and frankly, I'm not sure she likes me all that much either."

Oswin clutched the heirloom tightly. "My mother used to say that love is like the weather. There are many rainy days, and sometimes winds blow so strong that you can't stand it anymore. But you put your head forward and push through, and eventually, you will find the sunlight."

Rice picked another fragment from his neck. He gritted his teeth and hissed. That one stung. "She sounds like a smart lady. Did she give you that thing?" he asked, motioning to the heirloom.

"
Ja
. She got it from my grandfather. He used to wear it during his surgeries. He said it brought him good luck. He got it from his father, who got it from his mother. They say it's over three hundred years old."

Rice chuckled. "And you believe that?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

He picked another shard from his neck, wiped the wound clean and handed the knife back to Oswin. "Son, I hate to tell you this, but it's probably not that old. More likely than not your grandfather, or his father, got it from some shop second hand. I'm not even sure it's real silver."

At those words, Oswin seemed to deflate. He dropped the heirloom and laid back. Rice saw the hurt in the boy's face and immediately regretted the words.
Damn, my stupid mouth!
But it was
his
mother's fault that he was like this. She never filled his mind with romantic notions of love and perseverance. She never had any family trinkets passed down from his grandfather, no good luck charms given to him from his father, a man who drank too much and got himself killed in a card game. No, Mama Rice spent her idle time trying to figure out how to keep a family alive during a depression. She worried herself to death over it. Love was the furthest thing from her mind.

Rice rubbed his face, cleared his throat, and said, "Okay, then, tell me about this heirloom. Tell me about your family."

The boy sat up slowly, still in pain, but the hurt was gone from his face. He began to talk, and as he did so, Rice laid his head back. Oswin's voice soothed him and he thought of home, of Pennsylvania, of his mother and his sisters, and of Ella Lou in the soft green dress. Soft red dress.
I promise, sweet girl, when I return, I will ask. I promise.

He closed his eyes and slept.

September, 1635, Grantville

Ella Lou paused to let the ladies absorb what she had told them. They sat there, blank-faced, mouths opened slightly as if she had just sung them a dirty limerick. She smiled, proud of herself, proud of her good memory. John had told her everything, and more than once. Surely, with these details, they'd be able to help her. They must.

"Well, what do you think?"

They did not speak for a few moments, then Sandra Sue cleared her throat and said, "That's quite a story, Ella. I can't imagine being in such a terrible situation. Your husband is to be commended for his honorable service." She shot a glance at Mary Jo. "But, I have to be honest with you. Good genealogy requires good and obtainable records. Birth and death certificates, census data, marriage licenses, diaries, even criminal records. Do you have anything else from this German boy? Any further details?"

Ella felt her heart sink. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm sorry to say that it will be impossible to find this boy's ancestors."

"Why? Can't you people trace lineage through oral histories, stories?"

Mary Jo nodded. "Yes, and if we were still up-time, we'd probably be able to do it. But in this alternate timeline that we live in, Ella, we are missing the intervening centuries. They haven't happened yet. Your story took us back to about 1850, give or take, before your husband passed out, and apparently the heirloom was handed down from father to daughter, daughter to son, son to son, and so on. I didn't quite catch all of the surnames you mentioned, but there were many. Based upon what you told us, we can't be sure at all that it's as old as the boy claims. But even assuming that it is, there's been so much displacement from wars and famine and sickness—the wars going on right now, the time of Fredrick the Great, Napoleon—there is no research material, no body of evidence, that we can build upon. I'm . . . I'm sorry, Ella. It's not possible."

Ella crossed her arms and tried to look away. She was angry, but not at Mary or Sandra. It wasn't their fault. It was the fault of a foolish old bat who should have known better. How could they possibly help her with such slim details? She should have thought it through better, should have consulted Clyde first. She was making a rash decision based on emotion. She needed the cold practicality of her son, the calm calculations of her husband. Oftentimes, those qualities in her men were maddening, giving her no small amount of grief. But what she needed now was her children to help her through this. She needed her family.

She laid the heirloom down and stood slowly. "Well, thank you both for coming. I appreciate your time."

She walked them to the door. As she opened the door, Mary Jo said, "Ella, didn't you say that the boy was from Darmstadt?"

"Yes, that's what he said."

"Well, Darmstadt is just south of Frankfurt am Main. It's not that far from here. You could, I suppose, give the heirloom back to the town. You know, as an
altruistic
gesture, like your son says."

Was it possible? Would it be the same? Ella Lou wondered. No, it wouldn't be the same, but it would be something. Honoring the town, and its citizens, for the service of one of its own, even if that person did not exist yet. Owsin Bauer was a phantom in this timeline, a non-person, a figment of the wild imagination of some up-time witch. But the gesture didn't have to be a big, elaborate affair. It could be a small presentation, a few people, perhaps only the
Burgermeister
, a council member or two, nothing fancy. Just the way John would have preferred.

Yes, I will give the heirloom to Darmstadt
, she thought as she bid them goodbye and returned to her tea.
That would be a nice thing to do
.

October, 1635, Grantville

Three weeks later, Ella Lou greeted her son at the door when he arrived on a Sunday afternoon for their weekly checkers match. "Good afternoon, Mother," he said as he bent down to hug her. She pulled away, angry and agitated.

"What is this?" she asked, holding up a piece of paper with a broken wax seal.

Clyde smiled. "Ah, you got it. I was hoping you wouldn't open it until I arrived." He reached for it. "Here, give it to me. I'll read it to you."

"Don't bother, Honcho. I had a neighbor translate it for me. What have you done?"

He shrugged and put up his hands in surprise. "Nothing. What are you talking about? I just did a little prep work before we leave for Darmstadt on Wednesday."

"Prep work? You've told the whole goddamned world about this."

Clyde shook his head. "No, I haven't. I just contacted Jason Waters in Frankfurt am Main and had him post a little announcement in the newspapers around there. And I had Rolf contact a few of his merchant buddies in Darmstadt. Word just got around a little. It's no big deal."

"No big deal? Clyde, I wanted a small affair. Maybe just the
Burgermeister
, perhaps his wife if he has one. I just wanted to drop by his office, or wherever it is these people do their business, and give it to them."

"Mother!"

Ella Lou could hear the frustration growing in her son's voice, but she didn't care. He had disobeyed her instructions.

Clyde took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "You can't just waltz into town and say, 'Here I am, look at me, I have a present for you.' No, you have to plan for it, make appointments. Yes, we are exotic up-timers and these Germans will stop whatever it is they're doing to look at us, but as far as that goes, we're just commoners like most everyone else. We
had
to tell them we were coming."

"Okay, fair enough. But you've taken it too far, Clyde. Look here," she said, holding up the letter with clenched fists, "you have the entire town council attending,
and
the Landgrave, this George II. The Landgrave! And it's going to be a public presentation in their . . .
Schlossplatz
?"

"Yes, their market square. Rolf tells me it's a lovely place. Very spacious. It should be a great day, assuming it doesn't rain."

Ella Lou shook her head. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? A business venture. What are you going to do when we get there? Hand out business cards? How about t-shirts saying, 'I saw a wild West Virginian'? Or perhaps mugs with a picture of the heirloom saying, 'I survived Elsenborn Ridge'? Or—"

"Stop it, Mama! I don't appreciate the accusation. You're the one who wanted to do this. And he's my father, don't forget. I have a right to see that his memory is respected just as much as you."

"Yes, he was your father, but he was my husband.
My
husband!"

Crying, she turned her back to her son and stumbled into the living room. There, she fell into one of the chairs that she had set up for their game, and placed her hands on the table. She sniffled. "He was my husband, and I wanted to do this my way."

There was a long silence. Ella Lou could feel her son's eyes upon her back, angry eyes that had every right to be so, she knew. Clyde was right: it wasn't fair for her to sling accusations at him. She had asked him to look into the travel arrangements, had asked that he contact the government there in Darmstadt. She just didn't realize that he would go further than that. She should have known, though. Clyde was a business man: dot your i's and cross your t's. Leave no stone unturned. But . . . "I'm no good at public speaking," she said, rubbing her face. "I'll get nervous. I'll slur my words. I'm not smart like you, Clyde. I didn't even finish high school, and I don't know German at all. They'll laugh at me. They'll think I'm some old country bumpkin who—"

"Nonsense." Clyde put his hand upon her back and began to rub gently. "You're a wonderful speaker, mom. What about that time when you took to the picket line in Dad's union dispute? I remember you giving the company serious hell. And what about your work in the PTA when we were kids? There were many times when you got up and spoke your mind, and not from a prepared speech either."

Ella Lou shook her head. "Those days are long, long gone."

"The days are, Mother, but not the woman." Clyde took his seat and grabbed her hands. He held them firmly. "You can do this. I know you can. I'll prepare a speech for you—your words—not mine. And I'll be there if you stumble. We'll do this together. Okay?"

What could she say? She could refuse, cancel the whole thing. But if she didn't do it now, when? Winter was coming, and she wasn't about to go traipsing through the German countryside in a wagon and be stuck in the mud or snow in the deep freeze. So, if not now, they'd have to wait for next year. And would next year even come? Behind her son's hopeful remarks, Ella Lou could see concern. He'd just lost his father; would his mother be far behind? He wanted, he needed, closure on this matter just as much as she. It was not right of her to deprive him of the last good memories of his father.

"Okay, Clyde," she said, wiping off her face, "we'll do this your way. But I swear, if I mess up, I'm going to beat you around the head and neck until you scream."

Clyde nodded and smiled. "Good, but not before I get to beat you in checkers." He got up and went for the board. "And while I'm doing it, continue your story about dad."

As Clyde set up the board, she began. . . .

December, 1944

The world exploded around them. A full-scale retreat was in progress. Rice could tell from the wave of German soldiers pounding the ground above them, running back in the direction they had come, their voices so close that he could make out some words. Whatever gains the initial assault had accomplished were now crushed, as he kept his head low and prayed that some stupid Kraut did not step right on top of them. Oswin had tried to cry out, but Rice held his hand strong against the boy's mouth. Oswin wanted to leave and he was certainly capable of doing so. His wound had improved considerably in the last two days. Not so Rice. He had dug out the shrapnel from his neck, but his right arm was swollen from the deep cuts there, and he was having trouble breathing. His rations were gone, his canteen was empty. It was all he could do just to keep the boy quiet.

Then the motion stopped above them, and the canopy moved a little. Rice could hear German voices, whispering. He heard a boot scrape against a thick tree limb. Loosened snow fell on top of them as branches were moved. Oswin struggled against Rice's hand. The boy was stronger than he looked. Rice tried to keep Oswin from moving, but before he could react, the boy's knife was at his throat. He tried to struggle against it, but his arm hurt too much, his heart raced too fast. He just didn't have the strength to fight.