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One Man's Junk

Written by Karen Bergstralh

Martin Schmidt paused, his spoon barely touching the stew. His stomach would have him attack the stew bowl like a starving wolf but his mind held him back. Carefully, he took one spoonful and then put his spoon down. A sip of beer helped but his hand shook slightly. Reminding himself he was a man, not a wolf, he looked at his host before taking a second spoonful.

"Eat up, boy. When you've finished there will be time enough to talk." Herr Glauber beamed across the table. "Here, Adolf, fetch another pitcher of beer and get me another ham sandwich." The older of the two boys beside Herr Glauber shoved his chair back and got up with a grin and a glance at the crowded bar of the Thuringen Gardens.

"Yes, Papa. Heinrich, more stew or a sandwich?" Adolf asked his younger brother.

"Sandwich, please," Heinrich replied. The boy drained his mug with a gulp and belched loudly. "And hurry back with the beer."

"Manners, son, manners!" Herr Glauber clouted the youngster on the shoulder. "Your mother didn't raise you without manners."

"No, Papa." Heinrich sat up straight, tucked his folded hands in his lap and assumed a pious expression, or what would have been one save for the crossed eyes.

"Brat. I'm surprised I don't beat you daily." Herr Glauber's stern expression slipped and he reached over to ruffle his son's hair. "You must excuse the boy. Since his mother's death . . . Go ahead and eat, Young Schmidt. It does no good to talk business on an empty stomach."

Martin, chewing a bit of tough meat from the last of the stew, contemplated his host. Herr Glauber did not have the look of a man who missed many meals. A closer look showed the lines and loose flesh common to those who have lost a great deal of weight quickly. No, his host, while not starving now, had seen hunger recently. Martin carefully fished a bit of gristle out of his teeth and took a mouthful of beer to wash down the stew. Just as he opened his mouth to speak Adolf reappeared with two large pitchers clutched to his chest and a plate of sandwiches balanced precariously atop the pitchers.

"Here, Young Schmidt, take a couple of sandwiches for later. Young men are always hungry." Herr Glauber shoved the plate toward Martin and out of the grasping hands of Heinrich.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much for the meal," Martin said. He hurriedly selected a pair of sandwiches and carefully wrapped them in his handkerchief.

"See, Heinrich? Our guest is polite, as you should be. He is full of questions but instead of spewing them at me like bees circling a hive he waits. I've the right of it, don't I, Schmidt? You're as full of questions as my boy is of mischief." Herman Glauber grinned across the table.

"Yes, sir. I am," was all Martin could manage. His thoughts tangled and knotted and he couldn't fashion them into a coherent question.

"First, we have never met before yet I invite you to share a meal with my family. Why should I do so? Secondly, I am a Master Carpenter, you are a blacksmith. In fact, you claim you are a journeyman blacksmith and the masters of your craft deny you the title."

A sick feeling welled up from Martin's stomach. He was a journeyman—but one without papers to prove his claim. Or tools, or friends, or anyone who could say, "Yes, I know Martin Schmidt is a journeyman blacksmith." Slumping down in the chair, he ducked his head to hide the shameful flush.

"Ah, boy, don't hang your head." Glauber's voice was gentle. "I didn't invite you here to shame you. You are hardly the only journeyman to arrive in Grantville without his papers. Old Hubner denied your claim so he could charge the Americans a journeyman's wages for your work while giving you an apprentice's wages. Some of the others are doing the same."

"I . . . I thought that might be so. He was within his rights to deny me my rank. I have no proof." Martin's voice trailed off as his thoughts twisted again to the beginning of the week when he had accused Master Blacksmith Hans Hubner of just such an action. In the space of ten minutes he had listened to a lecture on the sin of claiming rank he did not hold, been fired from his job without pay, and informed that no other blacksmith in or around Grantville would employ him even as a sweep. So it had proved. Named as a malcontent and troublemaker, Martin had found no one was willing to hire him. "I thought my work would show . . ." With a helpless shrug Martin sat, waiting for the lecture he was certain would come from this Master.

"Adolf, our guest's stein is empty. Refill it. Journeyman Schmidt, those last sets of hinges you made were for one of my jobs. I've seen poorer work from the hand of a master. You, my boy, arrived in Grantville too late or too early. Too late because Hubner and his cronies gobbled up the smithing jobs and control who is hired. This they can do because so few of the Americans speak German. Had you been hiding in the hills when first this town appeared, you might be one of them. Six months, or maybe a year from now, there will be too many jobs for the masters to control. Too many jobs and too many of the Americans will speak German for Hubner's tricks to work. Adolf, my stein is now empty and so is this pitcher." Fishing a handful of coins and some paper money out of a pocket, the older man shoved them at his son and waved him off. Pulling the remaining pitcher over, Glauber filled his stein. Beside him Heinrich was giggling. Every time Herr Glauber had mentioned Master Blacksmith Hubner, Heinrich had puffed out his cheeks and sucked in his lips, in a nearly perfect parody of Herr Hubner.

Heinrich Glauber grinned widely and winked at Martin. Finding himself smiling back, Martin also felt his stomach settling. Perhaps there was some truth to Herr Glauber's words. "Sir, it may be so. However, my intemperate words have put me out of work."

Herr Glauber nodded in agreement. "Yes, son, they have. But your words caused your American bosses to look into the way wages are paid out. If they did not completely understand your words they did understand their point. Master Blacksmith Hans Hubner no longer distributes the pay to his underlings. That alone has gained you friends among many of the journeymen—not that they dare show their regard openly."

"Oh!" this information startled Martin. It did explain why he had found his pocketknife tucked into his boots the morning before. He'd been whittling kindling and had left it beside the forge when Master Hubner had called him from the shop.

"Adolf tells me you are in his English class and that you are doing very well. That is good, very good. Heinrich, go tell your brother he was to fetch more beer, not chat with the barmaids." Glauber remained silent until the boy had left the table. Then he reached over to his tool belt which rested on the extra chair and with a thud threw a hammer in front of Martin. "Journeyman Schmidt, can you make one of these?" Glauber asked in a challenging manner, his face serious.

Picking up the hammer, Martin found his hands caressing it. Made as a single piece, the shaft and head gleamed with a soft silvery glow. The grip was blue, fitted tightly over much of the shaft and it was dotted with a pattern of oval holes. At the bottom, in yellow lettering was "Estwing" on one side and "Safe-T-Shape" on the other. Both sets of lettering had a shape suggesting a wing around them. Two months ago he would have found the blue material a puzzle. Now he recognized it as what the Americans called "plastic." Hefting the hammer, Martin found it fit well in his hand, the balance inviting him to swing it. With a sigh he set the hammer on the table and admired its form. From the side the shaft was roughly as wide as his thumb but from the back . . . As the shaft arose from the blue plastic grip it narrowed, gracefully but rapidly, until it was only an eighth of an inch thick. This narrow edge continued for a handbreadth until it again swelled to form the head. With his finger Martin stroked the hammer, admiring the daring form. After a final caress he looked up and into his host's face.

"No, Herr Glauber. I cannot make such a hammer. I don't think even the Americans could make such a hammer now. Not for lack of craft but for lack of material. Give me the steel this is made from and time to learn its tricks and . . . maybe. It would be a Masterwork indeed." Pushing the hammer back across the table Martin found his hand reluctant to let go of it. What had the Americans' world been like that hammers were made of such steel?

"Ah, an honest answer, Journeyman. What about these?" Glauber now opened his fist and scattered several sizes of nuts and bolts on the tabletop.

Puzzled and wondering if this was some joke or worse, a trap, Martin gathered the metal bits up and set them in order. A glance showed that Herr Glauber was leaning toward him, his face a studied calm. Gathering three of the hardware pieces up and setting them aside Martin pushed the rest back toward Herr Glauber. "These, sir, these I could make. Had I tools and a shop, I could make these."

"Ah, good. Good. And those three little ones?"

"I've never made such small screws before. Given practice I could probably make something like them." Shrugging, Martin picked up the tiny screws and handed them back to Glauber.

"Only something like them?"

"Yes, sir. The same size and thread but I don't know what metal they are made from. It is too light for steel."

"Ah, I see. According to the person I got them from, they are made of aluminum." Glauber seemed pleased. He took a long drink from his stein and pulled out his pipe. "But, Journeyman Schmidt, you can make the others."

"Yes, sir. I could, if I had the tools. If you have need of more bolts and nuts, then you had best talk to the Americans."

"Did you know, young man, that the Americans have been searching out such hardware? That they are careful—very careful—to save any such pieces when they disassemble any of their machines?"

"No, sir, but it doesn't surprise me. Bolts and nuts are fiddly things to make. I've heard that the Americans had machines to make them by the thousands back in the place they came from." Now that was a thought for an apprentice or overworked journeyman to contemplate. A machine to do the dull, repetitive, boring, but oh so precise job of making threaded fasteners.

"Ah, yes, young man, so they did. And will again—sometime. Until then someone will have to make them."

"Well, sir. Any good blacksmith can make bolts. Given examples he could duplicate those. He wouldn't turn out thousands but he should be able to make several hundred. If I had a shop and tools even I could make them." Martin looked across the table. Glauber was back to beaming at him, as though he had said something especially bright.

"Yes, yes, young man. Indeed. Your lack of tools is a problem." Herr Glauber tapped his teeth with his pipe stem. "Have you any engagements for the next few days?"

"No, sir, none." Disconcerted, Martin stared; wondering just what Glauber had in mind.

"Good. Now Master Blacksmith Hubner has declared that you are not to be employed by anyone, at least not as an apprentice or journeyman blacksmith. As a master myself, I'm custom bound to honor his decree." Herr Glauber's face was serious as he intoned Hubner's decree. Looking directly into Martin's eyes, Glauber's face slipped into a sly grin. "However, I've got work to be done that requires only strong muscles. A journeyman blacksmith might think such a job beneath him. A bright young man could find benefit in it. For the duration of the job I'll match your journeyman's pay and provide for two meals. It starts tomorrow morning. Might you be interested?"

"Yes, sir," was all Martin could manage without his voice breaking. "Yes, sir." A job. An hour ago any job had been beyond Martin's hope.

"Good. Adolf will collect you from the Refugee Center. The work is hot and dirty but it is honest and I pay honest wages."

"Thank you, sir, thank you."

Adolf showed up at six. From the sack he was carrying he offered Martin several fresh rolls, still warm from the ovens. "Papa likes these rolls so he sends me out every morning to get them. I got an extra dozen. If you don't eat them Heinrich will," Adolf cheerfully said.

Munching companionably the two young men set off down the road. They caught a ride with a produce wagon in exchange for a pair of the fresh rolls and Martin listened as Adolf traded gossip with the farmer and his wife. Before the young men alighted the farmer's wife swapped several apples for the remainder of the extra rolls. She waved and wished them well, commenting to her husband that they reminded her of her sons.

"We're just up this street behind us, Journeyman Schmidt. Papa and Heinrich should be there already," Adolf commented, still waving to the farmer's wife.

"It will be easier if you just call me Martin. My status as a journeyman is suspect." With a rueful grimace, Martin began walking in the direction Adolf had indicated.

"Sure, Martin. Put the long face aside, your status is not in question with my father. Papa has been talking about how fine your work ...