Featured Article » Continuing Serials

Sonata, Part Two

Written by David Carrico

Movement II - Andante espressivo

Grantville - Monday, January 9, 1634

Franz looked at his traveling companions, and Maestro Carissimi. They were standing outside the office of Lady Beth Haygood, talking and waiting for Hermann. As Marla turned to ask il maestro a question, Franz smiled to himself. He remembered Marcus Wendell's reaction last Friday when he mentioned that he found it odd that an English noblewoman was serving as Frau Simpson's aide.

"Who are you talking about?" Marcus' brow had furrowed, indicating his perplexity.

"This Lady Beth Haygood," Franz had replied. His brow furrowed in turn, as Marcus had burst into laughter.

"Lady," Marcus had finally said, after his hilarity had died down, "is her name, not a title." Franz had looked very confused, he was sure. "Oh, yes, it really is. Americans sometimes name their kids the strangest things. I had a friend in college, a boy from Alabama, whose name was Colonel A. Johnson. He caught a lot of flack from the ROTC guys. Go slip Tom Stone a few beers some night, and see if he'll tell you what his sons' given names originally were." Marcus chuckled again. "Just say her name—ladybeth—really fast like it's one word."

Just as Franz was remembering his friends' reaction when Marla had shared the story of his confusion, Hermann arrived. Shaking off his reverie, Franz said, "Hermann is here, and he was the last. Let us discover what Frau Haygood has in store for us." Opening the door, he led the way into the small room. The woman at the desk, presumably Lady Beth herself, looked up as they trooped in. She was an older woman—older than Marla, anyway. Franz refused to try and guess at her actual age; most of the Grantville women wore their ages well, and he had embarrassed himself more than once when age had entered into conversations.

"Hi, Lady Beth," Marla sang out as she entered and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Marla." Franz continued to study Lady Beth. He had probably been introduced to her at some point—if at no other time, then during their wedding reception, he was sure—but she was not familiar to him. He saw an oblong face, like so many of the Grantvillers, framed in shoulder length wavy dark blonde hair. She wasn't a pretty woman—with a strong jaw and a strong nose, perhaps the best that could be said was she was attractive—but her blue eyes and warm smile were welcoming on this cold Monday morning.

"So, what's up?" Marla asked. "We're supposed to be on the road pretty quick."

"Well, I think you're going to have to change your plans somewhat." Lady Beth looked around at the group. "Mrs. Simpson told me to work with you to set up some musician recruiting trips to Mainz, Stuttgart and Saxony. However, according to some information that Don Francisco provided to me this weekend, the Elector of Saxony's orchestra is not in Saxony right now."

Not in Saxony? Franz looked at the others, knowing that he probably looked as confused as they did. "If they are not in Saxony, then where are they?"

"According to Don Francisco . . ." Lady Beth picked up a piece of paper and read from it, ". . . the Elector's musicians, including Kappellmeister Heinrich Schütz, appear to all be in Copenhagen, involved in the upcoming wedding celebrations for Prince Christian of Denmark and Princess Magdalene Sybille, the Elector's daughter."

"Oh," was all that Franz could say. Nonplussed, he looked at his friends. They looked back, equally at a loss for words. They all knew of Heinrich Schütz, who was perhaps the preeminent musician in the German territories, but none of them had ever had any contact with him. If he himself had traveled from Dresden to Copenhagen, then it was certain that no musician of any capability had been left behind.

Surprisingly, it was Maestro Carissimi who broke the silence. "Meister Schütz, you say? But I know this man. Oh, do not mistake me," he hurried on, as the others looked at him. "We have sent letters only. He came to Venice some years ago and spent time with Maestro Monteverdi, who was kind enough to give him my name. He sent letters asking questions, I responded, but never we did meet. A gracious man, a gifted man, but so lonely in Dresden he was, with no one sharing his vision."

An idea flared in Franz's mind like a star shell bursting in the night sky. "Josef! Rudolf! You are from Hannover. Could you make your way to Copenhagen?"

The two brothers looked at each other. Rudolf shrugged. They looked back to Franz. Josef said, "We have never been there, but in Hannover or in Hamburg are plenty of men who have. No doubt we could find our way."

Franz spun to face the Italian. "Maestro, could you write a letter to Herr Schütz, inviting him and anyone else in his company to visit Magdeburg?"

"Si."

Franz felt a very large smile spreading across his face. "Josef, Rudolf, you will take the maestro's letter to Copenhagen."

"But what of Stuttgart?"

"It is not far from Mainz to Stuttgart; we will go to Stuttgart after we visit Mainz, which will free you to go north. So, while the maestro writes his letter, you shall write one for us to carry to introduce us to your cousin."

Franz saw a bemused expression on Lady Beth's face as she handed pens and paper to various hands. He chuckled a little. "Frau Haygood, we will take our leave soon and let your domain resume its calm."

"Oh, that's okay, Franz. This is a school, after all . . . turmoil happens frequently. I just didn't expect you to find a solution so quickly, is all."

Marla laughed. "Best get used to it if you're going to work with us much, Lady Beth. These guys don't let grass grow under their feet much."

While the others were writing, Lady Beth beckoned. Franz, Marla, Isaac and Hermann grouped in front of her desk. She handed envelopes to Marla. "There are some vouchers for you to stop at the bank and get some traveling funds. There's also some authorization letters from the Abrabanels that will let you draw on any of their associates if there are any emergencies. Keep track of how much you spend, and be sure that both Mary and I will review the expenses."

Her no-nonsense tone sobered everyone immediately. Marla said, "Yes, ma'am."

Franz looked around. Josef and Rudolf were done with their letter, but the maestro was still writing. A thought occurred to him, and he turned back to Lady Beth. "Ah, Frau Haygood, Johannes Fichtold will probably be traveling to Füssen soon, on business for Frau Simpson."

Lady Beth's raised hand stopped him before he could continue. "Masters Zenti and Riebeck have already been to see me. It's all arranged." She smiled at Franz's surprise. "I don't let the grass grow under my feet, either."

Maestro Carissimi straightened. "It is completed." He handed the letter to Josef. "Another thought occurs to me. If we need musicians, perhaps I should send letters to the Jesuit collegia north of the Alps. My name might capture some interest."

"Please do, Maestro," Franz said. "At this point, I think we might even accept an Englishman, if he could play well." As Marla passed out the envelopes, he said to them all, "Well, my friends, we must be off. Take great care, and in no event be back to Magdeburg later than April 1."

"Last ones back buy a round at The Green Horse," Hermann called out. They trooped out the door in laughter.

Grantville - Late January, 1634

"Well," Thomas started, studying yet another list, "Frau Matowski . . ."

"Just call her Bitty," Marcus Wendell said. "That's what everyone calls her."

"Very well . . . Frau Bitty, then . . . has an ambitious turn of mind, has she not?"

Marcus chuckled. Lady Beth Haygood snorted. "That's our Bitty."

"Oh, come now, Lady Beth," Marcus said. "I'll grant you she's a perfectionist when it comes to the dancing, but aside from that, she's just fine."

"Uh-huh . . . except that right now she's eating, drinking, breathing and sleeping dance. Between convincing Mary that Swan Lake's not in the cards for 1634 and trying to review every ballet program she has recorded or has ever done or even has notes on so she can cobble some kind of program together, her nerves are worn down so far she's on her last one, and heaven help whoever gets on it."

Marcus grinned. "Speaking of Mary, how did Bitty take the news that you're in charge right now?"

"All things considered, I guess okay," Lady Beth said. "Mary met with both of us, and laid out the ground rules, which didn't take very long. Then she left, and Bitty and I came to an understanding." There was a hint of a grin on her face. "I also told her she'd best be careful about who's around when she refers to Mary as 'Her Ladyship' in that tone she gets."

Marcus looked at her. "There are those who would take offense?"

"Mary definitely has supporters here in Grantville now."

"What kind of trouble could they cause? Could they cut off her funding?"

"Well, I doubt that Mary would be that petty," Lady Beth said, "particularly since she does want the ballet to succeed. But no doubt someone like Laurie Haggerty would try to make trouble."

"Her." Marcus made a face. "She and I had a whole series of 'discussions' about my lack of perception when I didn't make her son Duane the first part first chair horn player in the junior high band. She couldn't believe that I would let little things like whether he practiced or not—not to mention his attitude—outweigh his 'obvious superior talent,' and she didn't have any trouble telling me about it—several times. Yeah, I'd believe most anything you'd tell me about her. But what's Bitty got to worry about with her?"

"Well, apparently they really locked horns during the rehearsals for Nutcracker, to the point that Bitty was muttering about the 'Ballet Mother from Hell.' Problem is, Laurie somehow managed to get an introduction to Mary, and made a slightly favorable impression. So, if I ever decide to leave, Laurie's name just might be on the short list to take over the arts management for Mary in Grantville."

"You're kidding!" Marcus looked aghast. "Aren't you?"

"Nope."

"I hope Mary's got more sense than that." Marcus turned back to Thomas. "Enough about Laurie Haggerty. Let's talk about something important. That's a pretty long list Bitty worked out with me for the ballet."

"That it is," Thomas agreed fervently, as he examined his copy of Bitty's list.

"The bad news is that she doesn't want just straight transcriptions on some of them . . . she wants some arranging done. The good news is the only things you should have to transcribe from recordings are Intermezzo, Lemminkäinen's Return, The Swan of Tuonela, and the first half of Lemminkäinen in Tuonela, all by Sibelius. A lot of it is already available to us in sheet music form." In response to Thomas' raised eyebrows, Marcus continued, "I kept all my college text books, including the study scores we used in music history, form and analysis, and orchestration. Because of that, I have miniature full conductor's scores for Borodin's Polovtsian Dances and In the Steppes of Central Asia, Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld, and the Ravel transcription for Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, which contains the Promenade and The Great Gate of Kiev that she wants to use. They just need to be copied out in full size.

"Then for the Light Cavalry Overture by Suppé and Finlandia by Sibelius, the high school music library has transcriptions of those for band. That means we've already got the music, we just need to reverse-engineer the transcribing to take it back to the original orchestration. A couple of my sharper band kids could probably do that."

He looked to Lady Beth. "That is, if Mary's funds will extend to paying them to do it. In fact, they could be a big help in general, even for the stuff that Thomas is doing for Franz, because they could take the full scores he produces and write out the original parts for the players, maybe even copy duplicate scores."

"Sure," Lady Beth said. "I don't see why not. But since they're not doing work at the same level as Thomas, I'm not going to pay them what he's getting, either."

"Sure. That's fair." Marcus stopped, deep in thought for a moment. His eyebrows raised. "You know, it just dawned on me that for this music to be possible this year, she's going to have to raid the band for wind players, and maybe percussionists, too. If she does, those kids are going to have to be paid, and I will expect them to be paid something approaching a union scale."

Lady Beth made some notes. "How many?"

Marcus counted on his fingers for a moment. "Probably about twenty, plus or minus."

She looked at Thomas. "And how many string players was Franz hoping to recruit?"

"He said he would settle for forty-five, but he wants sixty."

Lady Beth made some more notes. She set her pen down, and looked up with a serious expression. "I'd best get a message off to Mary. That amounts to more than she planned on, especially since Johannes Fichtold left several days ago for Füssen to dicker up some violin contracts."

Marcus shrugged. "Well, it may not be that bad. Bitty said one of her kids knew someone who still had their computer, with some kind of software that might allow them to take recordings and massage them into a soundtrack for her purposes, and then dump it to cassette tapes. If that's true, then she can do it with recorded music, which would be cheaper and a whole lot easier."

"I don't know." Lady Beth shook her head. "Mary was dead set on a live orchestra."

"Well, no reason to bring it up until we know if it can be done. It does mean, though . . ." Marcus turned to Thomas again, ". . . that those four Sibelius pieces can go to the bottom of your list." He grinned at Thomas' sigh of relief. "I almost hope they can't make the recording, though. Those pieces as the backdrop for Bitty's ballet would be an outstanding concert in its own right. I'd like to hear that, wouldn't you?"

"I might get to," Lady Beth said. Both men looked at her. "Jere's been wanting me to move to Magdeburg, but I didn't want to take the kids out of school here. Well, someone's working on the idea of starting a school for girls in Magdeburg, and it looks like they want me to head it up."

Marcus whistled. "That's going to leave a hole in things here."

"Maybe so. But if I decide to go, they'll deal with it, just like they've dealt with all the other changes. I'm probably going to be traveling to Magdeburg in a few weeks to look things over and talk to people before I make up my mind. If I decide to take it, I'll be gone by the end of March, probably."

"So who will take over as Frau Simpson's voice and hand?" Thomas asked.

Lady Beth made another note. "I don't know. That's something else that will have to be worked out."

Thuringia - Late January, 1634

Isaac touched Klaus on the shoulder. "Stop here." He climbed down from the wagon and caught his bag when Hermann tossed it to him. He looked up as Reuel drew the second wagon to a stop near by. "Just wait for me here, please." Isaac waved at the nearby tavern. "It is no Green Horse, but it will do while you wait. This should not take long. I will be back in time for us to make it to Neustadt before dark." As the others began to dismount, he turned and walked down the streets of Aschenhausen.

The trip from Grantville had so far been uneventful. Klaus and Reuel had somehow arranged for courier duty to the Committees of Correspondence in Mainz and Stuttgart. As it turned out, they were both reasonably competent at driving wagons, which was a good thing, as that was a skill that none of the musicians had managed to pick up.

They had made their way through Halle, Jena, Weimar, Erfurt, Arnstadt, Wechmar, Gotha and Eisenach, as well as various small villages. At every stop they let it be known that a new orchestra was beginning in Magdeburg; one that would be the grandest orchestra in the world; one that would play the grandest music in the world. They mentioned that anyone interested needed to be in Magdeburg by 1 April, and they hinted that silver was in the offing. No one had yet jumped up and run out the door to scurry up the road, but Franz was satisfied that the word was being spread.

Now they were in Aschenhausen, and Isaac was walking down the streets he had run through as a child. When he was growing up, he had felt a pride when he looked at Aschenhausen. The houses of the important men of the town had seemed so large, so fancy with their carvings here and there and their painted doors. And the tavern had seemed so grand, had seemed to bustle all the time. Even after he had . . . left . . . his memories had still made Aschenhausen somehow seem special.

But now . . . now Isaac was walking those same streets with his stomach churning, almost six years later, having been in the wide world and seen Mainz, and Magdeburg, and even Grantville, the famous and infamous. He wondered if Aschenhausen's streets had always been this narrow, and if the houses had always been so small, and if everything had always been so . . . dingy.

He took a turn, leaving the main street—such as it was—and moved down a series of narrowing streets and alleys, until he finally stopped before a worn, unpainted door. He stood for a long time, hesitating, uncertain as to what he should do. His mind was whirling, his stomach was trying to climb up his throat. Finally, he slowly raised his hand and knocked. Shuffling steps could be heard, and the door opened to reveal an older man, stooped and gray-bearded. Knowing full well who he addressed, Isaac said, "I am seeking Herr Joachim Arst, the merchant. Are you he?"

The old man blinked. "Aye, that I am. And who might you be, young sir?" For answer, Isaac pulled one of the packages of coffee beans from his bag and handed it to him. Peering near-sightedly at the lead seal on the drawstrings of the package, the old man suddenly looked up sharply, grasped Isaac by the arm and swiftly drew him into the shop.

Holding up the package, old Joachim said, "This says you come from Don Francisco Nasi. Truth?"

"Yes, Joachim ben Eleazar. I do indeed come from that man." Isaac dug the other two packages of beans from his bag, and handed them over. The old man turned to set them on the counter of his shop, and turned back to Isaac.

"So, you are one of us. Good. I was not sure, since you wear neither the talit nor the Jew's badge." He flicked his own tassels and looked faintly disapproving, which melded into a calculating stare. "I do not think we have met, but I think I should know you." Before Isaac could respond, the old man's eyes opened wide. "It cannot be! You! Here . . ."

Isaac smiled at Joachim's surprise. "Yes, Reb Joachim. Yitzhak the stranger stands before you." It struck him that his nervousness had dissipated, once he had committed himself to action.

It was some moments before Joachim recovered his composure enough to speak. "Why have you come here? After so long?"

"It is not my doing, Reb Joachim. I do in truth serve Don Francisco, or rather, Reb Pinchas in this, and he it was who directed my steps here. I am . . . not sure of his motives, only that he has them."

Joachim snorted. "You may be certain not only that he has motives, but multiples of motives. That one has a mind so twisty that a serpent could tie itself in a knot trying to follow his thoughts." His expression was wry, but the tone of his voice was admiring. "So, for some reason he saw some advantage to sending you to the shop of the poorest merchant in Aschenhausen . . . besides bringing me a gift of coffee beans that could have been sent by any number of ways."

They stood silently for a moment, then Joachim pursed his lips and blew a burst of air. He looked up. "You have grown, young Yitzhak. Is it well with you?"

"It . . . is well, now. It was not well . . . when I left. I wandered, sore of spirit and aching of heart, and eventually ended up in Mainz, where I did indeed find the music that God put in me to desire, and I did indeed learn to play it. I found friends. But after what was said to me here, I . . . abandoned all outward sign of our people. I . . . could not bring myself to approach a congregation. And so it was until I moved to Grantville last year."

"Grantville, is it?" Joachim's eyes opened wide again. "So, you have seen that place, have you?"

"Yes, Reb Joachim. I have seen Grantville, and Magdeburg as well. And seeing Grantville, my sense of wonder awoke again, and I reasoned that if the Holy One, blessed be He, could work the miracle of that place, then perhaps He could somehow work another . . . the return of one from an exile which, if shorter than that of Babylon, was no less bitter."

"And did such happen?"

"Aye. I dared pass the doors of the Sephardic congregation in Grantville, and found that which proved to be the very balm of Gilead for my hurtful soul." As a hint of confusion passed over Joachim's face, Isaac was forcefully reminded that that passage from Jeremiah was not one that was commonly read in the synagogues. "And no less than Reb Pinchas told me with his own lips that I was welcome with the Sephardim of Grantville and Magdeburg, not just as a visitor, but as a member."

"Good." A smile appeared amidst the gray beard, and Joachim's eyes almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his face. "That is good to hear, and an answer to prayer." To Isaac's querying look, he responded, "Each day as I read the Amidah, I would also ask in my heart that The Lord of the World would remember you, keep his hand upon you, and draw you back to His chosen people. Blessed be He who gathers in the exiles."

"Amen." Isaac felt the familiar response come to his lips.

Just as the old man opened his mouth to speak, the door to his shop flew open, and a young woman, hardly more than a girl, whirled in and shut the door behind her, calling out, "Reb Joachim, Reb Joachim, Mama said for you to . . ." She stopped suddenly, obviously at the sight of the strange man standing in the shop.

Isaac was facing away from the door when it opened, and he stiffened at the sound of the voice. Joachim laid a hand on his arm, and he could feel the tension in the old man.

"Softly, Devorah, softly. You would not want our visitor to think we are uncultured."

"No, Reb Joachim. Sorry, Reb Joachim."

"That is better. Now, I dare say that your mother wants the sewing needles she asked me to get her, nu?" The girl bobbed her head. The old man shuffled behind the counter, searched for a moment, and placed a packet on the countertop. "Here they are." Devorah reached out, and a moment later the packet had disappeared into a pocket. She started to turn and leave, but was stopped by Joachim. "Devorah, give a good day to Yitzhak ben Levi, from Magdeburg, who brought me some of the fabulous coffee that we have been hearing so much about." Isaac schooled his expression to calm, and turned to face her.

Her eyes widened. She dipped her head as she said, "Good day to you, Reb Yitzhak."

"And this is Devorah bat Shlomo, Reb Yitzhak, the eldest daughter of our rabbi."

Isaac gave a very slight bow. "And a good day to you, Devorah. I have heard good things of your family."

She began to blush, and dipped her head again. Uttering a strangled sounding "Goodbye," she bolted from the store.

Isaac turned on Joachim, and hissed, "What are you thinking? How could you do that to her, to me?"

"Calm yourself, young man." Joachim raised a hand. "It has been almost six years. You are a hand taller and at least two stone heavier. She should not recognize you, but you recognized her, did you not?"

In Isaac's mind, the face of the young woman was set beside the face of the girl that had been in his memories for so long, and he felt wonder and joy at how she had grown, and become a beauty. "Yes . . . yes, I did." A moment later, "Thank you."

"They are well, all of them, even the rabbi, although he is changed." At Isaac's look of alarm, Joachim hurriedly said, "No, no, nothing is wrong. But after a . . . certain event . . . our rabbi was long cast down in his spirit. Eventually, however, his remaining children gave him ease, and he again found some joy in life. But we all noted, we who remembered . . . before, that he is a somewhat calmer man, now, less harsh, slower to judge."

Isaac swallowed, then swallowed again. "Those are good words to hear. I wish him only the best in life."

"From your mouth to His ear."

After a moment, Isaac asked in a harsh voice, "Why did you name me ben Levi? I am fatherless."

"Well, it is true that your birth father no longer acknowledges you. However, is not your bloodline descended from Levi through both your mother and father?" Joachim looked to Isaac, who was forced to acknowledge that truth. "Then you are a son of Levi just as much as Moses and Aaron. You can in truth be named Yitzhak ben Levi, can you not?" Isaac stared at him for a moment, feeling a knot in his chest begin to loosen, and then he felt a wide smile spread across his face.

The two men stood smiling at each other what seemed like an hour to Isaac. Finally, he sobered, and asked, "Are they in need for anything?"

"They are not destitute, but neither are they quite comfortable."

"Who is the president of the community now?"

Joachim smiled wryly again, and said, "As it happens, I am."

Isaac dug in his pocket, and pulled out a pouch, which he placed on the counter. "See to their needs, please." As Joachim opened his mouth to object, Isaac raised his hand. "Please. As I am not of that family any longer, this is part of my tzedakah."

"Is this works in secret, then, or may I tell the congregation so that prayers may be offered for your travels?"

"Secret," Isaac said. "Do not tell them where it came from." The old man nodded. "Send word if more is needed. For now, send it to Reb Pinchas, Don Francisco. I will get word to you somehow of where I eventually end up."

"It is good." Joachim set the pouch on the counter. After a moment, he looked up at Isaac, and asked gently, "Will you not go to him? Will you not try to reconcile?"

Isaac flinched. "How can I?" He threw his hat on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair, yanking at it as if he wanted to pull it out. "I am not just herem, shunned—he named me dead! How can I go to him?" The pain in his heart was so sharp he felt as if he had been stabbed. "He said Kaddish, did he not? No, no one told me, but I know he did. He even sat Shiva for me, I wager. He would not be the man he is if he had not performed the full mourning ritual." Joachim said nothing, but Isaac could see the confirmation on his face. "How can I face that? How can I appear before my mother and sisters and brother, only to be turned away? How can I hurt everyone like that?" Slower, softer, he said, "I could not bear it, Reb Joachim, to be turned away again. I am sorry that they grieve, but the wound he dealt me is deep . . . so deep I despair of it ever fully healing . . . so deep, I cannot chance another."

The old man looked at him, sadness on his face. "It will be as you will it, Yitzhak." Isaac flinched again as Joachim quoted back to him the phrase he had said to his father that night years ago. "You do him an injustice, though, I believe. Rav Shlomo is not the man he was then."

Isaac shook his head, and said in a very low tone, "I cannot . . . please, I cannot." They stood together in silence for long moments. Finally, Isaac regained his composure and picked up his hat. "I must be on my way. I am traveling with others who wait for me, and we must travel many miles yet today."

"For Reb Pinchas?"

Isaac said nothing, feeling slightly dishonest about letting the old man draw mistaken conclusions. He felt so drained at the moment, however, that he could not bring himself to explain. He moved toward the door. Joachim stepped in front of him, and grasped his arms.

"The blessings of God Above, who held His hand over Avraham, Yitzhak and Yakov as they wandered in the wilderness, go with you, Yitzhak ben Levi."

Isaac was flooded with emotion as he considered everything this old man had done for him. "And with you, Joachim ben Eleazar. And with you."

Moments later Isaac was walking back up the streets of Aschenhausen, hands in pockets, feet automatically following the right path. At last the tavern came into sight, where Reuel stood outside adjusting harness on his wagon team. He called into the tavern. Moments later the others trooped out. While the rest of them climbed into the wagons, Marla came to him and peered into his eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

Isaac smiled gently. "Yes."

****

The door to Joachim's shop flew open. This time it admitted a short, stout woman who wore an apron over her dress and a cloth that contained her iron-gray hair. She was followed by the young woman who had come to the shop earlier. He was surprised—not that she appeared; he had been half-way expecting that ever since Devorah left—but that she was dressed so . . . informally.

"Good day, Rebitzin Rivka . . ."

"Where is my son?"

"Who?"

"Play no games with me, Joachim ben Eleazar." She advanced on him, eyes aflame. Joachim was very glad that the counter was between them. "I may be the rabbi's wife, and you may be the president of the congregation, but forty years ago I gave you a bloody nose and kicked your shins black and blue when you pushed me in a mud puddle. I will do it again here and now if you do not tell me the truth! Where is my son?"

"Gone." God Above, she was in a towering fury. Grown men had been known to pale on the rare occasions that her ire was stirred. Devorah was backed into a corner, wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to stand there and weather the storm.

"I see that, you old fool! Where has he gone?"

"I know not." That stopped her in mid-tirade. "He said he was traveling with others, and that they were leaving Aschenhausen immediately." Joachim watched as the fire of the strong-willed young woman he had known all those years ago guttered out, leaving behind the gray-haired, arthritic matron who was the wife of his rabbi.

"Leaving? But . . . why? Did he not . . . could he not . . ."

"He was traveling on business of someone important." Joachim had his doubts about whether it was Don Francisco, but he let Yitzhak's story stand.

Rivka visibly collected herself, and looked up at him with naked pain shining in her eyes. "Did he not come here to reconcile?"

"No."

She flinched. "Nevertheless, I should not have heard about him from Devorah. Why did you not bring him to us, Joachim? Could you not do that for him, for us?"

"I tried, Rivka." Joachim sighed. "I attempted that very thing."

Now her face whitened. "He will not reconcile? God Above knows that I love my husband dearly, but he is as stubborn as an angry ox, and Yitzhak is his father's son, in that much at least. Will he not at least attempt to reconcile?"

"I would judge, rather, that he cannot." Rivka obviously did not understand. Running his fingers through his white beard, Joachim said slowly, "I believe he loves his father dearly. For that reason, the words that were said that night hurt him very deeply. Now, like a wounded fox, he is curled around the pain and grief and cannot reach out. He is afraid that if he tried, he would be rejected again. I tell you truly, if that happened, I would fear for his life."

Tears filled Rivka's eyes and spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. "All this time, we never heard from him, never heard about him. I was afraid he hated us, and would never return. And all this time he was bleeding from his soul, he was grieving. Oh, my son, my son!" She covered her face with her apron and sobbed brokenly. Her own grief and heartbreak caused Joachim to set aside the tradition that Jewish men would not touch another man's wife. He came around the counter and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Devorah stepped out of the corner and placed her arm around her mother's waist.

Finally the sobbing slowed, then stopped, except for the occasional sniffle. Rivka lowered her apron, exposing reddened eyes and nose. She dabbed at her face, then resolutely faced Joachim, who had retreated back around the counter again.

"So there can be no reconciliation?" Her voice was dead.

"I did not say that, Rivka," Joachim said gently. "I said that he could not begin it."

A light of hope dawned in her eyes. "You think if his father approached him . . ."

"A possibility only, but the only one I see." Joachim fingered his beard again. "But as you say, Rav Shlomo is somewhat . . . strong-willed."

The light of hope became a beacon of purpose.

"Yitzhak was born of this womb." Rivka laid her hands on her abdomen. Shifting them to her bosom, she said, "He nursed from these breasts. He is my son as much as he is his father's." She leaned over the counter, fiery gaze locked on Joachim's eyes. "And I will have my first-born back!"

Füssen - Early February, 1634

Johannes Fichtold watched as his brother Hans, having seen to wine being provided to all his guests, took a cup of his own and then came to stand beside him. "Let us not spend time in useless conversation," Hans said. That was so like his brother; if the talk was not about the crafting of lutes and viols, then it was time and effort that was misspent. "You all know that last summer the Italian, Master Girolamo Zenti, came through Füssen on his way north. He placed an order for woods to be delivered to him when he reached Grantville. You also know that Johannes here," who almost staggered from the clap on the shoulder that Hans delivered, "went with him, to learn more of the Italian methods of crafting while working in his service. I am sure that you all wonder why Johannes is back in town. That story is his to tell." And with that, Hans sat down.

Licking his lips, Johannes looked around the room at the men seated there: Matthias Gemunder, August Neuner, Ludwig Koehler, Christof Eichelberger. With the addition of his brother, Hans Fichtold, these were the senior luthiers and Geigenfabrikanten in Füssen. These were the craft masters of the guild. There were other families that made instruments, but the families headed by these men made the best, and everyone knew it. These were the men he must convince to make the instruments desired by Frau Simpson and Franz Sylwester. He straightened his cuffs and pulled down on his waistcoat. Remembering Master Zenti's instructions to stand tall and look confident, he straightened to his full height and did his best to assume that air.

Hans cleared his throat. Johannes, realizing he had been woolgathering, began his speech. "I know that all of you have heard of Grantville. As Hans said. It is a most unusual place.

"Oh, to be sure, there are no angels walking the streets of Grantville, and those streets are not paved with cobblestones of gold. But the mechanical arts are so advanced that many times our best efforts seem like child's play. They have other wisdoms as well.

"When we arrived, Master Zenti discovered, to his chagrin, that this was often true of music as well. His companion, Master Giacomo Carissimi—yes, that Carissimi." Johannes paused in response to raised eyebrows. The masters obviously recognized the name of the renowned Italian composer. "Master Carissimi told me that he will be years learning of all the changes in styles and forms, that it will perhaps be his life work simply to amass the knowledge.

"I have seen with my own eyes trumpets and horns that can play diatonic and chromatic tones in all registers. I have seen transverse flutes made of metal that are capable of incredible sonorities in the hands of a virtuoso. And I have seen an instrument called the piano that overshadows the harpsichord and clavichord as the Alps overshadow the hills that cling to their skirts. Master Zenti has dedicated his life to building pianos. I will stay and learn of them with him, to return to Füssen at some point with that knowledge."

"If the Grantvillers are such paragons of artistry," interrupted Matthias Gemunder in a testy tone of voice, "then why are you here?"

"As it happens," Johannes said, glad of the question, "what they know of viols and stringed instruments in general is not far advanced over our knowledge and skills. Which is why I am here." He turned and picked up a leather case from the chair behind him. Extracting a paper, he handed it to August Neuner, the youngest of the men in the room. Unlike the other masters, he did not require spectacles to read. "Master Neuner, would you please read this missive aloud?"

Holding the page up in the best light, Master Neuner began.

"Royal and Imperial Arts Council
of the United States of Europe
on this 10^th day of January, 1634.

"To whom it may concern:

"This is to signify that Johannes Fichtold is authorized to negotiate and sign binding contracts on behalf of the Royal and Imperial Arts Council with the Geigenfabrikant Guild of Füssenregarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.

"This authorization will expire on the 30^th day of April, 1634."

Master Neuner looked up and said, "It is signed by Lady Beth Haygood." He stumbled over the name. "With an additional title of Attorney-in-Fact, and is witnessed by Master Zenti and by a Master Hans Riebeck."

"Riebeck, Hans Riebeck," Master Koehler said. "I know that name. I thought he was in Mainz."

"He was," Johannes responded. "Last year he left his son in charge of their shop in Mainz, and brought his most talented journeyman and several apprentices to Grantville to learn of pianos and other innovations." That struck a note with the masters, he saw. It was one thing for an Italian, master or no, to chase after what might be a phantasm, but when one of their own hard-headed German brethren began pursuing the same goal, then they must take notice and examine the Grantville issue more closely.

"So," Master Eichelberger said, finally joining in the conversation, the last of the guild masters to do so. "At last we get to the heartwood. You are here because they want something from us, these not-quite-angels of Grantville. Something that we can produce faster or for fewer ducats than they can. So, enlighten us, ambassador."

Johannes did his best to ignore the sarcasm in Master Eichelberger's voice. "Such is not only my intent, it is my charge. I said the Grantvillers were not far advanced over we down-timers . . ." He paused for a moment. "Your pardon, masters. Since the Grantvillers believe they were sent back from the future, they refer to themselves as up-timers, and to we native Germans and our neighbors as down-timers."

"And do they sneer when they do so?" Master Eichelberger's voice was sharp. "As if we are poor cousins, or beggars at the gates?"

"No." Johannes again managed to ignore the tone of the master. "Well, in truth, there are a few who do so, but I would say on the whole I have found them less arrogant than the Italians I dealt with when I first went south to study."

"Hmmph." Master Eichelberger sat back in his chair, only somewhat mollified. "That is not saying much." He said nothing more, and waved at Johannes to continue.

"Um . . ." Johannes tried to regain his thoughts. "Oh, yes . . . they are not far advanced over us in strings. Nonetheless, they do have advanced designs for viols. And, as Master Eichelberger has surmised, they desire instruments to be crafted for them according to those 'merino' designs." Too late, he remembered that Master Zenti had directed him to avoid the 'merino' label, judging that it would be confusing to the guild masters, perhaps even insulting if they made the connection to sheep. But in Grantville, the instrument crafters had all used that term almost exclusively when discussing the new designs. It had become second nature to him, so that it had just slipped out now. Johannes berated himself soundly, but was forced to drop the self-chastising when his brother, who had been silent so far to avoid any hint of collusion, spoke.

"'Merino'? Who is this 'Merino'?"

"Sounds Italian to me," Master Neuner said. "Did they steal it from an Italian master?"

Johannes thought furiously, and replied cautiously. "They never told me who this 'Merino' is or was, whether it was someone in their times or someone from our own." That much was true, he laughed to himself, remembering when Friedrich had used the name as a joke, one that turned out to be self-perpetuating. "But they did reveal to me that many of the refinements and innovations in the 'Merino' designs were originally made by Italians." The masters of Füssen reacted in various ways to the thought of stealing a march on some unknown Italian masters: sly grins from some, a couple of knowing nods, but no further comments. Johannes engraved in his mind the thought that he must tell the others in Grantville to never reveal where the name came from. Finally, he returned to the original topic.

"I have convinced them that you can safely craft these instruments and transport them to Magdeburg, despite the . . . current state of affairs between Bavaria and the USE. And they want enough of them that it will take all of you to satisfy them." Johannes could see the masters glancing at each other, all of them—even his brother—with what Master Ingram called 'dollar signs' of avarice in their eyes.

"Before we get down to details," Master Gemunder said, "what is your percentage for brokering this deal? What will we have to pay you?"

"My compensation is provided by the arts council. As Master Neuner read to you all, I speak with their voice. There will be no additional fees for you to pay once we have settled on the prices for crafting the instruments and transporting them to Magdeburg." Again the masters looked at each other, this time in somewhat astonished disbelief.

“None?” Master Gemunder probed.

“None.” Johannes was quite firm.

The looks shared now were somewhat skeptical. Johannes couldn’t blame them. It was unheard of for a broker of any kind to not take a cut out of any deal in which he had a part, no matter how small. Nonetheless, his position had been made quite clear to him by Lady Beth Haygood: there was to be no profiteering in this venture, and if he tried it and was caught, he would be booted out of Grantville so hard his feet wouldn’t touch earth again until he reached the Alps.

“So,” ventured Master Neuner, “what is their commission?”

Finally, Johannes thought. The introductory stage was finished, and now the really interesting part of the evening began. “The initial contract,” he said, “is for thirty violins and matching bows to be crafted according to the ‘Merino’ designs, to be delivered to Magdeburg no later than the first of May. They must be of high enough quality that you would personally sign them. Their quality will be judged by a committee composed of Master Zenti, Master Riebeck, their leading journeymen and Franz Sylwester. Only those instruments which pass their scrutiny will be acceptable under the terms of the contract.”

“Who is this Franz Sylwester?” asked Master Eichelberger snidely. “I do not know that name.”

Johannes stared him down. “You may not know it now, but you will know it. All of Germany, no, all of Europe will know the name of Franz Sylwester. He will serve as the first dirigent of the world’s finest orchestra.”

“Dirigent? What is this?”

“It has to do with leading the orchestra in performance. I cannot explain it more than that. You will have to come to Magdeburg in July to see ...