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Turn Your Radio On, Episode Six

Written by Wood Hughes

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

May 1634, Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia, United States of Europe

 

Janet Rogers, the News Director of VOA was at her wits' end. "Jesus, Dee! Helga can't get any work done for all the callers asking if the war is over yet. Isn't there any way to pull in the reins on that crazy preacher?"

"I don't see how," Deanna Dee replied, "But don't pull your hair out and strew it all over the VOA studios because of him. There's no requirement in the contract keeping him from practicing his faith. Unfortunately, we just didn't realize that prophecy played a big part in the Pentecostal faith when we made the deal with them. We certainly didn't think they'd go off the wall and start prophesying the end of the war.

"The thing about it is, Fischer has been like a rock star for us. He's brought us huge audiences that have carried over to all areas of our programming. We probably have at least ten times as many people listening now as we did when he started up that radio show."

"But it's . . . it's irresponsible!" Janet cried out in a desperate tone. "We've got crowds gathering out front waiting to hear us announce the war is over at any minute!"

"Yes, I know." Deanna Dee shook her head in agreement. "That's the problem with rock stars. Sooner or later, they start to break up the furniture."

Janet's shoulders slumped. "I think I miss the disco demonstrators."

Deanna Dee laughed. Then she asked, "Have you wired your stringer reporters in Magdeburg and following the front?"

"Yeah, I telegraphed all of them first thing this morning after realizing what was happening outside. We've heard back from Kurt and Shultz in Magdeburg. The crowds are even worse there. They've surrounded the War Department and had to be driven away from the gates of the Navy yard.

"Only a couple of the reporters in the field have checked in. They only acknowledged receipt of the telegram. My guess is that they are outside our coverage area by now, so it shouldn't affect the armies yet."

Deanna Dee rocked back and forth in her chair for a moment, then mused, "Well, I know John is must be blowing his top right now. I wish he wasn't on the road. We need him."

 

Augsburg

 

"And, exactly HOW do you know this self-proclaimed prophet, Der Fischer, Herr Garb?"

Marco could feel the attention everyone else in the room now focused on him. If they had been a bit younger, rather than the old, venerated financial lords of Augsburg who did not normally show their emotions on their faces, their collective jaws would have been resting on the floor.

"It's really quite serendipitous actually, Herr Geuder. My daughter in Grantville is seeing the good Reverend . . . socially that is."

From the head of the table, Wilhelm Fugger cleared his throat. As a remote relative of the long-dead Jacob "The Rich" Fugger, he was the first among the equals in this meeting. "Herr Garb, your daughter Constanzia seems to have a nose for getting to the heart of matters, doesn't she?

"First, she provides us with an amazingly accurate vision of where the American investment market is heading, and now, in her spare time I gather, she becomes socially acquainted with a prophet."

After the laughter subsided, Marco responded with a smile. "Yes, my daughter has always had the gift of discerning what was not obvious to the rest of the family. Seriously, that is why I dispatched her to Grantville in the first place. These Americans, they are so practical. They have refined this democracy of theirs to such a state that they don't know how to be devious with matters of business. They don't fear the dangers of passing around critical knowledge, even though they think they do. In a culture like theirs, I had a sense that Constanzia would find out which way the winds would be blowing out of Grantville."

"You certainly have convinced me, Herr Garb. Bravo!" Fugger looked out the window for a moment as he considered his next words. He had a strong family resemblance to his paternal ancestors. It was accentuated by the painting of his Jacob the Rich by Albrecht Durer hanging on the wall directly behind him.

Again, Fugger cleared his throat. "It's no secret that my family's investments have not fared well during this war. All of us are being squeezed by the Swedish occupation of Augsburg and our business is hampered by all these checkpoints the Swede has put into place throughout the Palatinate.

"We've agreed that we would rather join this United States of Europe with its new economy than continue with the Holy Roman Empire, but we've got to end the occupation as soon as possible. I don't give a damn about this Fischer's confessional beliefs. I do believe that he is in the process of becoming a very strong leader in the USE. If we can start to influence him, maybe he can force the Swede to give us our own state. Then, we should be able to guide this prophet to the 'right' side of our issues."

The other bankers and wealthy merchants in the room looked around at each other, and seeing general agreement, looked back at Marco Garb, still somewhat in wonder as how he had managed to get such an accurate read of the impact of American skills and culture so quickly.

"Then it's settled, Herr Fugger, gentlemen." Marco lifted his leather briefcase onto the table and inserted his notes back into it, "I will go back to Grantville and personally meet my daughter's good friend Fischer . . . and begin his education on the broader issue of financial self interest."

 

Magdeburg, Magdeburg Province, United States of Europe

 

Friday night was children's night at the Magdeburg revival. There were hundreds of children gathered around Fischer as he finished up his children's sermon and handed them over to Sister Jennifer for the closing song. As he picked his way through the children, all seated cross-legged on the ground surrounding him, he was surprised at how attentive they had been.

Looking around at their parents, largely mothers and the wives of soldiers and sailors who were off to the front, he saw the same sense of awe in their eyes that he'd noticed wherever he went in Magdeburg this past week. Fischer had become adjusted to the way his congregation looked at him. He was clearly viewed as a leader in their eyes, but this was somehow different. More like what he imagined how his contemporaries must have viewed Martin Luther himself.

Tonight would be the first night since they had decided to abandon the tent. The crowds he was attracting had long since outstripped its ability to provide cover. In it's place, Slater had come up with a quarter dome shaped structure, covered by canvas, that kept the altar itself protected from the weather, and also allowed the spotlights to reflect a soft light on the choir and the band and, of course, Fischer.

Before that Fischer had to complete his blessing of the house church leaders now gathered in the revival encampment from all over the USE. Most he'd met before, but the church elders had decided that the Magdeburg revival was the perfect opportunity to inject a greater sense of mission and a larger purpose into these local leaders of their rapidly growing faith. As Chalker had commented, this would be the cornerstone of the Magdeburg Pentecostal Church in more ways than one.

 

Hans Richter Square, Magdeburg

 

Terrell Nemeth scowled at Art Berry's back as he stormed out of the control room high up in the tower overlooking Hans Richter Square on Saturday. Terrell couldn't understand why Art was so bothered by the light reflecting cross at the back of the stage

Frankly, Terrell thought, If I could get hold of a couple of those VOA vacuum tubes, I could build my own transmitter for the church and not have to deal with Art and his tantrums.

"Nemeth, you read me?"

"Roger. I've got you five by five, Mr. Berry."

"Okay. If the hook up with Grantville will hold, we should get through this event without any difficulties. Nemeth, do you see that group toward the north end of the square? They don't look too much like the rest of the pilgrims that your preacher normally attracts."

Terrell stood and leaned over the rail to get a better view. Sure enough, the group that Art had spotted looked more like ruffians that had occasional run-ins with the Magdeburg police patrols than your typical revival attendee. He'd have to keep an eye on the group and warn Slater to keep an eye on them as well.

One thing hadn't changed since Slater's healing. He still didn't shy away from a good fight, although he and his roadies had become been quite disciplined in keeping it focused on crowd control rather than their old drunken brawling habits.

****

Fischer raised his right arm over his head and began his closing benediction. "God Bless all the souls gathered here tonight and gathered around their radios throughout this beautiful German land. God Bless, the soldiers and sailors from all the Germanies that fight to sweep our new republic clean from the blight of foreign invaders . . ."

It was at that point the shouting began.

"What about the emperor?"

"Yah! How about the Swedish army that pulled your German bacon out of the fire?"

"Why don't you bless the emperor, Winkelprediger?" The insult caused the gathered congregation to gasp in shock at this unexpected interruption of their religious experience. Winkelprediger was a German slang term that roughly translated into the American term "incompetent, jackleg preacher."

Fischer's head snapped up and he glared through the lights in his eyes to see who had begun to heckle during his closing prayer. Spotting them, he moved to the northern edge of the altar closest to the hecklers and angrily responded, "God bless the king of Sweden. And God bless the United States of Europe."

The crowd immediately surrounding him marveled as Fischer's skin darkened and the thin white scar on his forehead began to glow. It was something that was rumored to happen when Der Fischer was under the guidance of his Holy Spirit, and now they saw it for themselves.

Almost spitting it out at the hecklers, Fischer then shouted with all his might, "And may God be praised that after this war ends he will find a way to guide the Swedish king in peace back to his throne in Stockholm, leaving the citizens of Germany free to elect our own emperor."

A burst of applause broke out from the congregation. In the meanwhile, Slater and his gang of roadies surrounded the group that Terrell had warned them to watch out for and forcefully began moving them away from the rest of the congregation. As they were being cleared from the square, a chant rang out, "Born Twice, Die Once! Born Twice, Die Once!"

The entire congregation raised their right hands straight up in the air and defiantly joined in with the proud statement of the belief of their church and it's leader, Der Fischer.

****

The crowd gathered for the revival on Sunday evening was very different from those before. The news of the disturbance at Hans Richter Square the previous night had spread like wildfire throughout the USE. All day long, riders had come into Magdeburg on horses and wagons and trains, all prepared to see this evangelist who dared to speak the truth of the Swedish king who occupied their land.

Most of them would admit that if it hadn't been for the Swedish army, Tilly and his armies would have continued to devastate the land and it's people. But now that the war was just about over, the wrongs that the Swedes had done in the Germanies needed to be settled as well. Gustavus Adolphus had made no bones about his theory of how to conduct his campaigns: "Let the war pay for the war."

Because of this, many of the Lutherans who had been relieved to see the Swedish Lutheran Army come would now be more than willing to see it go.

So the crowd gathered at this last night in Magdeburg looked less a gathering of older men, widows, and children, and more a gathering of bands of militia before a battle. Some even raised the standards of their organizations. Even the banner of the Franconian Ram flew.

Worried that the temper of his audience was on the edge of dangerous, Fischer toned down his remarks. No healings tonight. He didn't think that he could channel the emotional power it took for a service like that with this group.

Indeed, Fischer was keeping a close eye on this gathering to make sure no flare-ups occurred like the previous evening, so he immediately noticed when someone ran into the tent from the direction of the airfield and forced their way to the front of the congregation.

One of Slater's roadies intercepted the young man before he could get too close to the altar. As Fischer continued with his sermon, he kept an eye on the two of them excitedly whispering to each other. Then, all of a sudden, the roadie swept up the young man in a bear hug and began to shout, "Halleluiah! Praise God!"

Now, pulling the young man behind him, the roadie ran toward the altar where Fischer stood. "Preacher! Preacher! You did it!"

Fischer paused in his prepared sermon and looked at the two men running up to him with smiles beaming from their faces. When they reached him, the young man shouted out, "The war is over! I just hear over the airfield radio. Denmark has surrendered! The war is over!"

Bedlam broke out throughout the congregation. Men and women hugged, children started dancing, and they all shouted out thanksgivings for ending this war, which had killed so many. Then, slowly they turned toward the altar and began to shout, "God Bless Der Fischer! God Bless Der Fischer!"

Fischer had been wrapped in an embrace of the young man and his roadie who had brought the good news. Now, hearing the chant breaking out from the congregation, he released the men and ran over to Sister Jennifer. He whispered in her ear for a moment, and she ran over to each section of her choir shouting out instructions. Then, jumping up on her director's stand, she raised her arms and they sang out the old spiritual, "Down by the Riverside."

Through chorus after chorus of ". . . ain't going to study war no more . . ." mixed with the general euphoria of the news, Fischer marveled at the incredible timing that the Holy Spirit had. The Spirit had known that this would happen and brought him here at this precise minute to fulfill God's plan. Surely, there was nothing left to doubt. He was God's chosen instrument in this new timeline. From now on, he would remember that it was God who was personally leading him to his personal destiny, not other men.

Someone tapped his shoulder. Terrell stood there with tears streaming down his face. "Brother Fischer, it's Reverend Chalker. He collapsed at the last service today in Grantville. They don't know if he's going to make it."

 

 

Chapter Twenty

 

 

June 1634, Grantville

 

The first person Fischer saw as he entered the room was Lana Soper. Ever since Reverend Chalker was released from the hospital and moved into the Manning Assisted Living Center, Lana had been his constant companion.

Chalker lay asleep. He had not been shaved today and you could see a stream of dribble working it's way down his gray whiskered cheek. He looked much older than the energetic old man who had led Fischer to the presence of his own Holy Spirit.

Sure enough, on the other side of Chalker's bed sat Georg Fleitner. During the two weeks that Chalker spent in the Grantville hospital, any time Fischer had seen Georg cleaning up around the church, he seemed like he was in agony at having left Reverend Chalker to others' care. Now that Lana was there to split the duties with him, Georg seemed much calmer when he tended to his other chores.

After Fischer greeted them both, they updated him on the condition of the senior minister. Doctor Nichols had dropped by this morning, satisfied that his obstinate heart patient was finally being kept off his feet. Pete Enriquez had also dropped by first thing this morning to check on Chalker before heading off to his job site. Several other members of the congregation had stuck their heads in the room to pay their respects, only to be chased away by Georg.

"Reverend need rest," Georg kept repeating.

"All right, Georg. Please tell Reverend Chalker I dropped by." Fischer said a prayer for Lana, Georg, and Chalker, then headed on to his next meeting. This meeting was one he was very nervous about. He was going to meet Constanzia's father for the first time.

Thankfully, Constanzia's brother was out of town. Fischer was always very aware of Martin's disapproval of him and his faith. Martin treated him as if he were that snake oil salesman, the self proclaimed "Doctor" Gribbleflotz, whose peddlers hung around the outskirts of the revival tour selling miracle blue pills and radio magnifier devices.

Herr Garb had arrived in town a few days ago. Constanzia called Fischer, inviting him to meet her father. Ever since then, Fischer had been a wreck. This morning as Phyllis freshened up his haircut; he hadn't been able to stop fidgeting for worrying that she was going to make a mistake and he wouldn't present the right appearance to Herr Garb.

When he boarded the trolley at the Assisted Living Center, he spread out the cloth he brought to sit on. He didn't want to chance getting dirt on his new, tailored black suit. Then to take his mind off his nervousness, he started to read a new book Reverend Wiley loaned him. It was by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor of the 1930s who stood up to the evil dictator of the other future Germany.

****

"Papa, Dieter, would you like some more hot chocolate?" Constanzia asked as she gathered up the empty china cups.

"No, thank you, Tesorina. I am well stuffed with your sweetbreads and chocolate already."

Fischer smiled and indicated his polite refusal as well. The meeting had been nothing like Fischer had feared. Marco Garb was a very personable man. It was obvious to how he had become so successful. While the conversation had begun with Herr Garb drawing Fischer out on his relationship with Constanzia, and Fischer's calling to the Pentecostal ministry, it quickly enough had shifted to matters of Fischer's prophecy and how that prophecy was affecting the political and financial future of the Germanies and the rest of Europe.

Herr Garb had a very firm, intuitive, grasp on the power that radio possessed to motivate the masses.

"The right person could go a long way toward making this new country an economic powerhouse if he knew how to motivate them and had the right influential people to back him," Marco said. "Who knows where that would lead in this new world? After all, I have it on good authority that Herr Stearns expects not to remain as Prime Minister after the next election."

Fischer had heard that rumor as well. But he'd dismissed it. He couldn't believe that the all-powerful Mike Stearns would allow the former duke of Saxe-Weimar to replace him in office.

"So, Dieter, when are you planning on returning to your revival tour?" Marco asked.

"That depends, Herr Garb. Frau Kurger tells us that she expects her husband, the Reverend Hans Kurger, to muster out of his army chaplaincy any day now. When he returns to take over the podium at the church, then we can plan what to do next."

"Constanzia tells me you will be taking the new rail line west from Halle to Erfurt."

Fischer nodded his agreement.

"I have a number of good contacts along that line. Perhaps I can arrange some introductions for you along the way. These are business people who would be valuable to you and your future."

Marco Garb was very impressed with this young minister friend of his daughter. It was obvious that she had found a man who could be very valuable to the ambitions of their family and their business associates. All in all, Marco could very easily see this young man as a member of his family.

 

Hamburg, United States of Europe

"A fine meal that was." Colonel David Leslie belched after draining his flagon of beer.

"Aye, it's been good to see you again. Your mother says you don't write to her often enough." General Alexander Leslie smiled, knowing that Patrick Leslie's widow believed that her fifth son should be writing to her every day, even after this long European adventure.

"Ah, yes. The good Lady Lindores reminds me of the same matter in each of her letters to me." David laughed. "Perhaps now that I'm going back to a more permanent encampment, I'll have more time to keep in touch with my dear old ma."

"Speaking of that, David. Are you sure you wouldn't like for me to intervene on your behalf so you can spend a few months back home in Fife?"

"Ye know as well as I that until we have a cavalry weapon that matches the Cardinal, the danger of war is not over. Having faced it in combat now, I can see why the Southern American army said that you could load it on a Sunday and shoot it the rest of the week."

"A very dangerous weapon to have in the hands of the good cardinal and his forces for sure. You should see the American gnomes and how they look so apologetic for not having figured out how to make percussion caps when the French figured it out on their own."

"Aye, I've seen that very look. No, my orders are to move my cavalry command back to Erfurt to muster out. Then, I'm to proceed with my cadre to Fulda to help develop hopefully a better version of the up-time Sharps rifle or something called a Henry and work out the drill to incorporate it into our forces."

"I'm glad to hear you say that." General Alexander picked up his wine and swirled it. "In fact, I have a wee mission of my own that I'd like for you to handle."

Gulping a swallow down, he continued, "Have you ever heard of a 'Der Fischer'?"

"Aye, uncle. He's that fellow that sends out the song sheets with Bible verses printed on them. My men sing them all the time."

"He's a bit more than that. In fact I met with Axel Oxenstierna a few weeks ago, at the Congress of Copenhagen. Nothing official you understand, but he has his concerns about Fischer. Now that the League has been shattered and the French seem to be involved in internal problems of their own, it's likely that the Germans may start questioning why the Swedish forces are remaining behind. After all, there's an argument to be made that there is little reason for the Swedish nobles to continue to fund this adventure since the immediate danger to Protestantism has passed." Alexander took another drink, then continued. "Unless, of course, there's more to it than the House of Vasa's natural desire to increase his rule.

"That's the question we fear may be driving a number of groups to Der Fischer.

"What I'd like for you to do is to learn more about him and what his beliefs and motivations are. Should he continue this revival of his, try to attend and gauge the atmosphere of those in attendance.

"Hopefully, His Majesty's advisors worry too much, but it needs to be investigated."

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

June 1634, Grantville

 

"Good Morning, Mr. Grover!"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, good morning, Helga." John Grover barely glanced at Helga as he continued through the VOA reception area to his own office.

"Mr. Grover?" Helga was concerned. Normally her boss was so positive and upbeat when he got in each morning. Of all the days for him to feel gloomy. She was wearing her brand new, royal blue summer dress. The one that showed off just a little cleavage and these beautiful up-time, oversized, white plastic beads that Frau Kurger found for her at the Emporium last Saturday.

"Yes, Helga? What do you need?"

At least that got him to stop. "I just wanted to let you know that Frau Kurger and Reverend Fischer are in the conference room with Marc going over the figures from last week's mail receipts. You know, in case you wanted to pop in and say hi."

Grover scowled, "Just what I need. I had to pay for the repair of a broken piece of critical equipment already this morning, and now that preacher shows up. Great."

He thought for a moment, then added, "Listen, if they're still here in fifteen minutes, ask me again. I've got a couple of things I need to handle in my office first."

Grover disappeared into his office and forcefully shut the door behind him.

Helga was perplexed. She'd heard about the equipment repair, but what spy? She reached down into her handbag and pulled out her compact. After carefully examining her makeup and hair, she put it back and decided that she must figure out some way to get her boss back in his usual good mood. Meanwhile, she'd just finish up her filing. Maybe that would give her some time to think of an idea of what she could do.

****

Marc Kronzburg was in a very uncomfortable position. How did he . . . how could he . . . what could he do or say to turn down business? Ever since the two live broadcasts from Magdeburg, the atmosphere around the station front office had been so tense you could cut it with a knife. He'd sat in on several meetings with Mr. Grover and Deanna Dee trying to find a loophole in the station contract with the Pentecostal Church. They had even called in Huddy Colburn, the GE's business broker consultant, to examine the contract to see if there were any errors that they could use to invalidate it.

But it was no use. Roy Copenhaver had tightened up every clause that John Grover originally proposed. They were stuck with the Saturday night show. So far, at least, no broadcast since had caused any surprises. They were the same mixture of good music, talent contestants, and upbeat moral values that continued to make the Old Timey Radio Hour the most popular show on the station.

Marc continued to increase the price on the spots inside the hour so many times that he'd lost count. When he said, "the only radio sets that aren't tuned into this show are the ones that are broken," advertisers just nodded and signed the price bump.

The live weeknight revival remotes, however, that was another story. Basically, they didn't have to sell any time to the church during the week at all. There was nothing in their contract that covered that one-way or the other. The problem was, they did have a contract with Art Berry to make available to him at least three hours a month for his RCE remotes as a condition to his providing remote broadcasts for the station's regular news reporting. At the time, they had all been thinking of it as five or ten minute opportunities for Art to generate a little more remote business. But it wasn't clearly specified in the contract. As Huddy pointed out, "Folks, you done opened up your barn door and pulled down your trousers on this one."

It seemed, in John and Janet Rogers hurry to lock up Art's capabilities so her newscasts and stock and agricultural market reports could continue uninterrupted by one of Art's inevitable tantrums, they had forgotten to assign a value to the three hour blocks. All it said was that if the station had a pre-existing scheduled live show on during that hour Art couldn't have it. But they hadn't specified morning or evening, or most importantly, they had forgotten to reserve the internal spot sales to the station!

Art hadn't noticed the flaw either; at least so far he hadn't mentioned it. But if they turned down Fischer and friends from buying direct, he could easily go to Art and get a much cheaper rate and they'd be out the ad revenue, and still have to broadcast a shortened Old Timey Radio Hour! Sure, the church would have to cut back to a half hour each Saturday night, but they would be wide open to sell their own spots to the same advertisers that were paying the station right now.

Luckily, several weeks had gone by with no mention of continuing the revival or the revival broadcasts. Now that Maria's husband had returned home to take over the church pulpit, that good fortune had come to an end.

"Marc? Are you still with us?" Fischer smiled, but also looked puzzled at his friend's non-response to his question.

"Oh! Yes, of course, Reverend Fischer." Marc improvised, "It's just we've got so much going on at The Voice of America this summer. I was just trying to work it out in my head if we can find an open slot before the Fourth of July.

"Let me tell you what. Let's finish up here with the collections, and I'll get with our program manager and see what we can do. Is that fair enough?"

Even Maria Kurger looked up from her tally sheet when she heard that. In all the years she'd been dealing with Marc, he had never once paused a second to come up with the exact number of spots in each hour of the broadcast year that he had available to sell. When she learned how to use the new church computer, her first thought was that it must have been modeled after Marc Kronzburg's brain.

"That's fine, Marc," Fischer answered after a moments thought. "But, we'll be happy just to wait here while you go get the station schedule. It would really mean a lot. Okay?"

"Uhh . . . of course, Reverend. Wait right here. I'll be right back." Marc stood, decided to flash his best closing smile and added, "Can I get either of you some fresh pastry or something to drink before I go?"

Maria looked Marc right in the eye and answered in her most forceful, no-nonsense tone ...