The Grantville Gazette - Vol 9 Part 39

The bet was any time in the next month. Sunday morning would do just fine.

April, 1635 "What can I do for you fellows?" Ken asked as Hans and Hans approached the bar. He had talked to them on Sunday when they routinely "investigated" the noise complaints called in on Sunday afternoon.

Now it was Monday and the cops were back.

"Mister Beasley, do you know where your congregation was on Sunday?" Hans Shruer asked.

Ken Beasley broke into a deep belly laugh. Somehow, they were his congregation and he was supposed to know what they were up to. The cops seemed to think he knew what his regular patrons were doing twenty-four, seven. Now he was supposed to keep track of the Anabaptists, too.

The fact was he knew exactly where they were on Sunday morning. Tom Ruffner and his wife Jenny were part of the congregation now. Tom had stopped in for a beer last night. Oddly, his wife didn't mind his having a beer now and again anymore. She even came with him for an hour one evening. She found out about the bet with Jimmy d.i.c.k and said it wasn't right. He said he wasn't giving it back. So she traipsed in one evening, hopped up on a bar stool and ordered a cup of coffee. Then she announced it was six minutes after six. At seven minutes after seven, she walked out the door. When Tom stopped in for a beer, Ken complained about the mess.

"Ain't our fault," Tom said. "Weren't none of us here. We all went over to Rudoltstadt for the first service of a church Joe is starting over there. They're gonna have some trouble on account of Rudolstadt being nothin' but Lutheran. We went over to show support. If there was a mess, it was your mess."

Ken had to concede the point. Still, just because he knew where they were didn't mean he was going to tell the cops anything, especially not in front of Jimmy d.i.c.k. James Richard Schaver was the only patron in the place at the moment. The lunch drinkers were gone; the "beer or two on the way home" crowd wouldn't trickle in for awhile and it was way too early for the every-night late-night regulars. If he told the cops anything, sure as Saint Patrick wasn't Jewish, Jimmy d.i.c.k would see to it everybody knew it. His patrons expected privacy with their beer.

When his laughter ran down Ken responded to the question without answering it. "Joe Jenkins hasn't been in yet to pay this week's rent. When he does, I'm going to complain about the mess they left me. It almost looked as if there hadn't been anyone here at all."

Hans and Hans exchanged knowing glances.

"What's up?" Ken asked.

"We got a query from over in Rudoltstadt. It seems someone with a truck was at an unauthorized church service," Hans said.

The description of the truck matched Joe's ancient (early fifties vintage) coal hauler to a "T." Joe ended up with the old thing when the company he was working for went bankrupt. It was so old the army didn't want it. Even the tires weren't worth taking. Now, it had a propane tank for natural gas over the cab. The bed was boxed in against the weather with benches down each side, with a door and steps to the rear for people. Joe was using it for a church bus.

"Unauthorized?" Jimmy d.i.c.k piped in. "It was Sunday. How much more authorized do you need to be?"

"Mister Schaver," Hans said. "The ruler in Rudoltstadt is Lutheran. So the church in Rudoltstadt is Lutheran."

"And if you ain't Lutheran?"

"Then you convert, or you move," Hans said.

"That ain't right! What ever happened to freedom of religion?!"

"Rudoltstadt is not America. Not being Lutheran in Rudoltstadt is a punishable offence!"

The law in the USE called for religious tolerance, but the gap between custom and law is often quite large.

"That just ain't right," Jimmy said.

"Punishable, how?" Ken asked. "Fines, confiscation, exile, imprisonment, beheading." Hans knew full well capital punishment was rare even before the USE. Still, getting sick or starving to death in prison or on the road was not in the least uncommon.

Jimmy practically squealed. "That's medieval!"

"And just when do you think you are, Mister Schaver? This is the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and thirty-three. You are in Germany and this is the way things are done," Hans said.

"Mister Beasley, when . . ." It was clearly when, not if. ". . . you see Joe Jenkins, please let him know we would like him to stop in at the station. We need to a.s.sure the people over in Rudoltstadt that it won't happen again."

Having made that p.r.o.nouncement Hans and Hans stalked out. Ken watched them leave with a feeling of anxiety.

"That's bull s.h.i.t!" Jimmy d.i.c.k said. "They can't tell our krauts what to do."

Ken's head snapped around. "Our krauts? Since when did any of those s.h.i.t-heads become our krauts?"

"Ken, there ain't a conversation in this bar you don't know about." It was a slight exaggeration, but only a slight one. "You know we've been sayin' the krauts holdin' church here are red necks and our kind of krauts."

When Jimmy said "we" he was talking about himself. But no one was shutting him down, which he took as agreement. "We ain't gonna let them push our krauts around. Not when it comes to religious freedom."

"Jimmy d.i.c.k, you're full of s.h.i.t!"

"Well, sell me another beer."

Later, Jimmy d.i.c.k was riding a high horse h.e.l.l bent for leather. What surprised Ken was that people were listening. Normally, Jimmy had to buy to get anyone to drink with him and listen to his ranting insults. But he started talking about religious freedom.

"We shouldn't let them outside krauts over the border push our good old boy, red neck krauts around.

Our krauts ain't too stuck up to hold church in a bar. Are we goin'a let some a.s.shole over the border tell them what they can and can't do? We ought to take our shotguns and go over there to church next Sunday and how ever many Sundays it takes until they figure it out and leave our krauts alone." Jimmy actually had people buying him drinks.

Ken heard it and the sinking feeling in his stomach started turning into a large knot.

Joe Jenkins turned up the next day after the lunch crowd was gone. Ken let him know right away the cops had been in looking for him.

"I've already talked to them."

"Then you're shutting down the church over there?" Jimmy d.i.c.k asked. He was there for lunch, as usual,and would likely stay to closing. Between his disability from the army and family money he hadn't held a job since coming back from Nam.

"No," Joe answered.

"Good. Me a few of the boys are talkin' about comin'."

"Be glad to have you."

"You got this week's rent?" Ken planned to tell Joe it would be going up.

"We didn't use the place this week."

"Why, you cheap s...o...b.. Get your worthless, sorry a.s.s out of my place and don't let me ever catch you in here again." In truth, Ken was relieved. He knew in his bones something bad was going to happen and he didn't need to be part of it.

"Sorry ya' feel that way about it." Joe sighed.

Hans Shruer requested permission to handle the follow up on the complaint that Grantville was exporting heresy. Hans wanted it handled by someone sympathetic. He was not sure an up-timer would show proper respect for a pastor.

Despite everything he loved in Grantville, there were things which troubled him. Their willingness to treat all men as equals was refreshing. It was amusing when the emperor became Captain General Gars upon entering Grantville. It would not be amusing if someone was less than deferential to a pastor.

Hans rose early, mounted a borrowed horse and made his way across the boarder. Pastor Holt received him in the study. The room's fireplace was welcome on a chilly April day. A writing desk, a magnificent library of seven books and two comfortable chairs in front of the fire furnished the room.

"Pastor, I am here in response to the complaint you lodged with the Grantville Police."

"Good." Pastor Holt said. "We need this nipped in the bud with as little fuss as possible."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Pastor. But I am afraid I must inform you the chief of police feels there is nothing he can do."

"What?"

"He says it is outside his jurisdiction."

"He intends to let these, these blasphemers, carry on their criminal activities because they cross the border to do it?"

"Pastor, first, he does not see it as criminal."

"Nonsense! It is against the laws of G.o.d and man!"

"Pastor, the laws of G.o.d are not the laws of the USE. Or of Grantville." "They should be!"

"I agree. But unfortunately they are not. The different churches cannot agree was to what those laws are and . . ."

"On this point we are in agreement! The re-baptizers strike at the very root of Christianity. How can anyone have confidence in their salvation when someone claims baptism does not save?" Pastor Holt shuddered. "Where does this leave those children who die an early death?"

"I understand completely. You are absolutely right. Except all of the churches do not agree on . . ."

"Nonsense. It was settled at the second Diet of Speier. The Catholics, the Lutherans, and now the Calvinists, all agreed the Anabaptists are not to be tolerated."

"Pastor, there are three established churches in Grantville who practice only adult baptism. They have, or will have, existed for hundreds of years in America. Their existence is not a threat to the Lutheran church or Christianity. The chief feels you will just have to make an accommodation in your thinking. You know they have a radical concept of religious freedom."

"I can do nothing about what 'they' do in Grantville." It is amazing how much can be said with how a word is p.r.o.nounced. "But, I will not allow this travesty to be inflicted on the people of my parish."

"Pastor, Joseph Jenkins claims to have the count's permission."

"Nonsense! The count is a loyal member of the Lutheran faith. He would never condone this."

"The chief has known Mr. Jenkins for years. He accepted his statement without bothering to verify it. I overheard the conversation. Mr. Jenkins claimed to have talked with the count. He claimed the count does not want to lose a large party of gunsmiths who were about to move so they could attend church without walking miles and miles. The count, according to Jenkins, feels this acceptance of any faith as long as it does not create social disorder is one of the secrets of Grantville's prosperity."

"Social disorder? What does he think rebaptism is? Doesn't he know about Munster?"

"Pastor, you will have to ask the count. I fully sympathize with your problem. Believe me, I will do anything I can to help. But the response I was sent to deliver is: the officials in Grantville are not prepared to do anything."

"Surely you jest?"

"I wish I did."

The count did not relieve Pastor Holt's frustration. "Pastor Holt, I know you are aware the Emperor has declared religious freedom."

"Religious freedom? Yes. But surely it does not include these people."

"Yes. It does." Next Sunday's sermon was a railing accusation against G.o.dless polygamists and anarchists. On Monday, word came from the count to drop it. Pastor Holt had no choice but to obey. After all, the count was the one who appointed him to the pulpit and paid his salary.

About three months later, the English version of the Magdeburg Freedom Arches propaganda broadside started turning up in Grantville. When Jimmy d.i.c.k saw the lead article, he wondered just how long he would have to do his drinking at home.

Red Necks to the Rescue by Leo Nidus If you have not been to Grantville then you may not know of a private drinking establishment called "Club 250." There is a sign on the door "No Dogs and No germans Allowed."

The people who drink there are referred to by the general population of Grantville as "red necks." This is a derogatory term designating a lower cla.s.s of people. They are presumed to be louts, willfully ignorant, belligerently pugnacious, and ethnocentric in the extreme, as noted by the sign on the door. They are not well considered and clearly stand in opposition to the general policy of acceptance which is a hallmark of Grantville. But since tolerance is so highly esteemed by Grantville's ethos, even red necks are secure by law from any disapproval beyond verbal condemnation.

Why should I write of these dregs of their culture, the lowest order of society? That is simple. I write of them because of the n.o.bility of their actions and the generosity of their spirit.

When no place to worship could be found amongst the established churches-yes, churches.

Grantville's tolerance fosters over half a dozen different faiths existing side by side without even covert violence-for a small Anabaptist sect, the red necks of Club 250 opened the doors of the club to them in off hours, asking only that they be gone well before the club opened for business.

When the sect opened a church across the border and encountered active opposition, including the threat and actualization of violence, these same "degenerate louts" undertook to guarantee the safety of the congregation by standing armed vigil over the services until the violence subsided.

Why would the dregs of society, the despised lowest order, the willfully ignorant do such a thing?

Because they know in their hearts, they hold the conviction deep in their souls, that freedom is not free. They understand that when one man is not free, then none are truly free.

If today we allow the Anabaptists to be denied the right to freely a.s.semble, then tomorrow that freedom could be denied to others and then to us.

The price of freedom is the defense of the rights of others, even if it is the right to be wrong. As one red neck put it, "the price of freedom is the defense of idiots."

Fly Like a Bird

by Loren Jones

Paul Meinhart left Grantville in the autumn of 1632, but not before he spent several months in the Grantville jail. He'd been imprisoned for such a stupid little thing, yet the Americans had treated him like a murderer. The one good thing that came out of his imprisonment had been knowledge.

He couldn't read English. He couldn't read German all that well. But he had a good memory, and the books and magazines that had been provided to him in prison had shown him wonders. One of the magazines, a serial dedicated to things of a mechanical nature, had been inspiring. Especially the pictures.

There had been pictures of just about everything, often in fine detail. Including flying machines.