“Oh.” Willard was still vaguely embarrassed about last fall. “Um, do you happen to know which of these forks leads to Bamberg?”
“It is this one. I am going to Bamberg, myself. We can walk along together. Two men are safer than one alone.”
They moved forward.
Some distance behind them, a half dozen game wardens coming from the direction of Coburg noted several other men stepping out of the trees onto the road leading from Wuerzburg. It was all right, though, upon a closer look. They were Jaeger, too; and they wore the ram’s head on their sleeves.
“In Aprils Luft,” one of them said.
“Entfalten sich die Flaggen,” the others completed the sentence.
The up-timers were manifestly insane to have let either of the men ahead of them go out walking the roads of Franconia alone. Each of them should be guarded by a full company of armed soldiers, at the very least. The Jaeger walked on to Bamberg, keeping just out of sight behind the hills and trees, intent on ensuring that the two innocent, good-hearted, oblivious, but inspirational damned fools who had been placed under their protection by the Ram would live to see the banners unfurl in April.
Chapter 7:
“Recriminations Will Get You Nowhere”
Wuerzburg, January 1, 1634
Steve Salatto opened one eye, experimentally, and took stock. He felt pretty good. The “American New Year’s Eve” party that he and his wife Anita had hosted for the administrative staff of the New United States in Franconia and the city fathers of Wuerzburg and their wives-paper hats, paper whistles, confetti, and all-had actually been rather sedate. He was beginning to feel like a traitor to his Italian roots. He had even admitted to one of the city’s vintners that he was coming to prefer the dry Franconian white wine to Italian red. It certainly left a guy with less of a head the next morning.
There was light coming in through the window. He ought to get up. Then he remembered that he had declared the up-time New Year’s day a holiday for the administrative staff, even though the official calendar change to the year 1634 would not roll around until March 25 for a lot of Germany outside the NUS. The feather bed was nice and warm. He tapped his wife Anita on the shoulder and asked, “Ummn?” She turned over with a smile and they settled in for a nice snuggle.
* * *
Later on that morning, after they’d begun stirring around, Steve’s eyes fell on a newspaper lying on the table where most of the festivities had centered the night before.
“Oh, Lord,” he half-moaned. “I forgot about that. It seemed a lot funnier last night than it does today.”
“What are you talking about?” Anita asked, coming over.
“This.” He held up the newspaper, showing the first page. It was a very recent issue of the main Bamberg newspaper.
Anita leaned over his shoulder and started giggling. “I still think it’s funny. I like all those Brillo fables.”
Glumly, Steve stared down at the thing. Prominently displayed in a box in the lower right hand quarter of the page was a German headline which read “New Brillo Verses,” followed by, in English:
In a field by the hillside some little ewe-lambs sang
“Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."
And I said to them, “Merinos, why do you stand singing
’Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo’?"
Is it wild boars come ravaging, my ewes?” I cried,
“Or a wild cat come nipping at your tender hide?"
With a kick of their heels, they all baaad then replied,
“Oh, Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."
As a scruffy ram butted against the field’s fence
“Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, tis Brillo."
And I saw them leap up and go gamboling thence,
“Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."
As he leaped o’er the fence in a tremendous bound,
And all the ewes “baaaad” in approving resound,
Oh! My hopes for rich wool were quite dashed to the ground!
Oh, Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo.
Soon many more lambs in the field could be seen
Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo
Their coarse kinky wool had no fine silken sheen
Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo
As they chased off a wolfling with kicks full of fire,
Their great bravery somewhat reduced my sad ire,
“Oh, tell me, brave lambkins, just who is your sire?"
“Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo!"
At the bottom was an announcement that a German translation would be provided on the third page, along with the announcement of a contest to see who could produce the best German versification of the rhymes. From experience, Steve knew that within a month this new Brillo fable would have transmuted into half a dozen variations-all of which were aimed at the Franconian establishment.
“How in the hell did that stupid scruffy ram of Flo Richards’ turn into an endless supply of gasoline poured on the flames?” Steve demanded. “Somebody please tell me.”
Anita shrugged. “You might as well ask how in the hell a bunch of stupid tea leaves dumped into a harbor turned into something that’s still talked about two hundred years later. Face it, Steve. This place needs a revolution-badly-and damn near anything could have served as the channel.”
She headed toward the kitchen. “I still think it’s cute. A lot cuter than tea leaves, that’s for sure-and, for my money, it beats ‘one if by land, two if by sea’ by a country mile.”
“I’m a civil servant!” Steve protested.
“Yup. A veritable Chinese mandarin. In interesting times,” came Anita’s rejoinder from the kitchen.