“Guess what, guys,” Saunders Wendell said, “we finally know who we are.”
“What do you mean by that?” Scott Blackwell asked.
“They sent down someone to replace Meyfarth, and he brought along an official notice that the former New United States is no more. Bet Arnold Bellamy’s happy to get rid of that NUS acronym! He was sure that everyone in Europe would start referring to us as ‘the nuts’.”
“Wonderful,” Maydene Utt said. “What are we now?”
“Don’t know. Steve’s saving it for the meeting, when he introduces the guy.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know that, either. German. But he speaks English. A ‘must hire’ from Axel Oxenstierna, I understand.”
The door opened. Steve came in with a thin man who wore a mustache and a goatee. He had a twinkle in his eye. About fifty; older than the departed Meyfarth, at any rate. After the general exchange of “good mornings,” Steve said: “I would like to introduce my new chief of staff to all of you. Ladies and gentlemen, Georg Rodolf Weckherlin, who is going to tell us who we are.”
Weckherlin bowed with a flourish.
Scott Blackwell thought that the man would be happy on a stage, playing one of the Three Musketeers. When he opened his mouth, he sounded like he belonged in a Shakespeare play, too.
“Ah,” Weckherlin said, “it was my privilege to be in Grantville delivering my letter of recommendation from the king’s, ah, emperor’s chancellor. Thus, I had a chance to observe this. First, there was a meeting of the cabinet, presided over by your president Mr. Piazza, to receive suggestions. Then there was a full session of the congress.
“Someone suggested that it should be the Province of Thuringia. Mr. Arnold Bellamy raised most strenuous objections that he did not wish to be a citizen of PoT. An acronym which, by the way, the youngest son of your Mr. Thomas Stone was kind enough to enlighten me about just before he left for Italy.”
Weckherlin grinned. Everyone else at the table broke into laughter.
“Ah, so therefore you are not a PoT. The cabinet did not even present the suggestion to the congress.
“Then it was noted that Gustavus Adolphus himself had suggested ‘East Virginia.’ This was not received with enthusiasm. An aspect of your prior history, I understand.”
Nods all around the table.
“So, subject to a referendum at the next election, they have adopted the name…”
Weckherlin paused dramatically.
Twirled the ends of his moustaches.
“State of Thuringia.”
“You know,” Scott Blackwell commented, “I can’t see that SoT is a big improvement on PoT.”
“True, true.” Weckherlin winked. “That is precisely what Mr. Bellamy said.”
Laughter again.
Steve watched in admiration. In a few minutes, a man who came into the room as a complete stranger had managed to break the ice and make considerable strides toward being accepted as a member of the working group that it had taken him two years to develop.
“What are we in connection to the SoT?” Wendell asked.
“Until the election you are holding this spring, just the Franconian Region. Very dull, alas. Which you will remain if the people here do not vote to become part of the State of Thuringia. If they do vote to become part, there will be yet another discussion and, at least everyone presumes, yet another name.”
“What are the parts?” Willa Fodor asked. “That is, all the Aemter and Gemeinden and Gerichte and markets and other little administrative units. Are they doing something to straighten that out and come up with one set of jurisdictions?”
Weckherlin nodded. “Oh, yes, something. Lots of talking. Lots of ‘discussion,’ that is. Should the new state have counties? If the English word ‘county’ is also used to translate ‘Grafschaft,’ then will it insult the towns, such as Badenburg, or other lords, such as the dukes of Saxe-Weimar, who would not wish to see their former duchy demoted to a county? Would they take umbrage? It became very complicated.
“I did suggest. Just suggested, since I was there at the ‘town meeting’ where people were talking about it, that they could call them ‘shires’ and then they could call the state’s appointee in each of them a ‘sheriff.’
“Woe is me!” Weckherlin’s face fell into a parody of grief. “They decided that this was much too ‘English.’ But they agreed that making everything a county was not good. So every jurisdiction will keep its own name, Madam. That is, whether a document is in German or in English, unless the people themselves decide to change the name, a former Reichstadt such as Badenburg will remain a Stadt, a Herzogtum such as Saxe-Weimar will keep that name, a Grafschaft such as Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt will keep that name, a Freiherrschaft will remain itself also. But each one will have exactly the same governmental rights and responsibilities and be expected to adopt the same administrative structure and offices, none more or less important than the others. For land and taxes and such matters.
“They can change, though, if they wish. Thus, your Grantville and its surrounding land, inside the Ring of Fire and what it has annexed, have voted to become West Virginia County, Thuringia. There was some discussion of ‘Ring of Fire County,’ but it was decided that because of the annexations, it isn’t exactly a circle or a ring any more. More like an ‘amoeba,’ a man named Mr. Birdie Newhouse said. One of your high school teachers showed me an ‘amoeba’ through his microscope. Fascinating. Grantville will return to being a city with a charter and there will be a county government established for the remainder of it. Mayor Dreeson said that this was a good thing. But they will not have time to do it right away.
“Much of the region that was once Grafschaft Gleichen, but the Grafen are extinct, all the parts that were not annexed directly into the Ring of Fire, has voted to become Vasa County, Thuringia. Graf August von Sommersburg and his subjects have decided to be Sommersburg County rather than a Grafschaft, although nobody else is sure why. Erfurt city wishes to remain a Stadt but the hinterland around it has voted to become Erfurt County, Thuringia.”
“Shrewd,” Steve Salatto commented. “Keep the familiar terms, but remodel the underlying structure. Not a bad idea. Comfort zone thinking.”
Willa hadn’t given up yet. “What about below the county level? The Aemter and such?”
“I am not sure,” Weckherlin admitted. “But neither are they. At least, they were still talking when I left.”
Grantville, early January, 1634
Emma Thornton was in the outer office of the president of the State of Thuringia. President, not governor. There had been a president of the New United States. There had also been a congress of the New United States. Neither of them, thus far, had seen any good and clear reason to demote themselves to governor and legislature, just because the NUS had become the SoT. None of the other of the states that now comprised the United States of Europe used any of the four terms, after all. Instead, they featured a wide variety of titles for the heads of state and the general term Staende, usually translated into English as “Estates,” for their legislative assemblies.
So, the matter didn’t seem to be urgent. What was an occasional “president” among dukes, landgraves, margraves, and counts? Would a “governor” be any less unique when his colleagues were Herzog, Landgraf, Markgraf, or Graf?
“Okay, Liz, what’s the most important thing for me to take?”
Emma was eyeing the president’s chief of staff, Liz Carstairs. Ed Piazza had inherited her from Mike Stearns. He would keep her only until she could make arrangements to move to Magdeburg and become the prime minister’s chief of staff there. Liz also, of course, happened to be the big sister of Emma’s husband, Willard. And president of the LDS Relief Society. And secretary of the Grantville League of Women Voters.
Emma was never entirely certain which of these personages was the one to which she ought to be deferring at any given moment, but… the truth was that although Liz only had an associate’s degree in administration whereas Emma had a M.Ed. in language arts education, Emma had no doubt at all that Liz was the dominant personality, of which she herself would never manage to be more than the faintest shadow.
Which was ridiculous. She managed her home and her children; she had no trouble controlling her classes-discipline had never been a problem for her.
In spite of that, she was in constant awe of Liz. There was a line, somewhere, between being able to do things and being able to do them superbly. Emma was on one side; Liz on the other.
Even Liz’s mother was in awe of her. Which said something.
So here she was. “Not the most important thing for clothes and stuff. That’s all sorted out and packed. Your folks are dealing with renting out the house; they’re using Huddy Colburn. I’ve put our things in storage, except for what Willard asked me to bring. I’ve rented a wagon and hired a driver.
“But I’ve never done any mission work. This Frau Faerber in Bamberg-we’ll be staying at her house, at least for the rest of the winter-wants me to be talking to other women, mainly. I think. So what should I take?”
Of all the things that Emma might have predicted an hour before, two hundred copies of an abbreviated German translation of Robert’s Rules of Order would not have been right at the top. But that was what Liz gave her.
Along with a great big hug.
Bamberg, mid-January, 1634