Franz stepped back up on the podium, noting in the back of his mind that what had seemed so high an obstacle less than a quarter-hour ago was now only a step. Keeping in mind the things that Marcus and he had discussed, he raised his hands to begin rehearsing the piece, the work of taking each section and hammering it until it was as near perfect as the musicians could produce.
At the end of the hour, after the final run-through of the piece, Franz reluctantly put the baton back down on the director's stand, and faced the band once more. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me learn to be a conductor, a dirigent we will call it in German, to learn with you." Giving them a slight bow, he clapped to them and for them.
"Let's hear it for Mr. S," came the irrepressible voice from the tubas, and the students stood and clapped for Franz, with cheers and whistles from all over and a cymbal crash from the drums. His face felt flushed, and he stepped from the podium and gave them the full bow, the one he would give to an audience that applauded for him.
Just then the final bell rang, and the band dissolved into the bustle of putting away of music and instruments. Many of the students spoke to him as they left. Finally, the room was empty.
Marcus came over to shake hands with him. Franz tried to return the baton to him, but Marcus said, "Keep it, Franz. You'll need it, and I have another." Smiling, he waved to the others and left.
Cradling the baton, Franz slowly turned and walked over to Marla and Maestro Carissimi. Marla looked at his shining face, his gleaming eyes, the grin that threatened to split his face and the way he almost danced as he moved toward them. She smiled in return. "Well?"
Franz turned and looked at the empty chairs for a moment, drinking in the moment. When he faced them again, he said quietly, "It was as if I had the wings of Icarus, only, unlike Icarus, I reached the glory of the sun."
Grantville - Saturday morning, January 7, 1634
The door in front of Franz opened to reveal the face of his friend Thomas Schwarzberg. ""Come in, my friend, come in." Thomas gestured Franz to a chair on one side of his work table.. "And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He sat down on the chair on the other side.
"To this." Franz handed him a sheet of paper with a list on it. Thomas took it, and raised his eyebrows at the contents.
"I take it these are the works you want notated from CDs for Frau Mary's concert?"
"Aye. In addition to those five, I have asked Maestro Carissimi to provide something, as well. He said that he would try, but that it might not be very long."
"Hmm. J. S. Bach's Concerto No. 3 in G Major. Is that not one of the so-called 'Brandenburg Concerti'?"
"Yes." Franz smiled. "But perhaps in this time that is not the most fortuitous of names. Shall we re-christen it, then?"
A slow smile crossed Thomas' face. "I like that thought, Franz. I must admit to liking it muchly. So, have you somewhat in mind to rename it?"
"Perhaps. In truth, one or two."
"And?"
"I thought first of naming it 'Magdeburg' after the city where it will first be played in our time." Franz quirked an eyebrow.
His friend nodded, pulling at his chin. "'Twould be a good fit, I think. Brandenburg, Magdeburg . . . it rolls off the tongue in much the same way. But what was the other?"
"Vasa."
Thomas' eyes opened wide, and his chin dropped. Franz enjoyed the look of amazement, before the laughter began. The deep bass voice of his friend resounded in the room, his hilarity echoing from the walls. Finally, it dwindled away to mere chuckles while he wiped his eyes.
"Oh, Franz. It is too good! Oh, the thought of that story becoming commonly known . . . how the concerti were named Brandenburg in the up-time, but that they will now be know as Vasa in honor of the great king. How that will twist in the bowels of Elector George William! Would that I could be a mouse in the chamber when he hears of it!" Off he went, laughing again, with Franz chuckling in spite of himself.
Wiping his eyes, Thomas picked up the list again. His voice was somewhat uneven when he said, "So are there any other delights like the first in the list?"
Franz shook his head. "No. The Pachelbel Canon in D and the Albinoni Adagio will be comfortable to the ears of the patrons. And when you do the Adagio, if you will, voice it for all strings; two choirs of strings if you must."
Thomas nodded, and read down the list, humming a little. "Yes, yes, I remember the Adagio from Marla's teaching. Oh, my!" Thomas was looking at the last two works on the list. "You do believe in a challenge, my friend."
Franz smiled. "Can you think of two other 'modern' works that would speak to Frau Mary's patrons more than those?" Thomas slowly shook his head. "We will learn them. I will put the Barber work in the midst of the program, and the Vaughan Williams work at the end. And we will triumph, triumph indeed."
Cocking his head to one side, Thomas looked Franz in the eye for a long moment, then laid the list on the desk. "We named you to do this, so we will follow where you lead. 'Tis challenging, but challenge makes for excitement and interest. So, with these five and one from the maestro, you have six. Enough for a night's entertainment that Frau Mary can well be pleased by."
Franz reached inside his jacket. "And one more." He handed Thomas a piece of printed music. "This I have borrowed from the library of the choir of the Methodist church. I need the piano score voiced for strings, please, oh greatest of all scribblers."
Reading through the work, Thomas began to smile. "Oh, indeed. I see your intent. 'Twould be beautiful, indeed. Oh, yes."
Turning serious, Franz said, "Can you do this—all of it—by the first day of April?"
"Eleven, almost twelve weeks from now? Yes. With Master Wendell recently making known to me the printer who prints his blank staff pages so that I no longer have to draw my own staves, then yes, I can do it. Mind you, we will probably still be scribbling out some of the individual parts when the first rehearsal begins, but we have all done that before."
"I count on you, my friend." Franz buttoned up his jacket. "I leave for Mainz on Monday, so I leave this in your hands. Trusting you, I shall not worry."
"It will be done."
They clasped hands, then Franz was gone.
"Hmm," Thomas said. "I believe I shall need some more pencils."
Grantville - Saturday evening, January 7, 1634
Isaac Fremdling—after almost six years away from his people, it was how he thought of himself now—waited in the shadows of the back corner of the synagogue as everyone left after the service that concluded Shabbat. He stirred as the rabbi and the president walked up the room from the Aron Kodesh, the ark containing the holy scrolls, toward the doors. The shamash, or caretaker, was still on the bima platform, fussing about something. Isaac stopped in the doorway, and contemplated the mezuzah, with its precious text contained inside. Shema, Yisroel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai echod. Across the years, he could still hear his father saying that to his congregation . . . Hear, O Israel, The Lord Our God, The Lord is One. Slowly, deliberately, Isaac kissed the fingertips of his right hand, firmly touched them to the mezuzah, and turned to leave.
"Shavuah tov, Reb Yitzhak." Startled at hearing his Hebrew name, Isaac turned to his right, facing a man walking toward him. The lamplight revealed him to be Don Francisco Nasi.
"And a good week to you, Reb Pinchas." Isaac immediately bowed toward the man who just might be the most important Jew in Europe—certainly the most influential—and in turn called him by his Hebrew name.
"Come, walk with me a while, of your kindness." Don Francisco linked his arm through Isaac's and guided him down the steps to the street. "It has been good to see you in the congregation these past few weeks. Have you found our Sephardic practices much different from those you grew up with?"
Mind reeling from the shock of having this man, a member of the famed Abrabanel family and the mano sinistra—the left hand—of Prime Minister Stearns, not just talking to him, but searching him out for a time of one-to-one conversation, Isaac mustered wits enough to say
, "Some things are different, sir—the music is perhaps not as melodious, the Hebrew spoken is a little sharper—but the important things are the same."
"Hmm, yes, we can say something very like that about our history as God's Chosen People, can we not? Some things are different, some things change, but the important things remain the same."
"Yes, sir." Isaac's mind was spinning like a dreidel, slower now, settling, only to be sent flying again by his companion's next statement.
"Your family is doing well, in Aschenhausen." Isaac's jaw dropped. He stopped dead in the street and turned toward his companion.
"How . . . how . . ." Both his tongue and his mind were stuttering.
"Oh, come now," Don Francisco—he was so well known by that name that Isaac had trouble thinking of him by any other—smiled as he resumed walking, towing Isaac along beside him. "What kind of spy master would I be, Isaac Fremdling, Yitzhak ben Shlomo haLevi, if I could not find your name and your roots?" Isaac shook his head in bewilderment. "Your father is still rabbi of the congregation there. Your mother's hands hurt from the rheumatism more, but your sisters Devorah and Rachel are taking over more of the housework from her. Your younger brother Reuven is becoming quite a scholar, able to quote lengthy passages from Torah and Nevi'im by heart, and beginning to read the Talmud. There is talk of sending him someplace to study . . . perhaps to Rabbi Mordechai in Prague."
Isaac's heart sang within him. This was the first word he had had of his family since he had been disowned by his father over five years ago. They were all still alive! The girls must be big enough to be dreaming of marriage, and Reuven . . . why, Reuven must be almost thirteen now, preparing for his bar mitzvah! The old ache suddenly was made fresh again, stabbing to his core, eliciting a choked sob that he tried to muffle with his other hand. He was grateful when Don Francisco effected not to notice.
"I . . . thank you," he said finally. "That is . . . good news . . . indeed."
They walked together for a long moment. Finally Don Francisco spoke. "I know that the . . . manner . . . in which you left Aschenhausen left you feeling neither fish nor fowl, and that during your entire time at Mainz you did not seek a congregation because of your hurt and your uncertainty. I am glad that you are finally finding your way back to us. I will say to you that while your father may have named you dead to his family, and even his congregation, he did not do so to all of us. There is a place for Isaac Fremdling—for Yitzhak ben Shlomo—among the Sephardim, and we would welcome you to do more than just stand in the back like an unbelieving visitor . . . or worse, the shade of Shmuel. When you return to Magdeburg, they will make you welcome, help you to feel comfortable wearing the talit katan again." The absolute certainty in his voice reassured Isaac. In some faint corner of his mind, he wondered just why this greatest of his race was interested in his affairs.
"Thank you, sir. I will try to be . . . worthy of your kind support."
They turned a corner, and Don Francisco said, "As it happens, I am acquainted with someone in Aschenhausen."
Isaac managed a small laugh, little more than a hiccup. "As it happens, sir, that does not surprise me."
"Yes." Don Francisco laughed. "Well, as I said, I am a spy master. So, as you pass by Eisenach," after the other revelations of the evening, it was no surprise to Isaac that his planned journey was seemingly common knowledge, "you might go by way of Aschenhausen."
"And is there some small task or errand I may perform for you while I am there?"
"If it's not too much trouble," the other said drolly. "I would greatly appreciate your delivering a few pounds of coffee beans to the merchant, Joachim Arst."
Isaac laughed. "Willingly, sir, willingly. For, as you probably know, I owe a debt to Master Arst."
"Indeed. Someone will deliver the package of beans to you tomorrow. Simply carry them in your baggage until that time. And do be careful." Isaac nodded. They turned another corner. Isaac looked up to see the Thuringen Gardens in front of him.
"And so," his companion said, "having enjoyed our time together, I deliver you to the arms of your companions, for if I mistake me not, you are due to begin making music in a few moments."
Grantville - Saturday evening, January 7, 1634
"Finally!" Franz hissed. "Where have you been?"
"Sorry," Isaac whispered, taking the violin that Franz shoved at him. "Don Francisco wanted to talk with me."
"Don Francisco Nasi?" Franz was incredulous.
"Do you know another one?"
Franz opened his mouth to answer, then closed it as the Gardens' manager stepped up on the platform. He pushed Isaac over to where Marla and the rest of their friends waited—Marla with studied patience, and their friends with smiles. "Remember the program."
"And now," the manager boomed, "put your hands together for Marla and her friends." He jumped down off the platform, Hermann plucked a note on his harp, Franz snapped his fingers four times and they broke into song.
Now I've often heard it said from my father and my mother
That going to a wedding was the makings of another.
Well, if this be so, then I'll go without a bidding.
Oh kind providence, won't you send me to a wedding?
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
This was one of the light-hearted Irish songs they had learned from Marla's mother's album collection. Marla was having fun with it. Already fingers and toes were tapping all over the Gardens.
Well, now there's my sister Jean, she's not handsome or good-looking,
Scarcely sixteen and a fellow she was courting.
Now, she's twenty-four with a son and a daughter.
Here am I at thirty-five and I've never had an offer.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
Although he had made great strides in rehabilitating his crippled left hand, Franz was still not up to the fast pace of many of the Irish songs. For this one he had found a tambourine and was just providing a steady beat behind the music.
I can cook and I can sew, I can keep the house right tidy,
And wake up in the morning to get the breakfast ready.
There's nothing in this wide world would make me half so cheery
As a wee, fat man who would call me his own deary.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
When Marla started the third verse, Franz moved up behind her and began to mug at her, bowing his legs, pooching out his stomach and holding air in his mouth to distend his cheeks. As she got to the wee, fat man line he waddled up next to her and offered her his left hand, to the laughter of the audience, all the while keeping the rhythm of the tambourine in his right hand going against his leg. Marla slapped at him, and he pretended to duck in fear.
So come landsman or come kingsman, come tinker or come tailor,
Come fiddler or come dancer, come ploughboy or come sailor,
Come rich man, come poor man, come bore or come witty,
Come any man at all who will marry me for pity.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
All through the fourth verse, Franz continued to mug at Marla, changing his posture and expression throughout the roll call, to constant laughter from the audience.
Well, now I'm away home, for nobody's heeding.
Oh, nobody's heeding to poor Annie's bleeding.
So, I'm away home to my own wee bit garret.
If I can't have a man, then I'll have to get a parrot.
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?
They finished the song with a flourish. Marla joined hands with Franz to take a bow to loud applause. They stepped back, Marla pi
cked up her flute from a stool behind her. Isaac laid his violin down on the same stool, then stepped forward. Franz snapped his fingers again.
It was another fast, funny song. Isaac led out in "Finnegan's Wake." As he beat the tambourine Franz could see the audience just drinking this one in as well. Most everyone in the room could relate to everything in the song: workmates who loved their drink; the dangers of working on a construction site; sudden death; the wake being held in the home and the missus wanting to do her husband's memory proud with a feast; the free flowing beer and booze and the drunken brawl erupting (lots of laughter there, and several people pointing at others). Wild cheers erupted when the whisky spilled on Tim Finnegan's corpse and he revived.
Isaac picked up his violin, Marla stepped back out front, and they moved on to other songs. As the evening progressed, the Gardens got more and more crowded. Soon every chair and bench was occupied and people were standing around the perimeter of the room, elbow to elbow. There was scarcely room for the barmaids to squeeze through to pick up and deliver mugs. The Committees of Correspondence were well represented, their people having arrived early and claimed three tables near the front. Finally, the evening neared its end.
They finished an instrumental piece, and Marla stepped out front and held her hand up. The room quieted quickly.
"Thanks for coming tonight, everyone. I hope you've enjoyed yourselves." The room erupted into a roar of applause. She held her hand up again, and again the quiet descended quickly. "This will be our last performance in Grantville for a while. We leave Monday. I wish I could say we're taking this show on the road." The up-timers in the audience laughed. "But we're going to be doing some business, and when we get back we'll be in Magdeburg. But, if you get up that way, we sing sometimes at the Green Horse tavern. Stop in if you get a chance.
"We're going to do one more song for you, another old traditional song from the country we came from.