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What Would You Do?


“Guten Tag Frau...”

Mary opened her eyes. “What?”

“Guten Tag, Sprechen Sie Deutch?”

Creakily, Mary’s college German came back to her. “Ja.”

She looked around. Apparently she was in a bed and breakfast, the kind that specialized in old European atmosphere, the kind tourists called “charming” and “quaint.” She looked at the speaker, this one even made the help take part in the show. She didn’t think people had worn this style in a century.

“That’s good, Miss. I don’t speak any English at all.”

“Where am I?”

“Gustav’s Inn. Hilda found you wandering around in the rain last night and brought you here. What were you doing? Where did you get those awful clothes? Some of the diners said you were raving in English. Are you?”

“Raving?”

“English.”

“No, I’m American. Aren’t you?”

“Of course not. I’ve never seen an American. I’m Bavarian. The Kaiser says we should say we are German, but I’m Bavarian just the same.”

“Where am I?”

“I told you-”

“No, I mean, where in the world am I? Who’s the Kaiser?”

“You are in Bavaria, in Germany. The Kaiser is... the Kaiser. He rules us. Even Americans have heard of the Kaiser. I know that: I have a cousin there. Who doesn’t?”

The hostess rattled on while Mary lay back. Somehow she’d ended up in Germany. A Germany ruled by someone called a Kaiser. Her history was rusty, rustier than her German, but she remembered that a century ago, before World War I, there had been a Kaiser. She looked at the furniture again; it looked too worn, too plain for a showpiece inn.

“Miss?”

“Mrs. Schulz.”

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Schulz, what year is it?”

“That’s a silly question, its 1893, of course. Are you well?”

Mary leaned back. “I don’t think so.” 1893? Mrs. Schulz wasn’t lying; she obviously believed it. She was the honest sort who saw the world very simply. There weren’t many left in the sophisticated 21st century, but she’d met some. The idea of fooling a total stranger would never have occurred to her. Little white lies would have been a stretch.

Mrs. Schulz came over and placed a hand on her forehead. “You aren’t feverish. Just lie down. I’ll be back in a few minutes with something to eat. You’ll feel better then.”

Mary looked at the closed door. How had she ended up here? She thought back. The last thing she remembered was getting out of her car. No, she remembered stepping into the espresso bar. That was it.

“If I get out of this, I will never, never, NEVER try online dating again!” She’d made that promise before. Of course, when you’re on the wrong side of 40 (and the wrong side of 150 pounds) your options are limited. 1893! Keeping that promise would be a lot easier this time.

* * *

Dear Diary: Nobody keeps a diary any more! I have to because if I don’t, I’ll go nuts. I have to remember who I am. I am Mary Krauss (my second husband was German). I was born in Chicago, Illinois on May 10th, 1963. I’m 44, divorced (twice), no children, I work (worked) as an office manager and am permanently dieting.

I have to remember this because I’m not there any more. I’m still Mary Krauss, but now I’m stuck in southern Germany 20 years before World War One. I work as a part-time bookkeeper for Gustav’s and get paid in room and board and a small stipend. The people are nice (though a little ignorant) and it turns out that in this time, being a little heavy isn’t such a handicap. The lack of single men close to my age is.

* * *

“Mary!” Mrs. Schulz bustled into the small room she’d turned into an office. “I’m going back home to visit. Would you like to come along?”

Mary thought about it. Mrs. Schulz was a widow. She was a cousin of Gustav’s wife and was working as a combination housekeeper/cook. She’d taken Mary under wing and had really helped her fit in. Part of this was maternal instinct, part of it was loneliness.

Two older women (in 1893 40+ really was old) with no immediate family close by, they’d worked to find things in common. Mrs. Schulz thought of her as an educated American and looked up to her and yet Mary suspected that she came off as more than a little naïve. A vacation would do her some good, and Gustav’s books were finally up to date.

“I would be happy to. When do we leave?”

“Next week! My niece is having her first child; I’ve been invited to the christening.”

* * *

Dear Diary: Mrs. Schulz really is excited. It seems that the endless showers, cards and other ‘traditions’ we’ve developed haven’t happened yet. Of course, neither has the commercialism. The countryside is beautiful, the train ride is awful. I have never been surrounded by so much filth and poverty! Or disease.

* * *

“Mrs. Schulz, tell me about these people we’re going to see.”

“There’s not much to tell. It’s a small village. Most of us are related to each other. My niece married her second cousin, but she married well. He has money even if he is... difficult.”

“What’s their name?”

“Hitler. Why, what’s wrong? You’ve turned as white as a sheet!”

Mary caught her breath. “Nothing, I know of a man by that name. He was a monster.”

“Aren’t all men?” Mrs. Schulz chuckled at their inside joke.

“Not like this, Greta. He was a real monster. The world would have been a better place if he’d never been born.”

“Well I know all the men where we are going. There are no monsters there.”

* * *

Dear Diary: Hitler! Greta was a Hitler before she got married. Half the people in the village are Hitlers. I keep telling myself that in this time it’s only a name, nothing more. If someone named John Smith were to seize the presidency and murder millions, what would all the other Smiths do? Change their names? They would probably have to.

It will be forty or fifty years before it’s any different. To me it’s only a name out of history. And yet it isn’t. I never knew my grandfather; he died in the Battle of the Bulge. I had a good friend in school that never knew her grandparents. They died in Auschwitz. I can’t explain any of this to Greta, she wouldn’t understand. These things haven’t happened yet. They’re in the future, they might not happen. Yet they did; I remember.

* * *

“Mary! Here is someone for you to meet. His name is Georg.” Mrs. Schulz had the look in her eye she always had when she was trying to set her up. Mary fended off these attempts as politely as she could. She’d found that the men of this time simply had no appeal to her, she wasn’t sure why. This one would be easy, if he was under seventy it wasn’t by much.

The village had taken Greta’s homecoming as an excuse to party. Mary’s arrival had been considered a bonus. She’d been introduced around and had heard that same last name so many times it no longer shocked her. Much. Georg made pleasant conversation and then moved on. He’d decided she was too young for him.

“Do you want to come to the christening, Mary?”

“No thank you. I’m not Catholic, I wouldn’t feel comfortable there.”

Mrs. Schulz’ face stiffened slightly the way it did whenever she was reminded that while Mary was many things, a good Catholic wasn’t one of them. She visibly forced herself to relax,”As you wish. Will you come to the reception afterward?”

“Of course.”

The reception wasn’t any different from the baby showers she’d been to. The men took themselves off elsewhere for beer and food and the women admired the baby. Mary had always loved babies, their helplessness and absolute trust touched her deeply. One of the causes for both of her divorces had been the violent arguments about children. Neither one of the husbands had wanted the responsibility of being a father, and she refused to go it alone. She’d seen how that turned out.

The baby was handed around and finally came to her. She took it gently, aware of the fragile life she held. One slip...

“Oh, He’s beautiful!”

The mother blushed and smiled gratefully.

“What did you christen him?”

“Adolph.”


Copyright © 2006 by Bewildering Stories
on behalf of the author

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