Across the street was, well, something. It was a small group of people dressed alike, with a kind of uniform, and musical instruments including the largest drum Georg had ever seen. There was a large bearded man to go with the drum and he was beating it to a rhythm that made Georg’s head pound. There was a trumpet player, who, as far as Georg could tell through his headache, was not very good. There was another one of the uniformed people playing really energetically on what Georg thought was a kind of guitarra. The rest of them, three or four, were singing loudly. Georg spent a few seconds trying to figure out what they were singing, then it penetrated his drink-fogged and hungover brain.
“ Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott… ” they sang. “A mighty fortress is our God…”
Georg shook his head, trying to clear away his headache. What next, he thought. Lutherans in uniforms on street corners. What are they doing?
“ Ach, who cares?” He shook his head again, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Things started swimming around again. The noise from the Lutherans just wasn’t helping. He held onto the building wall as he moved away from the Bierstube.
Georg woke, muzzily, at first unaware of his surroundings. Slowly, he focused, and realized he was in bed in his tiny rented room. How he got there, he wasn’t quite sure. He had a headache, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. There was light coming in the small window that was high on one wall, and he was naked. His clothes were in a smelly pile near the door.
He stood up, grabbed his clothes and quickly headed out the door toward the community bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty and he was able to wash himself, and brush most of the horse manure off his clothes. He wished he had another suit of clothes so he could have these cleaned. He hadn’t had a new suit of clothes since he was in the army.
Georg dressed and went back to his room. How much longer it would be his room, he couldn’t say. Without work, he wasn’t going to be able to pay rent, and with the number of people coming to Magdeburg to help with building the new capital and rebuilding the city, his landlord wasn’t going to be very willing to let him stay on until he could pay. Well, he thought, it isn’t like I have much to move.
Georg sat on his pallet and thought about what to do next. Obviously, he needed to find another job. That shouldn’t be too hard, he thought. As he was getting to his feet, he heard a clink noise from under his pallet. He reached under, and found a stoneware jug. It was not large, and it wasn’t full.
“ Ach! Ginever! ” Georg grinned as he pulled the cork. “Dutch Courage! I forgot I had this!”
He lifted the jug of gin and took a swig. It went down hard, but the liquor felt pleasantly warm in his stomach. Even though his stomach was empty, he started to feel better. “Dr. Silvius’ fine tonic,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered. It shouldn’t be hard to find a job again, so I’ll do it later.” He took another swig. And then, another.
He was feeling just fine as he slipped from his pallet onto the floor. But he wasn’t feeling so well when he woke up a couple of hours later.
“ Mein Gott in Himmel! ” he shouted, and then grabbed his ears as the sound of his own voice made the inside of his head ring.
Georg coughed. The smoke was beginning to be very thick. He coughed again. “Stupid idiots! First you pillage, then you burn!” There were few houses in Magdeburg that weren’t burning now. This was really going to cut down the amount of plunder. Sheiss! Georg stumbled through the smoke, hacking.
Suddenly the smoke cleared and he saw he was standing in front of a house that hadn’t yet been touched. Lots of loot, maybe!
Three of Tilly’s pikemen came up and Georg drew his hanger and waved it. “Mine, you bastards! This one’s mine! Beat it!”
He wasn’t sure why, but they turned and ran away. Maybe he just looked crazy enough to take on all three of them. He turned and kicked at the door. It didn’t move, so he kicked it harder, and it began to splinter. He used his hanger to cut more of the door apart, and then with a final kick it blew apart. Georg raised his hanger and went through the door.
It was dark inside, so he kicked open a shutter and let both light and smoke in. He turned to see what loot there was, and he heard a noise. He raised his hanger and advanced to the back of the front room. He kicked the door in, and saw a woman on a bed. She had a big cavalry man’s horse pistol, and it was cocked. She raised it in her shaking right hand, and fired. As she did, Georg threw himself forward and severed her hand, dropping the pistol to the floor amid a shower of blood.
“Nooooooo!” There was a scream behind him, and he turned, sweeping his hanger around. He couldn’t stop in time, as his blade cut a small child in half.
Georg dropped to his knees and vomited. He stumbled out of the room, and out of the house into the smoke filled street. He vomited again.
All he could hear was the little girl screaming, “Noooooooo!”
He woke, as he always did, screaming and shaking. He felt waves of cold and hot flashes and he was sodden with sweat. It was the damn dream again. It was the dream that had made him leave Pappenheim’s cavalry. It was the damn dream.
Georg wondered what was wrong with him. He used to be able to drink like a fish. He used to be able to put away much more Ginever than that with no trouble, and be completely functional the next day. But since that day, he couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe it was the judgement of the Herr Gott for what he’d done, killing a mother and her child.
He made it to the chamber pot and puked. He crouched there shaking. I’ve got to get myself together, he thought. After a few moments, he thought he could stand up, so he slowly got to his feet.
“I’ve got to get a new job,” he said to himself. He took a few half-hearted swipes at his grimy, smelly clothes, and walked out the door.
There was a makeshift labor hall near the old moat where they were rebuilding the city walls. Georg stood in line until he was called to the table where the job broker sat. The broker looked him up and down, and handed him a piece of paper with a number on it. Georg looked at it. It was 351.
“This is your number,” the broker said. “As soon as we have some labor for you to do, your number will be called. If you don’t come when it is called, the next number will be called and you will lose your place.”
“ Ja, Ich verstehe,” Georg said.
The broker pointed to a big group of men standing at one end of the hall. “Go there. You will be called. People are busy. You shouldn’t have much of a wait.”
Georg walked over to the group. He looked the men over, just as they were looking him over. They mostly looked like him. Dirty, down on their luck, ragged and poor. Just like him.
At first, nobody said much. A little fat man came bustling importantly over and called out, “ Nummer zwei hundert sechs, sieben, acht, neuen, mit gekomm, schnell!”
Georg turned to the man closest and said, “Two hundred nine! And I am three hundred fifty one! Will there be work for my number?”
“Probably, maybe,” the man said. “It is still early. If you want a low number, you have to get here when the hall opens at dawn. I come an hour before usually, but I had a problem last night.”
“Ah!” Georg said, noncommittal.
“A problem I think you may have had,” the man said. “I got drunk and didn’t wake up.”
“Yes,” Georg said. “I’ve been known to do that. Last night, in fact. And the night before.
“ Ich heisse Georg,” he said. “Georg Schuler.”
“Pieter,” said the man. “Pieter Doorn.”
“Ah, a Hollander!” Georg said.
“Yes, but I have not been home for many years. And you, where are you from?”
“Originally, Bavaria,” Georg said, “but I’ve been around here a few years now.”
Just then, the officious man returned and called out quite a few more numbers.
“Ah, that’s me,” Doorn said, “Good luck!”