The First Interview
Suhl, June 6, 1636
Archie Mitchell, his wife, Marjorie, and Harley Thomas were eating lunch in the shade of the Suhl District Courthouse. Court employees had built a small sheltered area, with some tables and benches, next to the courthouse, where they could gather for lunch and hold impromptu meetings. The area had started as a few wooden tables and benches. Over time, the employees added a roof, railings, and a raised wooden floor to cover the dirt surface. Archie’s planned contribution was a brick BBQ grill to improve der Garten, as the area had become known.
Marjorie and Marta, the young daughter of Dieter and Greta Issler, brought lunch to Archie and Dieter. Today, the two had brought enough for Marshal Harley Thomas. Marjorie brought her latest experiment—corned beef with cheese on a small bread loaf. Usually she had more than enough for Archie and Dieter, and a few others gathered in der Garten.
“What brings you to Suhl, Harley?” Marjorie asked.
“Just passing through. I had some documents to drop off to Judge Fross, and tomorrow, we’re off to Erfurt.”
“By yourself?”
“No, I’ve my deputy, Karl, and two constabulary troopers.”
Marjorie looked puzzled. “Four of you? What—”
“Marj—” Archie said, shaking his head. Why Harley and the others were going to Erfurt wasn’t their business.
“Where’s your deputy?” Archie asked. Harley had mentioned him, but he’d not come to the courthouse with Harley.
“Checking the horses at the constabulary stables. He said one horse cast a shoe.”
“Be sure to bring him in to the office when he gets here. I’d like to meet him.”
With lunch over, Dieter and Marta played a game in the courtyard’s shade involving a soft, patched ball and feet. From the edge of his vision, Archie noticed a young man approaching. He shifted his seat on the bench, giving his total attention to the approaching stranger.
The man was not a local, Archie guessed from the small card inserted in his hatband that said Press. He elbowed Harley, then Marjorie, and nodded toward the approaching man—reporter, Archie guessed. Marjorie looked, and with a roll of her eyes, grinned back at him. Harley just shook his head and looked away.
“Guten Tag, Herr Marshal Mitchell, Frau Mitchell, und—Herr Marshal Thomas,” the young man said. “I am Thomas Bloem of the Thuringia Times. Would you have time for an interview?”
Archie glanced at his watch. Lunch hour was over; it gave him an excuse to say no. He was about to refuse when Bloem continued.
“I’m interviewing up-timers. I want their impressions of life in this time; how did you come here, and how living in Suhl, away from Grantville, has affected you and other up-timers?”
The statement stirred Archie’s curiosity. Usually, interviewers asked about life up-time, how that knowledge and perspective could be used in the here and now. However, that did not seem to be what Thomas Bloem wanted…or so he said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time now. Lunch is over and we,” Archie said, nodding toward Harley, “have work waiting for us.”
“I would be happy to buy dinner—for all of you, tonight. I understand the Boar’s Head Inn has a private dining room and an outstanding reputation for their kitchen. Would you join me tonight?”
Archie glanced at Marjorie and Harley. Shall we go? was his unspoken question. She returned his glance, tilted her head a moment, and then nodded, as did Harley Thomas.
“Very well,” Archie said to the reporter. “We’ll meet you there at seven.”
“Add one more,” Harley said. “I’m bringing my deputy.”
* * *
The proprietors of the Boar’s Head Inn were very familiar with the Mitchells. Archie and Dieter had lived in an apartment in the Inn’s rear when he and his deputy first arrived in Suhl. They didn’t stay in the inn long, only until they bought an old bakery large enough to house both families.
Innkeeper Otto Hersch met them at the door. “Follow me, Herr Mitchell, Frau Mitchell. Herr Bloem has reserved the Red Room. Herr Marshal Thomas and Herr Deputy Marshal Mohn are already there.”
“Danke, Herr Hersch, lead the way.”
Thomas Bloem was sitting facing the doorway when the Mitchells entered the private dining room. A woman was with him, sitting at the table. She was dressed in a riding skirt, a small jacket, and a white blouse that seemed to match Bloem’s shirt. The two were dressed similarly, with dark pressed trousers and matching jacket. Harley Thomas sat next to Bloem. Harley’s deputy, Karl Mohn, Archie assumed, sat at the end of the table next to the woman.
Karl was big for a down-timer, at least six feet tall, and Archie guessed, well over two hundred pounds, none of it fat. Unlike Archie’s deputies, Mohn was black—black hair, black eyes, black clothes, boots, coat, and a wide, brimmed black hat sitting on the table next to him. Completing his appearance were two .45 caliber SI-1 revolvers holstered on a black gunbelt.
Harley was laughing, enjoying a conversation with Thomas Bloem, when the Mitchells entered the room. Seeing them enter, he stood, and brought his deputy forward to meet Archie and his wife. “Smile, Karl,” he whispered. “These are friends.” Karl did so, but his smile, bared teeth, was more like a grimace than a smile. That made everyone who had seen the smile laugh.
“Karl is new to the service,” Harley explained after he’d greeted Archie and Marjorie Mitchell. “He’s not a conversationalist,” Harley said after introducing his deputy. “This trip is as much OJT training for him as it is to see the country and others in the service. He knows Max, and, when I was told they needed a courier for some special documents, I volunteered and brought him along.”
Archie wished Dieter was here. He could take Karl in hand. Dieter, with badge number four, was the service’s senior deputy. The next Marshal position would be his…if he wanted it.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Karl. What’s your badge number?”
“Twelve, Herr Marshal Mitchell. I joined three months ago.”
“Just call me Archie.” Mohn didn’t speak, but nodded. “Now, tell me about yourself.”
“I’m originally from Ulm. Life there…became difficult. I’d heard that the USE, the State of Thuringia and Franconia, was much better. I joined a trade convoy to Bamberg as a guard. When we arrived there, one thing led to another, and I was offered a position as a court bailiff. Herr Marshal Huffman saw me and changed the offer to join the marshals’ service. Herr Thomas was kind enough to take me on as his deputy.”
With a nod to Harley and Archie, Mohn returned to the table, sitting at a vacant seat next to the woman. While Harley and the Mitchells watched, he turned to her and began a conversation.
“Not a conversationist, is he?” Archie observed as he, Marjorie, and Harley walked to the long dining table and took seats.
“Oh, he can when the situation warrants,” Harley said, grinning.
Harley Thomas returned to his seat next to Thomas Bloem. Bloem took a small notebook from inside his jacket and listened to the two marshals’ conversation.
“Now, tell me about Max,” Archie said. “What’s he up to?”
“Max has set up a boot camp for prospective marshals and deputies. Karl finished a month ago and has been with me since,” Harley said.
“I’ve two deputies besides Dieter,” Archie replied. “One, Kurt Moesch, is doing well. The other, not so much. He needs more training.”
Harley started counting on his fingers. “Ya know, I’ve never thought about it, but three marshals and nine deputies aren’t enough for what we’re supposed to do.”
“That’s Max’s primary job now, Harley. I think his boot camp idea is what we need. We can’t just bring anyone in off the street. They need training with an emphasis on process and procedure. We don’t want some yahoo, drunk on non-existent power, in the service.”
“I’m impressed with Karl. He was the only one to finish out of his class of eight. The rest were unsuitable. Max cashiered two for soliciting bribes while doing rounds with the Bamberg watch.”
“Glad that job’s for Max,” Archie said. “I like it here in Suhl.”
The woman who had accompanied Thomas Bloem interrupted her conversation with Karl Mohn and scooted her chair closer to the marshals and Marjorie Mitchell. “I’m Maria D’Angelo,” she introduced herself, extending her hand to shake theirs. Her move startled the Mitchells. Down-timer women weren’t so open or socially aggressive, nor did they usually shake hands.
Mohn blinked as she did so and, following her lead, scooted his chair closer as well.
“I’m Marjory Mitchell and this is my husband, Archie,” Marjorie said before Archie could respond. She caught his eye as he nodded. They’d been in unusual social situations before and this could develop into another. “And this,” she nodded at, “is Marshal Harley Thomas. You’ve already met Deputy Marshal Karl Mohn.”
“I believe Herr Hersch has something special for us,” Thomas Bloem said before the conversation went further.
“The Boar’s Head Inn is known for its kitchen and Herr Hersch is justifiably proud of it,” Marjory said. When she took over the conversation, Archie surveyed the room and their hosts. His occupation-acquired paranoia had prevented trouble more than once. Harley Thomas and his deputy did the same. The two marshals sat facing the entrance. Mohn was sitting where he could watch the side door to the kitchen, and the rest of the room. Marjorie sat next to Archie, appearing to be deep in conversation with Maria D’Angelo. Unseen from everyone, she had a .45 caliber revolver on her lap, hidden inside her bag.
“Please, I can see you’re surprised by Maria’s presence,” Bloem said to the men. “She’s my partner—and my sister. We’ve started a…newspaper? A monthly journal of events, issues, and notable people.”
Marjorie, hearing this, looked at the young woman, who sat opposite her at the table. “You’re a widow, I presume?”
“Ja. How did you know?”
“Different names. Not usual for brother and sister, and your jacket seems to have been cut from a man’s. A widow may do so in remembrance.”
“Very observant,” Maria replied, but didn’t expand on her widowhood.
“And that brings us to why I’ve asked you here,” Bloem said, returning to the purpose of the meeting. “Everyone wants to know about up-timers and up-time life. Your culture, your achievements, your dreams. What we want to know is how coming here has affected you. How did you come to live in Suhl?” he asked Archie. “And how did you become one of the city’s leading civic citizens, Herr Mitchell?”
“Uh, I don’t…I’ve not thought of us as being civic leaders,” Archie replied.
Marjorie looked at him. “Archie, when the Bürgermeister has a problem, who does he come to? If Pastor Weber needs help, who does he send for? If there is trouble in Suhl, a fight or drunken mercenaries, who does Wachtmeister Frey call for help?”
“And who is also on the board of directors for Suhl, Incorporated?” Bloem asked.
“Both of you,” Maria D’Angelo affirmed, looking at Marjorie.
One of the innkeeper’s serving maids entered the room and prepared the table, interrupting the discussion. After covering the table with a cloth, laying out dinnerware, filling pewter mugs with the inn’s famous brew, and leaving warm loaves of bread and crocks of butter, she left, leaving the occupants alone.
“Herr Mitchell, how did you become a marshal?” Maria D’Angelo asked.
Archie chuckled, adding some levity to the room. The atmosphere, until this point, had been growing uncomfortable. The Mitchells didn’t know Thomas Bloem’s and Maria D’Angelo’s intentions. Were they as they seemed and claimed to be, or not? Was there a hidden agenda? Archie’s suspicions had been quelled—to an extent. He looked at Harley and Marjorie for a hint of their observations. The three had discussed the invitation earlier in the day. Karl Mohn, not present for those earlier discussions, seemed to have overcome his shyness and was taking an interest in Maria D’Angelo.
Marjorie nodded. She was more comfortable than she’d been earlier. “Go ahead, Archie. I don’t think I know it all, myself.”
With Marjorie’s assurance, Harley was being quiet, sitting with a grin on his face and taking an occasional glance at Karl. He, too, noticed his deputy’s interest in the widow.
“How much do you know about up-timers?” Archie asked the two down-timers. “Our arrival, and the aftermath of the Ring of Fire?”
“Not much,” Bloem said. “No one seems to know how you came here.”
“We don’t either. There was a flash and here we were. Some say it was God’s intervention. Others say it was diabolical.” Archie shrugged and took a sip from his mug. “Before the Ring of Fire, Harley Thomas, here, Max Huffman, and I were semi-retired. All of us were army retirees and needed something to do.”
He turned aside to Harley. “Who was the sheriff when we moved back to Grantville?”
Harley pondered the question. “That’d be in 1990?”
“’91.”
“Bill Collins, then.”
“That’s who I thought, but I couldn’t remember his name.” Archie took a sip from his mug before turning back to the two down-timers. “Anyway, we, the three of us, went to Bill Collins, our local sheriff, with a proposition. We’d heard he’d been hit with a bunch of new state and federal training requirements, and the county hadn’t increased his budget to comply with them. From what we’d heard, the training requirements were the same as we conducted with our troops while in the army.”
“Archie transferred to the military police after fifteen years in the infantry,” Marjorie said.
“I retired as a sergeant major. Harley was a master sergeant, and Max Huffman had been a sergeant major. A REMF, he claimed,” Archie said with a chuckle.
“REMF? I don’t know the term,” Bloem said.
“It means rear echelon—” Harley started to say.
“Harley!” Marjorie cut him short.
“—a desk jockey, a paper pusher, an administrator.”
Marjorie reached over and patted his hand. “Good boy.”
“Back to the point,” Archie continued, “we’d each had at least a decade of training soldiers or military police. We submitted a proposal to the sheriff to act as consultants to train his deputies—take the bureaucratic load off his shoulders. We were able—”
“—after a time,” Harley added.
“—to convince him of the idea. We’d charge him less than hiring a professional trainer and we’d be local, always available to help.” Archie took another sip.
“He agreed,” Harley said, picking up Archie’s story. “His only requirement was that we meet West Virginia’s requirements for law enforcement officers. We did, and he hired us, swearing us in as auxiliary deputy sheriffs.”
The serving maid entered carrying a large platter. “Let’s eat and continue later,” Bloem said.
* * *
An hour later, after they’d finished eating, they nibbled the remnants of a cake baked by Otto Hersch’s wife. Karl Mohn and Maria D’Angelo were sitting at a corner of the table, having a private conversation. Archie cleared his throat, took a sip of ale, and resumed his narrative. “When the Ring of Fire happened, Harley, Max, and I were on horseback—crowd control after Rita Stearn’s and Tom Simpson’s wedding. Rita was Mike Stearn’s sister, and that drew almost every UMWA member around Grantville to the wedding.”
“UMWA? What is that?” Bloem asked.
“It stands for United Mine Workers of America, a trade union.”
“You still use horses up-time?” Maria asked from the corner, interrupting her conversation with Karl Mohn.
She must have been multitasking. Talking with Karl and listening to us at the same time. “Not for transportation,” Archie said. “But they’re useful for some events—like managing the wedding crowd. We still have—had a lot of horses up-time, especially outside the cities. I had three with saddles. Enough for the three of us.”
“One was mine,” Marjorie said.
Hersch’s serving girl entered again, cleared the table, brought two fresh pitchers of ale, one for Karl Mohn, and another for the rest at the table. She brought a bottle of red wine for Marjorie and Maria after the ale. “Danke,” Bloem said to the girl, and slipped some coins into her hand as she was leaving.
When the girl was gone, Maria asked, “How does your agreement with the sheriff lead to the creation of the Marshals and the constabulary?”
“Ah…that is a story, but it’s not mine, it’s Harley’s,” Archie said.
Karl Mohn looked up. “I’d like to hear that, too. Herr Huffman never said how that happened.”
Harley looked back to Archie, who’d put him in this spot, and shook his head. “It’s not like most think. They sent the three of us out on a simple job and we screwed it up.”