Michener, James A. (88 page)

On a spring day in 1842, Ludwig Allerkamp, forty years old and the father of four, prepared to leave his bookbinding shop at Burgstrasse 16 in the capital town of Grenz for an interview he dreaded. As if to exacerbate his anxiety, his wife came to the door to remind him of his duties: 'Keep in mind, Ludwig. One, two, three,' and to illustrate her points she ticked off the numbers on her fingers, which she folded back into her palm as she counted.

Ludwig was extremely fond of his wife, Thekla, and he did not interpret her reminders as heckling. No, she was simply bringing to his attention once more the perilous condition into which the Allerkamp family had fallen, so as he strode along the principal street of the town toward the rude castle at the far end where the Margrave himself lived, he lined his two children before him and kept his eye on them, using them to tick off his duties the way his wife had dropped her fingers.

One, he told himself as he looked at his son Theo, aged twenty, I must insist that he have the right to marry. Two, my daughter —this was Franziska, aged thirteen—must be allowed entry to the school. That took care of his children; he himself was the third obligation: I must have more salary for tending the castle library. I really must. Good God, we're near to starving.

He was not exaggerating. Across the German states and especially in the cold northern areas, a series of unprecedented winters had produced successive crop failures, making food so scarce and costly that families were fortunate if they ate two meals a day, because sometimes they ate none. It seemed as if the entire system had broken down; farmers could not produce enough, and what little food they did bring into town, they could not sell because people had no money. A tedious barter system had developed, much as the peasantry had operated four hundred years earlier, and there was constant grumbling.

'We must be very polite to everyone,' he warned his children. 'Not only to the Margrave but also to the Grafin, and especially to the bailiff, for who knows, he may be in a position to influence decisions.' He spoke with almost a classical ring to his voice, for he had attended two universities, Jena and Breslau, as had his father and grandfather before him. He had hoped to attain a professorship and was more than qualified, but the present depression had begun just as he finished his studies, so no positions were available. At first he had tried teaching in the town school, but the pay was so miserable that no man could even dream of getting married.

About this time he met Thekla during a walking tour through the countryside west of the capital, and once he saw this woodland sprite, blond and lively and with a voice like a woodthrush, he knew that they must marry and earn their living as they could. Never had either of them regretted this hastv decision; despite privations, they had enjoyed a good and loving life, and on the meager salary he earned as a bookbinder, plus what he had picked up from doing casual jobs, they had raised their three boys and then grave, beautiful Franziska. It had been worth the struggle, more than worth it, for both husband and wife felt blessed a hundred times, but now they were close to starvation.

As he approached the castle, a stubby stone building whose outer walls dated back to the 1300s, he took a deep breath, surveyed his children's dress, and tugged at the bell cord. After a few moments a bailiff opened the big brass-studded door, and looked down his nose as the intruders entered an anteroom whose walls were made of unfinished rock and whose floor was paved with massive slabs of polished stone.

A door opened, and into the waiting room came the Grafin, as she was called in deference to her family position before marriage. She had once been a great lady, but now her sixty-year-old face was painted like a girl's, and she wobbled as she swept forward, faced Franziska, and imperiously extended her right arm.

Franziska did not know what to do, nor did Ludwig, but after a moment of their agonizing indecision the bailiff pinched the girl painfully on the arm and whispered hoarsely so that even the Grafin could hear: 'You're supposed to kiss the hem of her dress.' This Franziska was most eager to do, but as she bent forward the bailiff pushed her heavily on the shoulder, whispering again: 'Stupid, you must kneel,' and in his roughness he forced the child down onto the stone pavement, from where she grasped the hem of the great lady's gown and brought it to her lips, as all women in Grenzler were obligated to do when presented to this august personage.

But that was not the end of the affair, for when Ludwig saw the burly bailiff smiting his daughter, as it were, he lost his temper, slapped the man's hand away, and said impulsively: 'Do not strike my daughter.'

The Grafin, who was embarrassed by nothing, saved the day. With a tinkling laugh that drew attractive wrinkles across her heavily powdered face, she said: 'He wasn't striking her. Simply teaching her how to respect her betters.' And she stalked off, to be seen no more.

The bailiff then led them out of the reception hall and into the

throne room, a vaulted affair with rock walls and on a dais a heavy chair occupied by an imposing ruler. Margrave Hilmar of Grenzler was in his seventies, a big man with a red, puffy face, white hair and bushy muttonchop sideburns; for almost fifty years he had dominated this castle and the surrounding lands. As a youth he had been to Heidelberg, had lived for a while at the court of Bavaria, and had risen to the minor rank of colonel in the army of one petty German state or another. He enjoyed reading and had developed an affinity for the clarity of Schiller, whom he considered vastly superior to Goethe, who tried to encompass too much in his poems. He had dabbled in astronomy and had even purchased a small telescope with which he entertained his guests, for it was just powerful enough to show the moons of Jupiter, a sight which he still considered unbelievable.

He was in some ways an enlightened monarch, but his territory was so small and in recent years so poor that he could accomplish little. He believed that the stringent measures advocated by Prince Metternich had saved Europe from turmoil, and he would have been astounded had one of his subjects told him that Metternich was one of the sorriest forces ever to hit the Continent. Each year that the Austrian's reactionary policies prevailed, principalities like Grenzler fell deeper into despair. There are many things in this world worse than an orderly revolution that turns tables upside-down for a while, for in such violent periods men still eat and marry and think great thoughts and rearrange their prejudices and launch new ventures; and one of the worst alternatives is a deadly hand of repression which inhibits all forward motion and stifles all adventure. Ludwig Allerkamp and his son were about to experience the soured and withered fruit that grew upon the tree cultivated by Metternich.

'Excellency, my son Theo comes before you seeking permission to many.'

As Ludwig prepared to assure the Margrave that his son had found a proper girl in one of the ruler's subjects, the daughter of a well-regarded family, the Margrave raised his hand to stop discussion, and when there was silence he asked the two questions which at that time ruled Germany: 'Has he a house into which he can take his proposed bride? No? Then he cannot marry.' And when this was settled he asked: 'Has he a job which pays a living wage? No? Then certainly he cannot marry.'

Ignoring the father, the ruler turned to face the son: 'This is a harsh decision I must render, but throughout Germany the rules are the same. No house, no job, no wedding.' Before either of the Allerkamps could protest, he added, in an almost fatherly tone:

'But we can hope that as the years pass, conditions will relax. Maybe you'll find work. Maybe a house will fall vacant. People die, you know. When that happens, come back and I shall gladly grant you permission.'

Now, hurting inside, Ludwig pushed his daughter forward and said, pleadingly: 'My wife and I wish that an exception could be made for this child. She should be in school, learning her numbers and music and—'

The Margrave nipped this line of nonsense quickly: 'In this land we do not educate ordinary young women.' He would discuss the matter no further.

So Ludwig, almost crushed by now, launched his third futile plea: 'Excellency, I work long hours in your library, taking charge of accounts, seeking new works for your inspection, rebinding your most valued editions, and many other duties. I do most urgently request a larger salary from you, most urgently.'

Now the Margrave really hardened, because this was an attack on his generosity. In his own mind he had never really needed Allerkamp's assistance and had employed him in one trivial capacity or another merely because he was educated and pleasing to talk with; however, in recent months he had detected in his librarian's comments slight traces of instability.

'If you are unhappy with the terms of your employment, Allerkamp, it can be terminated.'

'Oh, no!' Ludwig cried with obvious terror. 'Oh, please, Excellency!' He groveled, and both he and his children knew he was groveling.

The Margrave seemed to enjoy it, for he pressed on: 'I can think of six young men in this town who would be most happy . . .'

'Please!' Ludwig begged, and the interview ended. But as the bailiff was leading the Allerkamps from the castle, Ludwig suddenly told his children to return home without him, ran back to the throne room, and threw himself upon the mercy of the Margrave: 'Excellency, I beg you, allow us to emigrate.'

As soon as that fearful word emigrate was spoken, the slouching Margrave stiffened, his hands gripped the griffin armrests, and he rose to an impressive standing position. 'Never speak to me of leaving Grenzler. We need you here.'

Ludwig, realizing that once broached, this vital subject had to be pursued logically regardless of how angry the Margrave might become, forged ahead: 'Excellency, I have four children, and only one house to leave one of them when I die. What are my other three to do if they can find nowhere to live, no place to work?'

'God will provide in His own mysterious way.'

'But if you would allow us to go to America, as you did Hugo Metzdorf . . .'

'Worst mistake I ever made. We need men like him working here.'

'But if my sons can find no work . . .'

'Allerkamp!' the old man shouted in real irritation over being goaded into revealing his true reasoning. 'Grenzler, and Germany, need your three sons. We could be at war with France tomorrow, or with Russia, or with that unreliable fellow in Vienna. We never know when we shall be attacked.'

'But if my sons can't marry, if they can't work . . .'

'They can do the noblest work allotted man, fight for their homeland.'

'Their country orders them to fight for it but will not allow them to live?'

'Talk like that will get you into grave trouble.'

'But Metzdorf writes from Texas . . .'

The mention of this short, memorable word Texas infuriated the Margrave, because there circulated throughout Germany in these years many enthusiastic accounts of travel in the western portions of the United States, with special emphasis on the advantages of settling in Texas. Most impressive was a book which the Margrave had acquired in 1829 for his own library: Gottfried Duden's Report on a Journey to the Western States of North America. Even the Margrave had been so excited by its roseate evidence and reasonable arguments that he had in his first flush of enthusiasm committed the error of allowing a dozen of his Grenzler families to emigrate, but when he realized that he was losing valuable manpower, he called a halt.

There was another impetus to emigration, perhaps the most insidious and long-lasting of all: thousands of young Germans had been beguiled in recent decades by an American book that had enjoyed not only public acceptance but also circulation among the knowing, who read it, savored it, dreamed about it, and discussed it with their friends. It was James Fenimore Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans, which extolled the frontier and gave a flashing, exciting portrait of life among the Indians. In a score of cities and a hundred small towns young men referred to themselves as Uncas or Leatherstocking or, especially, Hawkeye. The Cooper novels evoked a powerful dream world, but letters from Germans who were actually living in Texas made that dream such an attractive possibility that thousands of young people in the little states sought to emigrate. When denied official permission, they formed a slow, clandestine movement of escape, peopled by those whose

hope of a good life in Germany had been killed by repression and hunger. Quietly, without even informing their rulers or obtaining proper certification, they began drifting toward the port cities of Bremen and Hamburg, dozens at first, then hundreds, and finally, thousands.

It was this seepage of young men who might be needed to fill uniforms that infuriated the princes, and now the Margrave thundered: Tou mentioned the Metzdorf I allowed to emigrate. Let me tell you, Allerkamp, the police are fully aware that he keeps sending seditious letters to someone here in Grenz, and they also know that the letters circulate, exciting people to go to Texas. The police keep a careful record of everyone who reads those letters, and they stand in the gateway to prison. And if you're not careful . . .' With this gratuitous advice the Margrave dismissed his librarian, and when Ludwig left the castle he carried with him the harsh realities of life in a German state, which he reviewed as he walked across the causeway over the moat: The Margrave cannot provide his men with homes or jobs, but he clings to them for manpower in case of war. How immoral.

He was pondering this irony when he passed the bookshop of his neighbor Alois Metzdorf, and since they were in related businesses, he stuck his head in the door and asked: 'What's the news?' Something in the way he did this, perhaps the obvious hesitancy of his stopping, alerted Metzdorf: 'What's the matter, Ludwig?' and although Allerkamp was still in the street, he started to talk. With confidences he would never before have shared with the bookseller, he told of his disastrous meeting with the Margrave, and when he was through, Metzdorf said: 'I have a letter you should read. It comes from my brother Hugo in Texas,' and he pulled the bookbinder into his shop, while a policeman far up the street took note of this latest visitor.