Yakov cleared his throat. "Even if we Jews are doomed to burn in Hell by your Christians from the future, just as we are by the Christians of this time?"

"I would not have put it so bluntly, uh, is it Rabbi Jacob?"

"Yes, I am a rabbi," Yakov said, surprised.

"You are right," Pastor Green said, "That is how many Christians see Jews. We sincerely wish you would accept the salvation offered by Jesus Christ. Despite that, you are welcome. It would be entirely wrong for us to make your welcome to our community conditional on your acceptance of any faith."

Yakov nodded slowly. "I thank you for your honesty, Pastor Green. You have certainly given us something to think about as this second day ofShavuos comes to an end."

"Second day of what?" Pastor Green asked.

"The festival ofShavuos , Christians call it Pentecost." "Pentecost?" Pastor Green asked. "Why, I suppose you are right, tomorrow is the seventh Sunday after Easter. The feast of weeks? Isn't the Hebrew for weekshavuah? So in that case, the plural isshavuoth , isn't it?"

Yakov nodded. "Jews from Spain, Africa and Turkey, pronounce itshavuot. W e Jews in Germany pronounce itshavuos. "

"It's good to find that the Hebrew course I took in seminary wasn't a complete loss," Pastor Green said, with a smile. "Shavuosis a harvest festival, am I right? The day of the first fruits?"

Yossie was amazed to hear such a conversation as Yakov replied, "InShemos , what you would call the book of Exodus, Shavuos is described that way. It is in the section calledKi Tisha , soon after the story of the Golden Calf."

"Chapter thirty-four," Pastor Green said.

"Yes," Yakov said, with a smile. "It is one of the threeChagim , what is the German word . . . pilgrimage festivals. But it is more than that. We also consider it a celebration of the giving of the commandments at Mount Sinai, because the very same text connectsShavuos so closely to Sinai."

Pastor Green seemed to enjoy this turn of conversation. "For Christians, we also think of it as a commemoration of revelation, but in our case, for the gift of the Holy Spirit to the Apostles, as recorded in the Book of Acts. But I am curious about one thing, you said the second day of, ofShavuos ? I don't remember anything in the Bible about two days."

"Your memory is right," Yakov said. "I think you know that the Jewish calendar is based on the lunar month. According to the Talmud, tractateSanhedrin , each month was counted from the sighting of the new moon by observers on the walls of the Temple in Jerusalem. If we were in the holy land, we would celebrate for only one day, but here we are ingalus , in exile far from the land. To account for the uncertainty in the date, the Talmud says we should celebrate for an extra day. Of course, we also have an arithmetic formula that lets us know when the new moon will be observed in Jerusalem, but we keep the festivals for an extra day anyway, to remind us of our exile."

Yossie had never heard Yakov speak so freely about Jewish matters to a Christian, even in the protected context of Master Hene's print shop. Yossie was used to censoring his language carefully when speaking to Christians, carefully avoiding the use of the Hebrew words that made up a large fraction of his Jewish dialect. Now, he was shocked to hear Yakov letting down his guard.

Pastor Green excused himself to leave shortly after that, and then it was time for their afternoon prayers.

After they had finished the final meal of the Sabbath, though, they talked long into the evening about what they had learned from Pastor Green about the town of Grantville and the strange world from which it had come.

"Reb Yakov," Yossie asked, after the talk had turned from detail back to generalities. "I still don't understand something. What made you start talking about the Talmud with a Protestant preacher?"

The old rabbi paused, stroking his beard. "It was a mistake, at first. I never should have mentioned Shavuos to him, but I did. Once the topic came up, though, he seemed to enjoy it, so I said more, and more. I suppose you could say I was testing the tolerance he spoke of with such evident pride."

"So have you reached any conclusions?" Basya asked. "Have you?" Yakov asked.

"Reb Yakov, I wish I'd been listening to the original conversation," she said. "But listening to you men talking, it sounds like this preacher may be telling the truth about Grantville."

"He may be," Yakov said. "So I think we will stay a while to learn more about these people."

Not a Princess Bride

By Terry Howard

James Richard, or Jimmy Dick, Shaver (known to his close associates, and almost everyone else, as Dickhead) was in the grocery store. The old drunk was not there buying food. Most of his calories came from beer, followed by pretzels. Yes, believe it or not, despite the Ring of Fire, the Club 250 still sold pretzels. They were much better or a whole lot worse than the old ones, depending on who you asked.

Hamburgers and fries rounded out his usual diet. You weren't always sure that the ground meat was pure beef, the bun was hand sliced, and the pickle wasn't Vlassic. But someone had managed to get the mustard right.

Jimmy Dick was in the store buying tobacco. As far as he was concerned what you could get was shit.

Most folk-everyone who smoked, really-agreed with that opinion. They also agreed that it was way over-priced but then they had complained about that back in the real world. Still, when the local crop failed because the growing season was too short, you bought what was available or quit. As he left the check out lane a man was waiting for him at the baggers' station. There was no bagger, of course. That was because there were no bags, paper or plastic. You brought a canvas bag, a basket, a tote sack or something from home. Cardboard boxes were popular at first, but they wore out. The ones that were still in good shape were bringing a good price on the curiosity market all over Europe, so the price went up as the supply went down. One little old lady thought of her hoard as her retirement fund.

As Jimmy Dick passed him, the man spoke. His English was good. It was understandable, with a heavy German accent of some sort that Jimmy did not place. "Herr Sha-Mister Shaver?" Jimmy stopped.

"Forgive me for stopping you, I heard the girl call you Mister Shaver. Are you the Mister Shaver who is the famous philosopher?"

Jimmy had given up fighting it. Only the Dutch can stop the tide. "That's me." Jimmy waited. Next would come a joke or an insult or-rarely-a compliment. Jimmy had learned that to wait, laugh and leave was the best way of taking the steam out of the sails of whoever was trying to be funny at his expense.

"I would be honored if you would let me buy you a beer and ask you a question," the stranger said. Club 250, Jimmy's usual watering hole, would not admit a Kraut. The Gardens, though, were just across the street and they would let anyone in. Jimmy was well known for buying beer for anyone who would listen to him. He was also known to never turn down a free beer. "Throw in a ham sandwich and you're on."

The stranger looked puzzled. "That was a yes?"

"Hell, yes, that was a yes," Jimmy said.

The stranger beamed.

It was a quiet walk to the Gardens. They ordered the potables and, oddly enough, ate in silence. When the sandwiches and beer were done, the down-timer ordered two more beers.

"Herr Shaver, I have a question of practical philosophy," the Kraut said.

Jimmy grunted over the rim of his beer.

"My daughter . . ." The man paused to swallow a lump in his throat. "She wishes to marry. We, her mother and I, have said no. We feel that the boy is beneath her. We think she should wait until she is older and that she should wait for someone better. We would prefer to arrange for her to marry a man from back home. We have forbidden her to see this boy. But she comes home from school with that gleam in her eye. We have spoken to her about it. She smiles now and says nothing. Once she told us that when they have graduated and he will find a job and they will marry and that there is nothing we can do about it.

"We threatened to return home. She knows it is only a threat. We want only the best for her. We don't understand a culture that encourages the children to disobey the parents. It is not ri . . . it does not seem right. What are we to do?"

"You want your daughter to wait for someone better?" Jimmy set down his empty beer.

The odd man nodded.

Jimmy waited. The Kraut waved for another round.

"When I was a kid growing up in the hills," Jimmy began, "there was a family in the neighborhood by the name of Jones. They owned half a mountain with a good farm on it that the old man bought with the money he brought back from being in the army in World War One, along with an uppity French bride.

"He was in the quartermaster's outfit and made the money by selling things off before they could get to the front, then marking them down as being destroyed in route.

"Anyway, the Joneses had themselves a daughter. She was a looker like her Ma. As she grew up, her Ma filled her head with the idea that none of the local boys were good enough for her. Most folks thought that Mrs. Jones wasn't quite right in the head. They seemed to think she was living in a dream world. She thought that the family ought to go to France and let their daughter find someone suitable. But the old man hadn't managed to steal that much money or he hadn't managed to hang onto enough for that,so it just wasn't going to happen.

"Well now, the odd part of the story was that most of the women in town seemed to agree that she shouldn't settle for a local boy. My Pa told me once he thought it was because they didn't want their daughters to have to compete with her.

"At any rate, a fellow by the name of Dupont showed up in town along with a Frenchman who couldn't speak a word of English. Now, I don't know whether this Dupont was related to the Duponts that had all the money or not, but folks assumed that he was. They had come to go bear hunting. Most of the bears were shot out by that time. But, there was a she bear with cubs in a cave down in a holler on the Jones place. The only reason they were still around was because old man Jones was a really bad shot and he sure wouldn't let anyone else go hunting on his place.

"Well, they went up to Jones place to see if they could get permission to bag that bear. Mrs. Jones had heard all about them, of course. A rich industrialist and a world-touring French noble showing up at the same time was just too much. She suddenly had to decide which man they were going to let marry their daughter.

"Of course, the two of them had heard all about the beautiful daughter of the Joneses and when they arrived they were met in the front yard by Papa Jones, Mama Jones and Pretty Little Miss Jones. Mama Jones was a bit put out when all they wanted to know was about the bear. But then she got a gleam in her eyes and insisted that her husband take them all up there right that instant.

"Well, when they got to the top of the bluff looking down into the rift where the cave was, Mrs. Jones took her daughter's hat and sailed it off over the edge into the mouth of the cave. Then she announced that which ever one of them brought her daughter's hat back to her would have her hand in marriage. The Dupont fellow looked at the daughter, looked at the hat in the cave, looked at the climb in between and the noises coming out of the cave and shook his head no. The Frenchman, without a word, climbed down, retrieved the hat, climbed back up, used the hat to dust himself off and then sailed it off back into the gulch. "It's your hat," he said, "if you want it get it yourself.

"Thanks for the beer." Jimmy Dick rose to leave.

"But Herr Shaver, what does it mean? Are you saying I should let my daughter marry this no-account that she is taken with?"

"I ain't got no idea. But let me tell you something about American kids, which includes your daughter if she's been in the public school for more than a year. You tell them they can't have something and you make them want it all the more. Shoot, we took over an entire continent just because one party or another kept telling us we couldn't have it. If you're convinced that this kid she wants to take up with is no good, then why don't you help her to see it?"

"We have told her. She will not listen."

Jimmy Dick shook his head. "I can see why. She came by it honest like. You don't listen either. I didn't say tell her. I said help her see it."

"How do we do that?" the Kraut asked.

Jimmy sighed and sat back down. Then he waved for a round of beers that he paid for. "Okay, if this kid is beneath you, then his table manners ain't up to your standards. Have him over to dinner with the family.Pull out the stops. Put out the best china, the real silver, have soup and salad, lay out three or four forks, and let her see what an embarrassment he is. Does she really want to set across the table and watch him slurp his soup for the rest her life?

"If you ain't got the wherewithal to spread the table, take the kids out to Grantville's Fine Dining and tell the fancy pants with the menus that you want a cloth napkins table, not paper.

"Put them together often." Jimmy held up a hand to forestall an objection. "Have him over to your house or let them go where you or someone can keep an eye on things. If he ain't no good, give her plenty of time up close and personal to figure it out. I guarantee he'll look different up close."

Having said that he tipped his beer and walked out.

It was a month or more later that Jimmy saw the troubled father in the store.

"Hey there, guy. How did you come out on that trouble with your daughter?" Jimmy asked.

The man looked sad. "What you said, about things looking different up close and personal? You were right. He is a nice boy, a good boy, he is working hard and doing well in school. He has a promising future. I would be proud to have my daughter marry him. But, it is so sad! She will not, how was it said?

She will not give him the time of day."

The Painter's Gambit

by Iver P. Cooper

Birgit's mother had warned her not to take any food or drink from boys, not to answer any of their questions, and, most especially, not to smile at them. Birgit had dutifully agreed. Unfortunately, she broke all three rules the same day.

Birgit and her friends Anna and Barbel had gone to Halberstadt to enjoy a festival. They walked arm in arm across the town square, the Domplatz, and were surprised to find several of their fellow villagers clustered around a young foreigner. He was regaling them with tales of the fabulous New World. Strange beasts. Indians. He even had drawings to show them. Drawings he had made himself.

Birgit and her companions hovered on the edge of the crowd. Suddenly, the storyteller gestured in her direction. "Now, that beautiful lass would amaze the natives. They would say that her hair was like a river, lit by the morning sun." Birgit smiled involuntarily. Then she collected herself and started to pull away. Her girlfriends pulled her right back. "Say something to him," Anna whispered furiously.

"But he's a man!"

"That's the point, you idiot."

Birgit blushed. "Um-can you draw me?"

"Draw us all," said Barbel.

"All of you? It will endanger my health and sanity, to study so much beauty all at once. But I will attempt it." The young man took out a piece of chalk and drew rapidly in his sketchbook. "What do you think of this?"

The artist had drawn them as if they were wearing elegant gowns, and were standing on a cloud, looking down at a shepherd who looked like him.

Birgit puzzled over the scene. "It doesn't seem to be a story from the Bible."

"No, it isn't. It is the judgment of Paris. The Greek goddesses Aphrodite, Hera and Athena appeared before Paris, the Prince of Troy, and asked him to choose who would be awarded a golden apple, inscribed, 'to the fairest.'"

Barbel fluttered her eyelashes. "So which of us would you choose?"

"Hmm . . . In the myth, Paris didn't even try to judge the goddesses' beauty, he just picked the one who offered him the best bribe."

Barbel giggled. "And what sort of bribe would you like?"

Birgit carefully stepped on Barbel's toe. "Would you like to share my apple?" she asked.

"I would be delighted."

Anna spoke up. "Come, Barbel, I think Max is on the other side of the square, let's go say hello."

"I am fine right here. Or I would be, if my toe weren't hurting."

"I think your toe will hurt even more if you stay. Come. Now." She turned to Birgit. "Call us if you need us."

Birgit took a bite out of her apple, and then handed it to the stranger. "I am Birgit. Birgit Wegener. I am the eldest daughter of the smith in Stroebeck.

He took a bite, too, and smacked his lips. "I am Felix Gruenfeld. My father is-was-a book printer and bookseller; he is . . . retired . . . now. I am a member of the Guild of Saint Luke's in Amsterdam. The artists' guild, that is. I was returning to that city when I discovered that it was under siege. I decided to flee to Germany."

"It is hard for me to think of Germany as a place of refuge, especially after the sack of Magdeburg," said Birgit. "I understand, but you have the Lion of the North to defend you now. And Amsterdam has been in sorry straits since the English and French betrayed the Dutch at the Battle of Dunkirk."

Felix reached for the drinking horn at his side. "May I offer you something to drink? I am sorry, it is just small beer." Birgit took a sip, and he did the same. He scrounged up some cheese for them to share, too.

They chatted for a while. Birgit grew more and more interested in this man, so different from the others she knew. She was disappointed when he said, "Unfortunately, I need to take my leave of you. I must try to sell a few pictures in the market this afternoon. Once the festival is over, the local guild will be very hostile to any outsider trying to sell paintings in this town."