5.17 Unexpected turns and a spark of hope
The sun has already passed its zenith as the Oldenburg state dragoons reach the foot ...
The sun has already passed its zenith as the Oldenburg state dragoons reach the foot of the palace hill in Birkenfeld on this frosty Wednesday. Not quite as fresh as before, the horses trot up the palace alley to the new Birkenfeld Palace. The closer the troops come to their destination, the more powerful the multi-storey palace in a neoclassical style appears. On the left and right, it is flanked by two smaller buildings, and the centre is dominated by a representative entrance door with wide steps. A fountain emblazons the circular green area in front of the main building, giving the complete ensemble a courtly character. The retinue encircles the fountain and stops so exactly in front of the new palace that the carriage is located directly before the entrance door.
Already the entrance door of the palace is opening, and two servants hurry down the steps, take up position next to the carriage and open its door.
“Good day, Mr. Government Director,” one of the servants says in greeting.
“Good day,” a voice booms from the carriage that sways slightly before State Secretary Fosch appears in the door. After the Government Director has also left the carriage, he stretches his back and says, “The older you get the more difficult these journeys become.”
The two gentlemen disappear quickly through the entrance door of the new palace while other servants appear and take care of unloading the luggage. Some of them make a really unhappy impression. Simon supposes that as government employees they are not used to working outside, and the bitter cold is taking its toll on them.
“Dragoons, dismount!” Corporal Bakenhus now orders. He presses his reins into Tilemann’s hand and turns to Simon, “Follow me to the registry office. We will hand over your passport to one of the civil servants, and as soon as your parents attest to your identity, you can travel home.”
“Corporal, can I take my leave from the men?”
Bakenhus throws a quick glance at his retinue. “You can do that later. We will be here for some time, because the carriage must first be completely unloaded and all the formalities have to be taken care of.”
Because Otto Högel is standing on the roof of the carriage helping to unload the luggage, Simon hands the reins of his horse to Carl and follows the corporal up the steps to the palace. A white sign with the black words “Registry office” points the way to a spacious office room with a high white ceiling. Behind a massive counter are two writing desks and several office cabinets, partly with many small compartments, partly with doors. All the furniture has a very dark warm wooden finish.
“Moin,” Erwin Bakenhus says in greeting to an older gentleman in a white shirt, bow tie, and sleeve protectors, who is sitting on the right of the two desks. What little of his hair that remains is combed across his head to the other side, hiding in this way his approaching baldness.
“Good day.” The civil servant walks over to them at the counter, sets his glasses with circular lenses on his nose and asks the new arrivals, “What is it you want?”
“I am Corporal Bakenhus, the brigade leader of the state dragoons who are waiting in front of the palace, and I have the new passport for this young man here. His name is Simon Brown. The passport, however, can only be handed over to him when somebody who can identify themselves attests that it is indeed Simon Brown. To this end, his parents should be on the way from Mainz to Birkenfeld. Would you take care of this hand-over for me, Mr. …?”
“Brettschneider, Alwin,” replies the civil servant, “servant to the sovereign. Yes, I have been informed. The father was already at our office yesterday.”
“Yesterday already?” Simon exclaims, excited.
“We lost a day after all,” explains Bakenhus and continues, addressing to Brettschneider, “We had a slight delay during our journey.”
“That is no problem. Mr. Braun told me that he was thinking of returning this afternoon.”
“You see, Brown, in a few hours you will be on your way home.” Bakenhus unbuttons his uniform jacket, takes out a small leather bag and lays the contents on the office counter. Skilfully he takes Simon’s passport out of several papers and hands it over to the servant to the sovereign. Brettschneider carefully examines the document and then declares, “Dated, stamped, and signed by Brinkmann … Alright.”
“Would you please issue me a confirmation that I handed the passport over to you?”
“Yes, certainly.” Brettschneider takes a form out of the office cupboard with innumerable cabinets, dips a quill in an ink jar located on the counter and fills out the form. At the end, he stamps it and signs it. “So, Corporal, that should be enough.” With a non-committal facial expression, he turns to Simon. “Mr. Brown, you can wait outside in the corridor.”
“Can I still take my leave from the state dragoons?”
“As you like. You should stay close by though.”
“Thanks, I will be back soon.”
Together with Bakenhus, Simon returns to the dragoons in front of the palace and takes his leave from the men. When he comes to Carl, Simon takes three powder bags with the corresponding bullets out of his jacket and presses them into Carl’s hand. “Returned with many thanks.”
“Three and two makes fives,” the dragoon answers mischievously and lets the bag vanish inside his jacket pocket.
“I saw that,” grumbles the voice of Otto Högel behind them. With presence of mind, Simon squeezes the coachman’s hand tightly and says loud and clear, “Thanks, Otto, for allowing me to ride your brown mare, we got on well.” And quietly he whispers afterwards, “Please, Otto, don’t make a big thing of it. This should stay between us.”
With a hushed voice, Högel asks curiously, “Say, where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“On my journey through Scotland, from the sniper Cleit Martin, a former rifleman.”
“He did a great job!”
“Men, are you not listening?” Corporal Bakenhus asks impatiently. “Brown, look back there.” He points at a black carriage, in front of which two black horses are standing. “You should keep an eye on the people arriving; otherwise, you will miss your parents. The carriage over there arrived a few minutes ago.”
Simon raises his eyes. There is no sight of either the coachman nor the passengers. They are either behind the coach or have already gone into the palace.
“Carl, I think we should take our leave – and I should be more attentive.”
“It was an interesting journey with you, Simon,” Carl says, grinning. “I wish you Happy Christmas, and take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Carl. Happy Christmas to you as well – and to you, Otto.”
Nervously, Simon looks again at the black coach, where the coachman is now taking care of the horses. He has his back turned to Simon, but as the man turns his head, Simon thinks he recognises him from somewhere. When he looks more closely, he sees that the coachman is the spitting image of Joseph, the long-serving employee of the Braun family. But the man here is much younger. Simon reckons he is in his mid-thirties. Because he has nothing better to do, he decides spontaneously to approach the coachman and speak to him.
“Excuse me, can it be that we know one another? I have the feeling that we have already met.”
The coachman leaves his horse and turns to Simon. “Not that I know of,” he growls. “I am here with my master to collect somebody. Joseph Ohschneider is my name.”
“Joseph!” Simon calls out in astonishment and then he understands the connection. “Yes of course, you are the second son of our coachman, Joseph, hence the similarity.”
“Then you are Simon?” asks the other man amicably.
“Yes, that is me. Joseph, how is your father?”
“Very well for his age. However, at this stage, he is a little confused in the head … The gaps keep getting bigger, if you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I can imagine that. Your father was such a sturdy fellow. It’s a pity that he is deteriorating like that. That is probably very exhausting in the long term. It is nice that you work for us now … The second-generation coachman in the family. Say, Joseph, where is my father now?”
“He has gone inside.”
“Then I want to go after him quickly so that we can end this chapter. I’ll be right back.”
With a few movements, Simon jumps up the entrance steps and walks back towards the registry office. In front of the office counter, he already recognises his father from afar in a thick dark brown coat, hat, and with a walking stick. Simon’s heart starts to beat loudly. At last the moment has arrived: he will be able to take his father in his arms – after so many years! How often has he thought about how it would be to return home again. In the past, he visualised several variants in his head, but one where he had no passport and no money never occurred to him. Just then, behind the counter, Brettschneider explains in his somewhat slow voice, “Yes, he has arrived. He wanted to take his leave from the state dragoons and was meant to wait in front of the door in the corridor.”
“I am already here, father.”
Balthasar turns around, and a broad smile lights up his face. He has gotten grey, and his temples show a clear receding hairline that previously could not be seen, just like the deep furrows on his brow and the white of his neatly-kept full beard.
“Simon!” Heartily father and son fall into one another’s arms.
“Great that it worked.” Balthasar Braun claps his son joyfully on the shoulder. “Finally, you are at home. How are you?”
“Good, father,” Simon answers, then turns to the servant to the sovereign. “We should not let Mr. Brettschneider wait.”
“Thank you, honourable gentlemen. I have already prepared your passport and the formalities. May I ask you to hand over your passport, Mr. Braun?”
“Yes,” answers Balthasar and takes his passport from the inner pocket of his coat.
Brettschneider checks the document by holding it to the light and observing every detail exactly. Then he clears his throat. “Mr. Braun, you can absolutely and unequivocally attest that the person present here is your son, Simon Balthasar Braun, also known as Simon Brown? And you can one hundred percent exclude that it could be a person other than the person named here, who could be only pretending to be Simon Balthasar Braun, also known as Simon Brown?”
“Excuse me,” explains Balthasar, slightly amused, “This official language is very complicated … Standing here is my son, Simon, and of that there is no doubt.”
Brettschneider lets both Balthasar and Simon sign the prepared form and hands Simon his long-desired passport.
“Mr. Brettschneider, could you tell me where I can attend to some banking business here in Birkenfeld?”
“Yes, down in the village you will find the Ersparungscasse zu Oldenburg. They will be able to help you there.”
In the Ersparungscasse, Simon is handed over cash in return for submitting a letter of credit from the New England Bank of Boston ...
Already the entrance door of the palace is opening, and two servants hurry down the steps, take up position next to the carriage and open its door.
“Good day, Mr. Government Director,” one of the servants says in greeting.
“Good day,” a voice booms from the carriage that sways slightly before State Secretary Fosch appears in the door. After the Government Director has also left the carriage, he stretches his back and says, “The older you get the more difficult these journeys become.”
The two gentlemen disappear quickly through the entrance door of the new palace while other servants appear and take care of unloading the luggage. Some of them make a really unhappy impression. Simon supposes that as government employees they are not used to working outside, and the bitter cold is taking its toll on them.
“Dragoons, dismount!” Corporal Bakenhus now orders. He presses his reins into Tilemann’s hand and turns to Simon, “Follow me to the registry office. We will hand over your passport to one of the civil servants, and as soon as your parents attest to your identity, you can travel home.”
“Corporal, can I take my leave from the men?”
Bakenhus throws a quick glance at his retinue. “You can do that later. We will be here for some time, because the carriage must first be completely unloaded and all the formalities have to be taken care of.”
Because Otto Högel is standing on the roof of the carriage helping to unload the luggage, Simon hands the reins of his horse to Carl and follows the corporal up the steps to the palace. A white sign with the black words “Registry office” points the way to a spacious office room with a high white ceiling. Behind a massive counter are two writing desks and several office cabinets, partly with many small compartments, partly with doors. All the furniture has a very dark warm wooden finish.
“Moin,” Erwin Bakenhus says in greeting to an older gentleman in a white shirt, bow tie, and sleeve protectors, who is sitting on the right of the two desks. What little of his hair that remains is combed across his head to the other side, hiding in this way his approaching baldness.
“Good day.” The civil servant walks over to them at the counter, sets his glasses with circular lenses on his nose and asks the new arrivals, “What is it you want?”
“I am Corporal Bakenhus, the brigade leader of the state dragoons who are waiting in front of the palace, and I have the new passport for this young man here. His name is Simon Brown. The passport, however, can only be handed over to him when somebody who can identify themselves attests that it is indeed Simon Brown. To this end, his parents should be on the way from Mainz to Birkenfeld. Would you take care of this hand-over for me, Mr. …?”
“Brettschneider, Alwin,” replies the civil servant, “servant to the sovereign. Yes, I have been informed. The father was already at our office yesterday.”
“Yesterday already?” Simon exclaims, excited.
“We lost a day after all,” explains Bakenhus and continues, addressing to Brettschneider, “We had a slight delay during our journey.”
“That is no problem. Mr. Braun told me that he was thinking of returning this afternoon.”
“You see, Brown, in a few hours you will be on your way home.” Bakenhus unbuttons his uniform jacket, takes out a small leather bag and lays the contents on the office counter. Skilfully he takes Simon’s passport out of several papers and hands it over to the servant to the sovereign. Brettschneider carefully examines the document and then declares, “Dated, stamped, and signed by Brinkmann … Alright.”
“Would you please issue me a confirmation that I handed the passport over to you?”
“Yes, certainly.” Brettschneider takes a form out of the office cupboard with innumerable cabinets, dips a quill in an ink jar located on the counter and fills out the form. At the end, he stamps it and signs it. “So, Corporal, that should be enough.” With a non-committal facial expression, he turns to Simon. “Mr. Brown, you can wait outside in the corridor.”
“Can I still take my leave from the state dragoons?”
“As you like. You should stay close by though.”
“Thanks, I will be back soon.”
Together with Bakenhus, Simon returns to the dragoons in front of the palace and takes his leave from the men. When he comes to Carl, Simon takes three powder bags with the corresponding bullets out of his jacket and presses them into Carl’s hand. “Returned with many thanks.”
“Three and two makes fives,” the dragoon answers mischievously and lets the bag vanish inside his jacket pocket.
“I saw that,” grumbles the voice of Otto Högel behind them. With presence of mind, Simon squeezes the coachman’s hand tightly and says loud and clear, “Thanks, Otto, for allowing me to ride your brown mare, we got on well.” And quietly he whispers afterwards, “Please, Otto, don’t make a big thing of it. This should stay between us.”
With a hushed voice, Högel asks curiously, “Say, where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“On my journey through Scotland, from the sniper Cleit Martin, a former rifleman.”
“He did a great job!”
“Men, are you not listening?” Corporal Bakenhus asks impatiently. “Brown, look back there.” He points at a black carriage, in front of which two black horses are standing. “You should keep an eye on the people arriving; otherwise, you will miss your parents. The carriage over there arrived a few minutes ago.”
Simon raises his eyes. There is no sight of either the coachman nor the passengers. They are either behind the coach or have already gone into the palace.
“Carl, I think we should take our leave – and I should be more attentive.”
“It was an interesting journey with you, Simon,” Carl says, grinning. “I wish you Happy Christmas, and take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Carl. Happy Christmas to you as well – and to you, Otto.”
Nervously, Simon looks again at the black coach, where the coachman is now taking care of the horses. He has his back turned to Simon, but as the man turns his head, Simon thinks he recognises him from somewhere. When he looks more closely, he sees that the coachman is the spitting image of Joseph, the long-serving employee of the Braun family. But the man here is much younger. Simon reckons he is in his mid-thirties. Because he has nothing better to do, he decides spontaneously to approach the coachman and speak to him.
“Excuse me, can it be that we know one another? I have the feeling that we have already met.”
The coachman leaves his horse and turns to Simon. “Not that I know of,” he growls. “I am here with my master to collect somebody. Joseph Ohschneider is my name.”
“Joseph!” Simon calls out in astonishment and then he understands the connection. “Yes of course, you are the second son of our coachman, Joseph, hence the similarity.”
“Then you are Simon?” asks the other man amicably.
“Yes, that is me. Joseph, how is your father?”
“Very well for his age. However, at this stage, he is a little confused in the head … The gaps keep getting bigger, if you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I can imagine that. Your father was such a sturdy fellow. It’s a pity that he is deteriorating like that. That is probably very exhausting in the long term. It is nice that you work for us now … The second-generation coachman in the family. Say, Joseph, where is my father now?”
“He has gone inside.”
“Then I want to go after him quickly so that we can end this chapter. I’ll be right back.”
With a few movements, Simon jumps up the entrance steps and walks back towards the registry office. In front of the office counter, he already recognises his father from afar in a thick dark brown coat, hat, and with a walking stick. Simon’s heart starts to beat loudly. At last the moment has arrived: he will be able to take his father in his arms – after so many years! How often has he thought about how it would be to return home again. In the past, he visualised several variants in his head, but one where he had no passport and no money never occurred to him. Just then, behind the counter, Brettschneider explains in his somewhat slow voice, “Yes, he has arrived. He wanted to take his leave from the state dragoons and was meant to wait in front of the door in the corridor.”
“I am already here, father.”
Balthasar turns around, and a broad smile lights up his face. He has gotten grey, and his temples show a clear receding hairline that previously could not be seen, just like the deep furrows on his brow and the white of his neatly-kept full beard.
“Simon!” Heartily father and son fall into one another’s arms.
“Great that it worked.” Balthasar Braun claps his son joyfully on the shoulder. “Finally, you are at home. How are you?”
“Good, father,” Simon answers, then turns to the servant to the sovereign. “We should not let Mr. Brettschneider wait.”
“Thank you, honourable gentlemen. I have already prepared your passport and the formalities. May I ask you to hand over your passport, Mr. Braun?”
“Yes,” answers Balthasar and takes his passport from the inner pocket of his coat.
Brettschneider checks the document by holding it to the light and observing every detail exactly. Then he clears his throat. “Mr. Braun, you can absolutely and unequivocally attest that the person present here is your son, Simon Balthasar Braun, also known as Simon Brown? And you can one hundred percent exclude that it could be a person other than the person named here, who could be only pretending to be Simon Balthasar Braun, also known as Simon Brown?”
“Excuse me,” explains Balthasar, slightly amused, “This official language is very complicated … Standing here is my son, Simon, and of that there is no doubt.”
Brettschneider lets both Balthasar and Simon sign the prepared form and hands Simon his long-desired passport.
“Mr. Brettschneider, could you tell me where I can attend to some banking business here in Birkenfeld?”
“Yes, down in the village you will find the Ersparungscasse zu Oldenburg. They will be able to help you there.”
In the Ersparungscasse, Simon is handed over cash in return for submitting a letter of credit from the New England Bank of Boston ...