Good Fellows: Debt & Dishonor

2. A Wanting Stranger

Sunday, 28 April, 1918

Martin Edelmann coasted along on his bicycle with the wind tossing his dark blonde hair as it rushed past his sweat-poured face. He loved how effortlessly it rode down the final slope of his city circuit, back to the distribution hub, especially on days like these when the sun had beat on him as though it was midsummer. He had worked for hours delivering food to those who were unable to come and receive their rations. Supply lines had been disrupted more and more as the war waged on, and with the limitations on petrol, there were some families who would have been cut off if it weren't for someone like him running the food for them. It may not have been the most glorious work, but it was one in which he took great pride.

Martin brought his bicycle to a stop outside the wide open doors of the bustling agricultural hub and dismounted from his metal steed. The distribution center was housed in an old horse stable, which the government had commandeered for wartime service, and despite the changes they had made to update it, the large wooden structure remained something of a rickety eyesore. Even so, it served its purpose. He entered through the public area and slipped past the crowds of his fellow citizens — women, children, and men who were either too old or infirm to be able to fight, all come to stand in line and collect their weekly rations — to an old horse stall in the far corner that had been converted into a makeshift office.

The swinging door of the horse's stall was open, but he knocked on it anyway. Behind the solitary desk with only a phone, some pens, and a large pile of papers sat Colonel August Fluss, who was always kind but for seeming to be in a constant state of annoyance. Today, his eyes were rapidly scanning papers having to do with the payroll whilst his fingers twitched, but his pupils darted up at Martin when he knocked.

"You done, boy?" asked Fluss, lowering the paper to the desk.

"Yes, sir," Martin replied. "Every one."

Fluss bobbed his head. "You'll need paid, then." He reached for a locked drawer of the desk and struggled with a key to open it.

"Yes, and if you know where Herr Kohl is, I—"

"Kohl won't be handling the payroll. He no longer works here," the Colonel replied gruffly. Producing a thick stack of bills from the drawer, he counted out nine and returned the rest to their place. "There. Nine marks for you."

Martin hesitated. "It... should be eight, sir."

The Colonel's face turned to anger. "Is that what Kohl's been giving you?"

"Yes, but..." the boy paused. He could see where this was going. "That's not right, is it?"

Fluss turned his glaring eyes to the side and answered through clenched teeth, "No, it isn't right." He growled. "And if you would like to press charges against Kohl, I would be happy to accommodate you."

Martin thought for a moment. "No, sir. Thank you, but... we've gotten on fine without it. I'll count it as charity to him."

Fluss sighed. "Edelmann, you are a far more gracious man than I am, or than I would advise any man to be. Watch that doesn't get you later."

Martin smiled. "I'll do my best, sir." He reached for the marks.

"One more thing." Fluss put his hand over the small pile of bills.

Martin pulled his hand back nervously.

"I would like you to deliver a telegram to Grunewald for me. All I can offer is a few pfennig, but I'm short on men, and I would like it to go today."

"Of course, sir. I'm happy to do it."

Fluss reached into his pocket and counted the change in his hand. "Is fourteen enough?"