A Roof Above
Five hours after Klaus grudgingly accepted Johann's job offer, the true work of surviving Berlin's streets began for the two boys.
The market's usual loud noise was starting to quiet down as evening came.
Johann, still busy rubbing bricks on his grinding stone, listened to the sounds around him.
He watched the crowd get smaller.
He had moved his work spot slightly, now hidden more deeply in the shadow of the same big bakery wall.
The strong smell of bread there helped hide the light, fishy smell of his work.
He was finishing the last of the scales he had gathered that morning, and a small pile of shiny powder was already in his pouch.
Then, a tall, thin boy appeared from the crowd.
It was Klaus.
He walked with purpose, his shoulders bent forward.
On his back, low and heavy, was a sack made of old clothes.
It was a big, messy bag, a mix of old, patched cloths, maybe torn shirt sleeves and pant legs, all roughly tied together at the top with a worn-out rope.
It hung heavy and lumpy, showing it was full of wet scales. A strong, clear smell of raw fish came from it, for a moment stronger than the beer smell.
Bits of dirt from the market stuck to the cloth, showing where it had been dragged.
Klaus dropped the sack with a soft bump at Johann's feet.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a new smudge of dirt.
His eyes, though still careful, held a flicker of pride from working hard.
"Full," he said, his voice a little rougher than before.
Johann nodded, showing he knew the effort Klaus had put in.
He was impressed by how clever his sack was; it was a smart idea, born from needing it and knowing how to get by on the streets.
He untied the top and looked in.
Thousands of shiny, rainbow-colored scales, still stuck to tiny bits of clear skin, gleamed inside the rough bag.
Johann was surprised by the amount of scales that Klaus has collected.
It was way more than he could have found in a week by himself.
.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cool, smooth pfennigs.
He counted out three and put them into Klaus's hand.
The boy's eyes, usually so serious, lit up and widened just a little as the coins made a quiet sound.
He didn't put them away right away.
Instead, he stared at the copper coins, then at Johann, a mix of not believing and starting to understand on his dirty face.
He looked like he thought it might be a trick, or that the coins would disappear.
"Tomorrow, get your sack from me in the morning and finish by the afternoon" Johann said, his voice flat, but firm.
He wanted Klaus to know what to expect.
Klaus nodded slowly, then put the coins into his pocket.
"Alright," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the market's dwindling clatter, a spark of inspiration in his eyes.
He turned and left, moving a bit faster than usual, probably eager to buy some bread.
.
Johann now faced a hurdle, the sheer volume of scales meant they would take an entire day to dry naturally.
Given this time constraint, he decided his best course of action was to visit the paint shop and sell a pouch immediately to secure some quick funds.
.
But before that with the new, bulging sack of fish scales Klaus had delivered earlier, Johann needed to prepare the next batch.
He found his preferred drying spot near the bakery's back wall, shielded from the wind and warmed by the sun-baked stones.
Carefully, he emptied Klaus's crude, patchwork sack, spreading the thousands of shiny, iridescent scales across the clean stones in a thin layer.
He worked quickly, ensuring each delicate scale had space to dry properly.
Then, just as he did every time, he covered the shimmering bounty with old cloth scraps, hiding it from curious eyes and potential thieves.
Only when this new raw material was safely laid out to dry did Johann allow himself to head towards the paintmaker's shop.
..
..
The scent of oil, linseed, and metal was a familiar comfort to Johann now, a stark contrast to the gritty dampness of the market and the sharp stab of raw fish that clung to his clothes.
He walked into the paintmaker's shop, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor, a new pouch clutched tight in his hand.
It wasn't the makeshift, tied-up-clothes kind that Klaus used; this was a smaller, carefully crafted leather pouch, purchased with some of his earnings.
It held the accumulated shimmer of hours of grinding, a treasure of crushed moonlight.
The shopkeeper, the same gray-bearded man with ink-stained sleeves, looked up from mixing pigments.
His frown, a permanent fixture of his face, softened imperceptibly as he recognized the small figure.
He still grunted, but there was less suspicion in it now, replaced by a grudging acknowledgment
.
"Back again, street rat?" he said, though the insult lacked its original sting.
"With more pearl essence," Johann replied, holding out the pouch.
He untied the string, revealing the gleaming powder within.
The light from the front window caught it, making it dance with soft, pale rainbows.
The shopkeeper took it, rubbing a pinch between his thumb and forefinger.
He sniffed it, a practiced gesture, then dabbed a tiny bit onto a palette and added a drop of oil.
The mixture shimmered, just as before, like frost catching the sun.
He narrowed his eyes, a flicker of genuine interest in their depths.
"Still a good batch," the old man admitted, nodding slowly.
"Word's starting to spread among a few of the… more discerning craftsmen. This stuff adds a unique finish. What do you call it? 'Catch light like water'?"
Johann felt a quiet thrill of success. "Yes. It makes colors sing."
The shopkeeper grunted again, then shuffled to a small wooden drawer beneath his counter and pulled out a handful of coins.
He counted them precisely, dropping a few groschen onto the worn wood. "Three groschen today. Demand's up."
.
Johann scooped the coins into his small hand.
A groschen was worth 12 pfennigs, a clear sign his prices were rising.
This was far more than he'd started with.
As he was about to put them away, an idea sparked, an important next step for his growing business.
"Mister," Johann began, his voice clear and deliberate,
"Do you happen to have a scale? The kind to measure a thing's weight."
The shopkeeper paused, his hand hovering over his own coin purse.
He looked at Johann, a new line forming between his eyebrows. "A scale? What for? You're not weighing your bread, are you?"
"No," Johann said, unwavering.
"I make a lot of this powder now. It's hard to count pouches, and buying new ones is costly."
He glanced down at the leather pouch in his hand.
"If I had a scale, I could just weigh all the powder I make, store it together, and then weigh out what I bring to sell."
The shopkeeper looked at the small child, then at the empty leather pouch, then back at Johann's unnervingly intelligent eyes.
He saw the logic immediately.
It was a practical, efficient solution, something a grown merchant would propose.
"Aye, I've got one," the old man said slowly, a hint of curiosity mixing with his usual gruffness.
He reached under the counter again, pulling out a small, brass balance scale, delicate and precise, with a set of tiny weights.
"For my pigments, and for weighing gold flake." He set it on the counter.
"You want to... use it?"
Johann nodded. "If you'd be so kind."
The shopkeeper watched, fascinated, as Johann carefully placed the empty leather pouch on one pan of the scale.
He then took a tiny, almost invisible bit of the pearl essence powder and placed it into the other pan, adjusting the weights until the balance was perfect.
He studied the numbers on the weights intently.
.
The shopkeeper's mind began to churn.
This child wasn't just bringing him a novelty; he was thinking like a true businessman, optimizing his supply chain.
Johann was right.
Pouches were indeed expensive, and cumbersome for large quantities.
Weighing it would save him time and money, making his supply more consistent and reliable.
The shopkeeper had been skeptical, even suspicious, but this child kept proving his worth, not just with a unique product, but with surprisingly mature business sense.
This wasn't just a street urchin. This was a potential long-term partner, someone who could bring him a steady, valuable supply of a product no one else had.
He had dismissed Johann as a "street rat," but this child was rapidly becoming a significant asset. A valuable, dangerous, and very clever asset.
"Smart boy,"
The shopkeeper muttered, almost to himself,
"Very smart indeed."
..
..
After exiting the paint shop, Johann counted his earnings.
"Hmm, so what I have right now is 3 groschen," he murmured to himself, his brow furrowed in thought.
"One groschen is twelve pfennigs, so that makes it... thirty-six pfennigs."
He walked, the coins heavy and satisfying in his other small pouch.
Thirty-six pfennigs. He mentally converted the sum, a habit from his past life that still offered a strange comfort.
In his time, a single pfennig wouldn't even buy a breath of air.
But here, in 1715 Berlin, thirty-six pfennigs was a substantial sum.
He quickly did the math in his head, factoring in what he'd observed.
A simple, dark loaf of bread cost three pfennigs.
That meant he held enough money to buy twelve loaves of bread. Or, he could buy a full week's worth of food for himself and Klaus.
He might even be able to get a used, rough tunic from one of the less discerning street vendors, though it wouldn't be much.
In modern terms, adjusting for the vastly different economies, thirty-six pfennigs might be the equivalent of a decent day's wage for a common laborer, perhaps twenty to thirty dollars in his previous life's currency.
Enough to not just survive for a day or two, but to actually invest, to grow.
..
..
As true night had fully settled over Berlin, painting the sky a deep, starless black, Johann found himself walking away from the paint shop, his steps no longer aimless.
The weight of the three groschen in his pouch, the equivalent of thirty-six pfennigs, felt like a tangible promise.
This wasn't just about food anymore.
This was about shelter.
He sought out a quiet inn he'd observed earlier in the day, a modest building with a faded wooden sign depicting a frothing tankard.
It wasn't the grandest, nor the grimiest.
Just... average. Average meant less attention, Johann mused, less trouble.
He pushed open the heavy oak door.
The interior was dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps, smelling of stale beer, pipe smoke, and something vaguely meaty.
A stout, no-nonsense woman with a thick braid and an apron stained with countless spills stood behind a wooden counter, wiping it down with a rag. Her eyes, though tired, were sharp.
She looked up as Johann entered, and her brow furrowed immediately.
"We don't give free rooms to beggars," the innkeeper grunted, her voice a low rumble, not unkind, but firm.
"And where are your parents, child? This is no place for a little one to be wandering alone at this hour."
Johann didn't flinch. He walked right up to the counter, his small hand diving into his pouch.
He pulled out a single groschen, placing it carefully on the worn wood. The copper glinted dully in the dim light.
"I'm not begging," Johann stated, his voice clear and unwavering, cutting through the smoky air. "I'm looking for a room. For the night."
The innkeeper's eyes widened just a fraction. She stared at the coin, then at the small, serious face of the boy. A groschen was a considerable sum, certainly more than most street children would ever see.
"A room?" the woman repeated, her tone shifting, curiosity replacing suspicion.
She picked up the coin, examining it.
"Well, that's a different story then, isn't it?" She looked Johann over, taking in his grimy clothes and bare feet, but then her gaze lingered on the unexpected wealth in the boy's hand.
"A room is six pfennigs a night," she stated, eyeing Johann carefully, perhaps testing him.
"A considerable price for a young lad such as yourself."
Johann nodded, doing the quick mental calculation. Six pfennigs was half a groschen.
That was enough for two nights. More than enough to begin with.
"That's fine," he said.
The innkeeper grunted, then reached under the counter for a heavy, iron key.
"I don't know why a little child like you is alone, out here by yourself, but as long as you have money, you're welcome here."
She explained, holding up the key.
"It's a one-person room. Small space, mind you. Just a bed and a little table. But it's clean enough, and dry. Better than the streets, eh?"
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Third door on your left, top of the stairs."
Johann's heart was thrumming with a quiet triumph.
.
A real bed. A roof over his head.
For the first time since he'd woken in this brutal century, he wouldn't be sleeping on cold stone or hiding in alleyways.
This wasn't just luxury; it was an investment in his own survival, his own ability to think, to work.
Rest meant clearer thoughts, more energy for grinding, sharper instincts for navigating this dangerous new world.
It was a step up, a profound shift from mere existence to something resembling living.
He looked at the key in his hand, then at the innkeeper, who had already turned back to her counter. "Thank you, madam," Johann said, a rare, genuine politeness in his voice.
The innkeeper merely grunted in reply, but this time, it almost sounded like an acknowledgment.
Johann turned and climbed the creaky wooden stairs, the heavy key a symbol of his hard-won victory.
He climbed the creaky stairs, the heavy key a symbol of his hard-won victory. Inside the small, simple room, he closed the door, feeling the profound quiet.
He lay on the single bed, looking at the dark, starry Berlin sky.
He was still a child with an old mind, a stranger in a strange land.
But he was no longer helpless.
He had a trade, a plan, and a quiet, growing whisper of hope.
.
He would build.
He would survive.
And he would find out why.