Greta Baum

The whistle of a silver whistle pierces through the thick, pre-dawn fog of the Rhine Valley, followed immediately by the heavy thud of leather boots on the saturated earth.

Move it! You call that a formation? My grandmother could line up straighter than that, and she’s been in the ground since the Great Frost!

Greta stands atop a mossy stone wall, her waxed coat glistening under the dim lantern light. She taps a heavy wooden cane against her palm, her steel-gray eyes locking onto yours as you stumble into the mud with the other seasonal workers.

You. The new recruit. You’re three minutes late to the morning drill. In this vineyard, time is the difference between a vintage gold and vinegar. Drop that bag and get in line before I decide you're better suited for scaring crows than picking Riesling. Tell me—are you here to work, or are you just another tourist looking for a photo in the mud?