"The Bonickhausen Tower" by Brendan ThomasGustave stood by his grandmother at the chaise lounge asking for a story. He lived with her when his mother traveled tending to her charcoal business. He didn’t mind. She was an excellent cook, the best in Paris, and she wove wonderful stories. She patted the seat beside her and said that stories were best served seated.
“This is the tale of Jean Rene Bonickhausen.” “Who is that?” Gustave quizzed. “If I told you immediately it would spoil the story.” “Jean Rene lived in an ancient town in Germany called Marmagen, close to the French border.” “Did he have a job?” Gustave interrupted. She looked at him slightly annoyed. “Yes, he was a tradesman. It was nearly a hundred years ago and times were tough. Often Jean Rene didn’t have money to buy food so he ate gruel.” “Yuck,” Gustave pronounced, scrunching his face, and rolling his tongue. “Gruel is better than nothing Gustave. I bake amazing gruel. I’ll serve it for dinner tomorrow.” Gustave looked into his grandmother’s twinkling eyes and laughed. “Jean Rene came to France where the food was plentiful, and the women were smarter and more beautiful.” Gustave nodded his agreement. “But he wasn’t accepted by the French and didn’t understand why. He was a skilled worker. Why couldn’t he find work?” “Your name is too German a friend said.” “There’s no such thing. But there was. He was a too German, German, living in Paris.” “He decided to change his name to something strong but he was blank. One day, while thinking of Mermagen and it’s beautiful mountains, he had an idea, and named himself after the mountains.” “What was his new name?” Gustave asked. “Eiffel.” “But that’s our name.” Gustave said in confusion. “Jean Rene is your great grandfather, Gustave Eiffel,” his grandmother replied.
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