The Hangman's Daughter

At last he seemed to be contented with his hand. He smiled, then held it up so that it shone white in the light of the fire. His arm, from the elbow to the fingertips, was composed of pieces of bone held together by copper wires passed through holes drilled in the bone. It looked like the hand of a corpse. Not until now did the devil look over at his companions.

  “What did you just say?” he asked quietly.

  The soldier by the fire swallowed nervously but continued speaking. “I said that we have done our part. You insisted on killing the little brats yourself. Now they’re still running around free, and we are still waiting for our money…” He looked cautiously at the man with the bony hand.

  “Three are dead,” whispered the devil. “The other two are somewhere around here. Don’t worry, I’ll find them.”

  “Yes, when the fall comes,” laughed the third man by the fire as he carefully pulled the rabbits off the spit. “But I’m not going to hang around here that long. I’m leaving, and I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve just about had enough of this, and I’ve had more than enough of you!” He spat toward the tree.

  The devil ran over to the man and in a twinkling of an eye had snatched the iron spit from his hand. He held the iron to the soldier’s throat, his face only inches from the other man’s. When the soldier swallowed, the red-hot point of the spit touched his Adam’s apple. He uttered a loud scream, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck.

  “You stupid bastards!” hissed the devil, without withdrawing the spit as much as a hair’s breadth. “Who got you this job anyway, hey? Who got you grub and booze up till now? Without me you would have starved to death long ago, or you’d be dangling from some tree. I’ll get those little bastards yet, don’t you worry, and until then we are staying here! It would be a pity to lose the money!”

  “Let go of André, Braunschweiger!” The second man by the fire stood up slowly. He was tall and broad shouldered, and there was a scar across his face. He drew his saber and pointed it in the devil’s direction. Only by looking closely could you see the fear in his eyes. His sword hand trembled slightly.

  “We’ve stuck with you long enough,” he hissed. “Your cruelties, your thirst for blood, your torturing, they make me sick! You shouldn’t have killed the boy! Now we have the whole town looking for us!”

  The devil whom they called Braunschweiger shrugged his shoulders. “He overheard us, just like the others. He would have betrayed us, and then that lovely money would have been lost. Anyway…” He grinned broadly. “They’re not looking for us. They think a witch killed the children, and perhaps tomorrow they’ll burn her. So then, Hans, put away your saber. Let’s not quarrel.”

  “First you’ll put down that spit you have pointed at André,” whispered the man called Hans. Not for one second did the muscular soldier let the smaller man out of his sight. He knew how dangerous Braunschweiger could be, in spite of his rather diminutive size. He could probably slice all three of them to pieces right here in the clearing before they could strike a single blow at him.

  With a smile, the devil lowered the spit. “Fine,” he said. “Then I can tell you at last about my discovery.”

  “Discovery? What discovery?” asked the third man, who had been lying expectantly in the patch of moss up till then. His name was Christoph Holzapfel, and he was, like the other three men, a former soldier. They had been traveling about together for nearly two years, living on murder, robbery, and arson. They could not remember the last time they’d been paid. They were always on the run, no better than hunted animals. But deep inside them there still glowed a spark of decency, something left over from the bedtime stories their mothers had told them and the prayers that the village priest had drummed into their heads. And each of them felt instinctively that in the man they called Braunschweiger this spark of decency was missing. He was as cold as his bony hand that had been made for him after an amputation. Although it couldn’t wield a weapon, it was a useful substitute for one. It instilled fear and horror, and that was what Braunschweiger liked best.

  “What discovery are you talking about?” Christoph Holzapfel repeated his question.

  The devil smiled. He knew that he had the upper hand again. He stretched out on the moss, tore a leg off the rabbit, and kept talking while nibbling on the leg. “I followed Moneybags. I wanted to know what he intended to do at the building site. He was there again last night, and I was, as well.” He wiped the grease from his lips.

  “And?” André asked impatiently.

  “He was looking for something. Something that must be hidden there.”

  “A treasure?”

  The devil shrugged. “Maybe. But you want to leave, so I’ll just look for it myself.”

  Hans Hohenleitner grinned. “Braunschweiger, you’re the biggest bloodsucker and swine I’ve ever met, but at least you’re a clever swine.”

  A sudden noise made them turn round. The snapping of twigs, quiet but not quiet enough for four experienced soldiers. Braunschweiger signaled to them to keep silent, then he slipped into the bushes. A short time afterward they heard a cry, then groaning, panting, and branches crackling. The devil dragged a struggling form into the clearing. When he threw it down by the fire, the soldiers saw that it was the man they were supposed to be working for.

  “I was coming to you,” he groaned. “What’s gotten into you to treat me like this?”

  “Why did you creep up like that, Moneybags?” Christoph grumbled.

  “I…I didn’t creep up on you. I have to talk to you. I need your help. You must help me to look for something. This very night. I can’t do it alone.”

  For a time there was silence.

  “Will we share?” asked Braunschweiger at last.

  “Half for you, word of honor.”

  Then he told them shortly what he intended to do.

  The soldiers nodded. Their leader had been right once again. They would follow him. They could speak later about the sharing.

  Martha Stechlin emerged from her swoon, and the pain hit her like a blow. They had crushed all her fingers and inserted splinters with burning sulfur under her fingernails. The midwife had smelled her own flesh burning. But she had remained silent. Again and again Lechner had questioned her and written all the questions word for word in his record of proceedings.

  Whether she had murdered the boys Peter Grimmer, Anton Kratz, and Johannes Strasser? Whether she had scratched a devilish sign in the skin of the innocent children? Whether she had burned down the Stadel? Whether she had taken part in witches’ dances and procured other women for the devil? Whether she had put a fatal spell on baker Berchtholdt’s calf?

  Her answer was always no. Even when Jakob Kuisl put the leg screws on her, she remained firm. At the end, when the witnesses had withdrawn with a carafe of wine for a short consultation, the hangman came quite close to her and whispered in her ear. “Stay strong, Martha! Say nothing. It’ll soon be over.”

  The officials in fact decided not to continue the questioning until the following morning. Since then she had been lying in her cell, half awake and half asleep. Now and then she heard the church bells. Even Georg Riegg in the neighboring cell had stopped his nagging. It was shortly before midnight.

  In spite of her pain and fear, Martha Stechlin tried to think. From what the hangman had said and from the questioning and accusations, she tried to form a picture of what had happened. Three children had died and two were missing. All had been with her on the night before the first murder. Jakob Kuisl told her of the strange sign they had found on the bodies. Her mandrake was missing too. Someone must have stolen it.

  Who?

  She drew the sign with a finger in the dust on the floor of the prison and immediately wiped it away, fearing that someone could discover her doing it. Then she drew it once again.

  It was indeed one of the witches’ signs. Who had scratched it on the children? Who knew about it?

  Who is the real witch in the town?

  Suddenly she had a dreadful suspicion.
She rubbed the sign out and then drew it slowly for the third time. Could it possibly be true?

  In spite of her pain she couldn’t help laughing to herself. It was so simple. It had been right in front of her the whole time, and she had failed to see it.

  The circle with the cross under it…a witches’ sign…

  A stone struck her in the middle of the forehead. For a moment everything went black before her eyes.

  “Got you, witch!” Georg Riegg’s voice rang through the prison. She could see him indistinctly in the darkness behind the bars on the other side of the chamber, his hand still raised. Near him the imprisoned watchman from the raft landing was snoring. “What the hell is there to laugh at? It’s your fault that we’re stuck in here. Admit it, you set fire to the Stadel and killed the children. Then we’ll have peace in the town at last! You stubborn old sorceress! What are those signs you are drawing there?”

  Another stone, big as a fist, struck her on the right ear. She sank to the ground, desperately trying to wipe away the sign again, but her hands would no longer obey her. She started to feel faint, then everything turned black.

  The real witch…Must tell Kuisl…Let him know…

  The clock in the church tower struck midnight as Martha Stechlin, bleeding, slumped down onto the prison floor. She no longer heard Georg Riegg, still scolding, calling for the watch.

  The bell of the town parish church boomed over the roofs of Schongau. It struck twelve times, as two figures, wrapped in their coats, made their way through the mist on their way to the cemetery of Saint Sebastian. Jakob Kuisl had bribed the watchman at the Lech Gate with a bottle of brandy. To Alois, the old night watchman, it was a matter of indifference what the hangman and the young physician were doing out on the streets at this time. And the April nights were cold, so a swig or two of brandy would do him good. So he waved them in and shut the gate carefully behind them. He raised the bottle to his mouth, and immediately the brandy spread a comforting warmth in his stomach.

  Once inside the town, the hangman and physician chose the narrow unfrequented way through the Hennengasse. No burgher was permitted out of doors at this time. It was rather unlikely they’d come across one of the two night watchmen, but nevertheless they avoided the market square and the broad Münzstrasse, where during the day and evening most people congregated.

  They carried their lanterns under their coats so that there would be no light to attract attention and they would be completely enveloped in the darkness. A few times, Simon tripped against the curb or on piles of garbage left in the street and nearly fell. He cursed under his breath. When once again he stepped into the contents of a chamber pot and was about to let loose a whole string of curses, the hangman turned to him and gripped his shoulder hard.

  “Be quiet, for God’s sake! Or do you want the whole neighborhood to know we’re grave robbers?”

  Simon swallowed his anger and felt his way on through the darkness. In faraway Paris, he had heard, whole streets were illuminated with lanterns, and at night the whole city was a sea of light. He sighed. It would be many years before people could walk the streets of Schongau after dark without treading into a pile of excrement or banging into the wall of a house. He staggered on, swearing under his breath.

  Neither he nor the hangman noticed that a figure was following them at a little distance. It paused at the corners of houses, ducked into niches, and did not creep on farther until the hangman and the physician had resumed their way.

  At last Simon saw a flickering light in front of him. Candlelight shone through the windows of Saint Sebastian’s Church, a votive candle left burning at this late hour. The light was just enough for them to see where they were. Next to the church was a heavy iron gate that led to the cemetery. Jakob Kuisl tried the rusty handle and swore. The verger had done his work well; the gate was locked.

  “We’ll have to climb over,” he whispered. He threw the small spade, which he had carried with him under his coat, to the other side. Then he pulled himself up the six-foot wall and let himself down on the other side. Simon heard a soft thud. Taking a deep breath, he then pulled his own rather lanky body up onto the wall. Stones and masonry scraped against his expensive doublet, but at last he was sitting astride the wall and looking down into the cemetery below. Small candles were burning by the graves of rich burghers, but otherwise crosses and grave mounds could be seen only indistinctly. In a corner at the back, against the town wall, stood a small charnel house.

  At this moment a light appeared in a house across the way in the Hennengasse. The shutters squeaked as they opened outward. Simon let himself down from the wall and with a stifled cry landed on a freshly made grave mound. He looked up cautiously. A housemaid appeared in the illuminated window opening and tossed out the contents of a chamber pot. She did not appear to have noticed him. A short time later the shutters were closed again. Simon shook the damp earth from his doublet. At least he had fallen softly.

  The figure that had followed them hid in the archway and watched the two men in the cemetery from there.

  The cemetery of Saint Sebastian was located directly by the town wall and had been laid out only a short time before. Plague and war had seen to it that the old graveyard near the town parish church was no longer sufficient for the town’s needs. Grass and thorny shrubs grew in many places, and between them a muddy footpath led to the individual graves. It was only the rich who could afford a single grave with a carved stone. Their graves lay directly by the wall. Elsewhere crooked wooden crosses stuck up all over the broad field of the cemetery above shapeless mounds of earth. On most of these crosses several names were inscribed. Burials came cheaper if you shared the limited space in the ground with others.

  A mound on the right near the charnel house still looked quite fresh. Yesterday morning, after being laid out for two days at their homes, Peter Grimmer and Anton Kratz had been buried. The ceremony was short—the town authorities did not want to risk further disturbances. A Latin prayer from the priest with only the family present, a bit of incense, and a few comforting words, and then the relatives were sent home. For Peter Grimmer and Anton Kratz a common grave was all the families could afford: neither had enough money for an individual burial.

  Jakob Kuisl had trudged on ahead with his spade in hand. He stopped near the cross, looking thoughtfully at the names of the dead.

  “Johannes will be lying here soon. Sophie and Clara, as well, if we don’t hurry.”

  He took the spade and drove it deep into the soil. Simon crossed himself and looked anxiously across at the dark houses in the Hennengasse. “Is this really necessary?” he whispered. “That is desecration of the dead! If we’re caught, you can reckon on having to torture yourself and light your own fire at the stake!”

  “Stop talking and help me.”

  Jakob Kuisl pointed to the charnel house that had been dedicated only a few weeks before. A shovel was leaning near the door. Simon, shaking his head, took the tool and began to dig next to the hangman. To be safe he crossed himself once more. He was not particularly superstitious, but if God was going to punish anybody with a thunderbolt, then surely it would be someone who dug up the bodies of dead children.

  “We won’t have to go down very deep,” whispered Jakob Kuisl. “The grave was almost full.”

  After only a few feet they did in fact find a layer of white lime. Under it appeared a small coffin and something wrapped in a bundle of linen, also small.

  “I might have known it!” The hangman struck the spade against the stiff little bundle. “They didn’t even get a coffin for Anton Kratz. And the family does have enough money. But the orphans, you can just shove them into a pit like dead animals!”

  He shook his head, then lifted the bundle and the coffin with his strong arms and put them on the grass beside the grave. In his huge hands the child’s coffin looked almost like a little tool chest.

  “Here!” He held out a scrap of cloth to Simon. “Tie that around your head, they’ll certainly s
tink pretty bad.” Simon wrapped the cloth around his head and saw the hangman start to work with his hammer and chisel. One by one, he pried the nails out. A short time afterward the lid fell to the side.

  Simon picked up his knife and slit the linen sack open lengthwise. Immediately a sickly sweet odor spread out, causing the physician to retch. He had seen many dead bodies in his time and smelled them, too, but these two boys had been dead for more than three days. In spite of the cloth around his face, the stench was so strong that he had to turn aside. He raised the cloth a bit and vomited, then he wiped his mouth, coughing. When he turned around again, the hangman grinned at him.

  “I thought as much!”

  “What?” Simon inquired in a rasping voice. He looked down at the dead children, who were covered all over with black spots. A wood louse scampered over little Peter’s face.

  Contentedly Kuisl took out his pipe and lit it by the light of the lantern. After taking two deep puffs, he pointed to the fingers of the corpses. When Simon still did not react, he poked under Anton Kratz’s fingernails with the point of his knife, then held the blade out for the physician to smell. Simon could make out nothing at first, but when he held the lantern very close to the knife he could see some fine red soil on the point.

  He looked questioningly at the hangman.

  “So?”

  Jakob Kuisl held the knife so close to Simon’s nose that he was frightened and retreated a step.

  “Well, can’t you see, you dunce?” hissed the hangman. “The soil is red! It’s the same with Peter and Johannes. All three dead children had scraped about in red soil before they died. And what kind of soil is red? Well? Which soil is red?”

  Simon swallowed before he spoke.

  “Clay…clay is red,” he whispered.

  “And where around here is so much clay that you can bury yourself in it?”

  The answer hit Simon like a blow. It was as if two broken parts had come together.