As they ascended the wide spiral staircase, Magdalena scrutinized the elegant patrician’s daughter in her close-fitting velvet dress. Clara had been an orphan; she was adopted by the wealthy patrician Jakob Schreevogl and his wife many years ago. Ten winters had passed since the Schongau hangman had saved Clara from the clutches of an evil man. Ever since, the patrician had been a close friend of the Kuisls. Now Schreevogl sat on the town council and, as a deputy burgomaster, had some influence.
On the second floor Clara stopped in front of an oak-paneled door and knocked, then said goodbye with a polite curtsy. “My best wishes to Simon,” she said with a smile. “He always used to bring me honey drops.”
“I’ll do that, too, I promise,” Magdalena said hastily, “but now please excuse me, it’s very urgent.”
She opened the door to the wood-paneled library, where Jakob Schreevogl was sitting in an easy chair, leafing through a book. The tall, gaunt man came from an old family of potters and had invested a significant part of his fortune in this library; Simon always liked to visit him because of this book collection. When Schreevogl noticed Magdalena, he removed the pince-nez from his pointed nose and looked at her earnestly.
“Welcome, Frau Fronwieser,” he said, putting down the book. “I think I already know why you are here.” He politely offered her a seat. “It’s about your sister, isn’t it? Half the town is talking about it. Is it true that books of magic were found in her possession?”
Magdalena nodded and quickly told him everything that had happened since that morning. When she had finished, Schreevogl scratched his nose, trying to put his thoughts together.
“I find Ransmayer intolerable as well,” he said, frowning. “He’s a quack doctor and a bootlick who’s making money off people’s ignorance, but I’m afraid, unfortunately, I’m the only one on the council who thinks that way. Many of the other patricians go to Dr. Ransmayer when they need some medication, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trafficking in mandrake roots himself. But these books of magic are, naturally, something else.”
“Are you saying you see no possibility of persuading the other council members to change their minds?” Magdalena asked in a weak voice. “You were my last hope.”
Schreevogl sighed. “Above all, the problem is Matthäus Buchner. The first burgomaster is not on good terms with your father to begin with, as you know, and this fight with the doctor has certainly not made him any more favorably disposed toward your family.” He hesitated briefly before continuing. “In addition, I can imagine that Buchner would like to make an example of your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
Jakob Schreevogl lowered his voice as if he feared being overheard even in his own house. “Well, it looks like Buchner wants to take advantage of Johann Lechner’s absence to seize control here in Schongau. Lechner, in any case, is overqualified to be a secretary, and Buchner clearly wants to force him out.” The patrician leaned forward and looked at Magdalena with a grim expression. “Usually we have a meeting of the council once a week, but now we meet twice daily, and just this morning the burgomaster signed his first decrees without Lechner in the council—new dress codes, a ban on performances by actors, more stringent curfews . . . I’m afraid our town is facing hard times,” he added darkly. “Many of the council members follow Buchner like a dog follows its master, and he will use your sister’s case to show again who is the master of the house.”
“Do you think you could speak up for my sister in the council?” Magdalena inquired timidly. “Perhaps you could at least convince some of the members to take another look at the case, and that would buy us some time until Lechner and my father return from Oberammergau. You are, after all, the deputy burgomaster.”
“A title that sounds much more imposing than it really is,” Jakob said dismissively. “Remember there are three deputy burgomasters, and the other two are on Buchner’s side. In addition, I’m too young, I don’t have the connections. If I could speak with each of the members individually, perhaps we’d have a chance, but as things are now . . .”
“My family has done a lot for this town,” Magdalena said. “And for you as well. Remember the terrible murders of children a few years ago, and how your daughter almost died then.” It made her furious that her sister’s life had apparently become a pawn in a political game. Jakob Schreevogl had been her last hope, a hope that now seemed shattered.
“Simon surely has more medical knowledge in his little finger than Ransmayer has in his whole perverse head,” she continued angrily. “And my father has more than once helped these esteemed gentlemen out of a pickle. Still, the patricians turn up their noses when they meet him on the street. Then, after nightfall, their oh-so-refined spouses sneak down to us in the hangman’s house for one or another medication. Doesn’t any of that matter? Just because of a few dog-eared old books? My ancestor only wrote down what these poor women screamed out to him under torture. Anyone who believes these are real books of magic is a fool.”
Without being aware of it, Magdalena had worked herself up into a rage. Jakob Schreevogl looked at her in astonishment and finally nodded.
“That might just work,” he said, mulling it over.
“What are you thinking?” Magdalena already regretted losing her temper. Jakob Schreevogl was her last chance, and she couldn’t afford losing his support. Then he gave her a wink.
“Perhaps there is a way we can get somewhere with the council, after all, but it will be you, not I, who will present your case.”
“Me?” Magdalena said hesitantly. “But I’m just the wife of a simple medicus—”
“Who can speak her mind strongly and confidently, as you’ve just proven,” said Schreevogl, brushing aside her hesitation. “I know it’s unusual for a dishonorable person to address the council, but just because it’s so unusual it might soften the nobles. You’ve also just given me an idea how we can deal with their objections.”
Magdalena listened intently as, in a soft voice, he explained his plan.
“And do you really think the council will listen to me?” she finally asked.
“I can’t guarantee anything, but at least I’ll try. Our next meeting is this evening, so be ready.” He took her hand and squeezed it firmly. “May God help you and your sister, because, if our plan fails, I’m afraid I can’t do anything more for your family.”
8
OBERAMMERGAU, EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON OF MAY 7, AD 1670
PETER WAS DRAWING FINE LINES across a sheet of paper with a charcoal stick.
He was seated against a large rock down by the river, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. A pile of papers Georg Kaiser had given him that were blank on the reverse side lay on his knees. Peter was trying to draw from memory a picture he had discovered in Kaiser’s library. He’d been working on it for two days and had already rejected a few drafts, but this time he was satisfied. The drawing showed the opened torso of a woman with an unborn child inside that looked like the sleeping Christ Child. Peter smiled, added a few last touches, and his picture was finished. Drawing, sketching, and painting were emotional outlets for him. He could become absorbed in them and forget the harsh world around him.
A world that was rarely kind to him, the son of a simple bathhouse keeper and grandson of a hangman.
He put the drawing aside and looked down at the Ammer, which here, near the bridge to Oberammergau, formed a small concealed cove. Lost in his thoughts, he watched a few linden leaves spinning past in the current as they headed downstream toward his home in Schongau. He clenched his teeth and tried not to cry. Just that morning his father had asked him how he liked school in Oberammergau, and he had avoided answering at first. Just as he was about to tell his father how much he missed his home and his mother, the court official came to pick up Jakob and the schoolteacher Kaiser for a meeting in the tavern. A rumor was spreading in town that another corpse had been found.
Angrily, Peter threw a stone in the water and watched as the c
ircles spread. He’d been so happy when his father told him he’d stay a bit longer with him in Oberammergau, but actually, Father was almost never there. He was always going somewhere with Grandfather because of all the horrible things that had happened here in the village. He couldn’t even sleep with Father, because Father wanted him to get accustomed to his new home in Georg Kaiser’s house. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t like it there—the schoolmaster was nice to him, and he could go to the library to get a book whenever he wanted or stay in his room reading, writing, and drawing. Once Kaiser had even given him a private Latin lesson. It was quite different from the school in Schongau, where most of the pupils couldn’t even recite the catechism, to say nothing of reading a few lines by the Roman writer Avianus, whose fables Peter loved so much. But one thing was still the same: the grownups had no time, and most of the children were mean and teased him because he was different.
Just as back in Schongau.
Another stone landed in the river. Peter remembered the last two mornings he had spent in the village school. First, Georg Kaiser had introduced him and threatened to whip any child who was unkind to the newcomer, then he praised Peter as an outstanding pupil who would go far in life, perhaps even to a university. Nothing could have been worse. Sixty pairs of eyes—some blank and imbecilic, some hate-filled—had stared at Peter, and he already knew that life wouldn’t be any easier for him here than it was in Schongau. It would be harder.
Then came a shrill whistle, and Peter was jolted out of his thoughts. He was about to get to his feet and hide the drawing under his shirt when three boys came down the bank to the cove. They were carrying fishing rods and line, and appeared to be looking for a good place to fish. When they noticed Peter, they broke out into loud hoots.
“Look at this! Our smart aleck sunning himself here by the river,” shouted one of them, a big fellow who, though only ten years of age, already had a strong back and a huge plump torso. Peter recognized him at once. It was Nepomuk Würmseer, son of the second burgomaster of Oberammergau, Franz Würmseer. Nepomuk had already shouted insults at him in the schoolhouse and tried to trip him up. The two others were Martl and Wastl, who followed Nepomuk everywhere like two little dogs.
As nimble as mountain goats, the boys hopped over the rocks until they got to Peter. Now Nepomuk saw the drawing on Peter’s knees and grimaced.
“Ugh, what is that garbage?” he said, clearly disgusted. “Did Kaiser give you that?”
“No . . . it’s mine,” Peter answered shyly. “I drew it.”
“You drew it?” For a moment Nepomuk seemed genuinely surprised, but then he got control of himself again. “Hand it over.” Quickly he ripped it out of Peter’s hands.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” Peter replied angrily. “That’s mine.”
“It was yours,” Nepomuk replied with a grin. He ran his dirty fingers over the pristine white paper as he presented the drawing to his two sneering comrades. “Look at this. What heretical slop. Let’s see what the priest has to say about this when we show it to him.”
“Give it back!” Peter shouted. In the meantime he’d gotten to his feet and he tried to tear the paper from Nepomuk’s hands, but the big youth held it up high, out of Peter’s reach.
“Give it back! Give it back!” the older boy parroted in a falsetto.
Suddenly he gave Peter a shove, sending him flying backward into the water. For a moment, the cold took his breath away, but fortunately the spot was shallow and the current didn’t carry him off. Spluttering, he got up and stomped awkwardly over the sharp stones back to the shore.
“It’s just as I thought,” Nepomuk jeered. “You’re a weakling, like all Schongauers. Have you seen his father?” he asked, turning to his two friends. “He’s also a midget, a skinny, creepy-looking guy, a stinking bathhouse keeper who dresses up better than his class.”
“And his grandfather’s the Schongau hangman who’s hanging around Oberammergau now,” Wastl added. “My mother told me. She said the whole family is dishonorable, so we’d better watch out for them.”
Peter closed his eyes briefly. Actually, it had been clear from the beginning that the other children would soon learn about his notorious family, but he never suspected it would happen so fast.
“My grandfather will slit open your stomachs like fish if you don’t leave me alone,” Peter replied, his eyes reduced to narrow openings. He was determined not to put up with any more of this. “He’s strung up younger fellows than you.”
“Your father . . . does-doesn’t have any s-say in what happens here,” stammered Martl, whose father was on the second council in the village. He had a bad stutter. “Or your Sch-Schongau sec-secretary either. My father thi-thinks we’ll be kicking you out of Oberammergau soon, along with all the other riff-riffraff.”
“What do you think? Should we show the priest this scribbling?” Nepomuk asked with an innocent expression, waving the paper in front of him. “Hmm. I think this is my lucky day. Do you know what? We won’t tell on Peter, we’ll just destroy this trash.” With an ugly smirk, he ripped the drawing in two and then into tinier and tinier pieces.
“No!” shouted Peter. “You mustn’t do that.”
He watched helplessly as Nepomuk threw the scraps of his beloved drawing into the rushing waters of the Laine, where for a few moments they danced on the surface before finally drifting out of sight like the linden leaves before them. When Peter turned around again, the three boys had moved closer and were eyeing him hostilely.
“And now let’s see if the weakling can swim as well as those scraps did,” Nepomuk snarled. “If we throw you out far enough, you’ll swim at least as far as Unterammergau. You can swim, can’t you? Tough luck if you can’t.” Nepomuk was just about to give him another shove when a commanding voice sounded behind them.
“Leave the boy alone, he hasn’t done anything to you.”
Nepomuk rolled his eyes, but Peter thought he saw a glitter of fear in them. Two older boys, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, were standing up on the embankment. Peter had seen them in school, but for the most part they’d stayed in the background, and he hadn’t seen them at all in school that day. Their clothing was soiled and tattered, their faces thin and gaunt, but for perhaps just that reason they exuded an air of silent strength. Their eyes flashed as if an irrepressible fury was just waiting to be released. They came closer, menacingly.
“Mind your own business, scum,” Nepomuk hissed. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, but I think it does.” The speaker had freckles and wild and woolly red hair. “We’ve been listening a little to what you were saying. What did you call the kid and his family before? Dishonorable? That’s funny, it’s just what you always call us. So we’re looking after our own people—that’s only right.”
“It’s high time we made it clear to you riffraff who is in charge here in town,” Nepomuk berated him. “My father thinks your kind should have never been allowed to come here. There’s no place in the valley for lazy scum like you.”
“Your father can kiss my ass,” the other of the two older boys responded, a dark-haired fellow with an amazingly deep voice for his age. “And now take off before we tell Poxhannes. If we don’t beat the crap out of you, he surely will. You know him.”
Peter noticed how Nepomuk suddenly blanched. Poxhannes was Georg Kaiser’s assistant, a burly fellow about thirty years old who took great pleasure in thrashing troublemakers until they were black-and-blue. He liked to pick the children up by the ears and hear them scream in pain. Just the morning before, when Georg Kaiser was working again on preparations for the Passion play, Poxhannes had ranted and raved in the classroom.
“All right, then,” Nepomuk grumbled after a while. “We only wanted to go fishing anyway.” He pointed to Peter, standing alongside him, shivering in his wet clothes. “If you don’t think you already have enough troubles, you can saddle yourself with this loser, but I’m telling you one thing,” he said, planting himself firmly i
n front of the boy with the freckles. “The day will come when we Oberammergauers will drive you out of the valley.”
He gave a sign to his two companions, and they took off, hopping from one rock in the river to another.
“We’re just as much Oberammergauers as you are,” the boy with the freckles called after them. “Remember that.”
When the sounds of the bullies’ footsteps had faded away, the two older boys walked over to Peter, who was shaking with cold. The dark-haired youth with the deep voice took off his jacket and wrapped it around Peter’s shoulders.
“Not a good time of year to go swimming,” he said with a grin, then looked in astonishment at some of the pages lying around on the ground. “Did you draw these yourself?”
Peter nodded, sniffling, and the boys helped him gather up his soiled pages.
“You’re really good at that,” said the freckled, red-haired boy, admiring the drawings. “Ha! And not even an Oberammergauer. These people think so much of their woodcarvings and paintings, but there’s hardly any other way to make money in this godforsaken valley.” He pointed to one of the drawings. “With drawings like these you could easily become a sculpture painter, or later perhaps even a stucco artist. There’s more of Oberammergau in you than in all those three little brats together.”
“Why do they hate you so much?” Peter asked softly, trying to get his papers together again.
“There’s a deep rift in this village,” explained the boy with the freckles. “There are the old, established families—and the new arrivals. Most of our families came here after the Great Plague, when the citizens of Oberammergau needed the manpower. Now they think they can just send us back. We do the dirty work, we work in the forest or as cheap labor for the farmers, and we and many of our parents were born in Oberammergau. But God forbid we should call ourselves Oberammergauers. Nepomuk’s father and the Ammergau judge as well want to drive us from the village, but we won’t let them succeed.” He held his hand out to Peter. “My name is Jossi, by the way, and this is Maxl,” he added, pointing at the grim-faced dark-haired boy at his side, who gave Peter a friendly wink. “It looks like you can use a few friends, so welcome to our group of dishonorable paupers and laborers. You are one of us.” He gave Peter a friendly pat on the shoulder then turned back up the bank. “Come along, we know the best place to catch trout. When Nepomuk and his friends see our catch later, they’ll be mad as hell.”