My father-in-law tortures, and I heal the wounds, then it begins all over again. It is so senseless . . .
Simon was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice that his son, softly and with tears in his eyes, left the room and disappeared.
Barbara stared up at the little barred window that allowed only a thin shaft of light to penetrate into the dungeon.
She had already been locked up a day and a night in the Schongau dungeon. She could hear far-off sounds—the shouting of merchants, the lowing of cattle, the anxious squeaking of pigs just before they were slaughtered. So it had to be market day, probably just before the noon church bells. Time passed slowly. She’d already spent hours cursing herself for her stupidity. Why had she spent so much time leafing through those accursed books of magic? Why had she removed them from their hiding place? They were bloody books, and the next blood they claimed would probably be her own.
Suddenly this whole magic thing seemed ludicrous to her. Her sister was probably right: there were no such things as witches. If they really existed, why hadn’t they magically freed themselves from their dungeon back during the Schongau witch trials? Why didn’t they jump on their brooms and fly away? Why hadn’t they struck down their persecutors with bolts of lightning? Now Barbara felt as they must have as they were carried away, crying and trembling, to await their first torture by the executioner.
Now she was a witch like them.
Someone hurried past just outside her window, and for a moment Barbara’s heart beat faster in the hope that it might be Magdalena coming to visit her, but it was just some passerby, and the steps soon faded away. Barbara had heard nothing from her older sister since the day before. In any case, she didn’t think that Magdalena’s plan to ask their friend Jakob Schreevogl for help would be successful. The anxious waiting played on her nerves so much that she’d scarcely slept a wink that night.
Groaning, she got up and walked a few steps back and forth. Her back ached from lying so long on the ice-cold stone floor, and once again a rat scurried through the dirty straw and disappeared in a corner of the cell. Up to now the guards had been very polite to her, even bringing her fresh bread and barley soup. She no longer had any appetite, however, and the rats gorged themselves on the food.
Over and over, the same thoughts raced through her mind. Had Magdalena perhaps had some success with Schreevogl? What other possibility was there for her to escape her fate?
A soft whistling interrupted her thoughts. She looked up at the window and recognized a familiar little face. Her heart beat faster.
“Paul!” she whispered. “It’s so good to see you here. Where is Mother?”
Paul had knelt down in front of the bars; he looked down at her and made a face. “Mama went away. I’m staying with Stechlin, but she’s very strict with me. She doesn’t let me play with the cat, even though I only pulled its tail once.” He looked around carefully, then took a little folded sheet of paper from under his shirt.
“Mama asked me to give this to you,” he said quietly. “She said I mustn’t get caught or there would be trouble.” Paul reached through the bars with his little fingers. Barbara stood to take the note. She hastily unfolded it, quickly read the few lines, then sank back against the wall and closed her eyes.
It was just as she’d feared. Magdalena’s conversation with Jakob Schreevogl had gotten nowhere, Burgomaster Buchner showed no sign of granting clemency, and her older sister was now on her way to Oberammergau to ask Johann Lechner for help. But how could the wife of a simple bathhouse owner convince such an important man as the Schongau secretary to come back home? Nevertheless, Magdalena’s mission was no doubt Barbara’s last chance—a thin thread of hope that might save her from torture and a hanging.
“Th-Thanks,” she stammered as she turned to Paul, who was still staring down at her curiously. “It’s probably best for you to hurry back to Martha Stechlin’s house before the guards catch you. No one is allowed to speak with me, you know.”
Paul’s face darkened, and angrily he shook the bars to the dungeon. “They can’t lock you up here,” he protested. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going to get you out of here, and soon.”
Barbara smiled sadly. “That’s very kind of you, Paul, but I’m afraid it’s not all that easy.”
“I don’t care, I have a knife, I’ll cut through the bars, and then—”
“Hey, kid!” came a loud voice from the street. “What are you doing there? Get out of here! Aren’t there any guards here to stop this?”
Barbara flinched on recognizing the voice. It was Melchior Ransmayer. She quickly shoved Magdalena’s message under her bodice.
“Run, Paul,” she whispered. “You mustn’t let that bad man catch you. Come back tonight.”
Paul snarled like a wild animal, then scurried away as Ransmayer shouted at the guards.
“I’ll have to report to the burgomaster that the prisoner can chat with people here just as she could in the marketplace. It’s a scandal!”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” mumbled young Andreas, who was on duty at the main gate, “but it’s just a little boy . . .”
“He’s the nephew of this witch. He should be put away in the dungeon, too, along with his mother and the whole family.” There was a rustling of paper. “I have to check the prisoner to see if she is prepared for the coming interrogation. Here’s the document. Let me in.”
“Yes, sir, Herr Doktor.”
Barbara closed her eyes briefly in preparation for the confrontation with Ransmayer. She was gripped with nausea and fear, for she had an idea what was going to happen. The examination of the suspect was officially the job of the executioner, and the fact that Ransmayer took on this function was a bad sign.
She heard footsteps, first in front of the building and then in the hallway, and finally the door opened and Ransmayer stepped in. He turned around to the guards once again. “Leave me alone for a moment with the accused,” he said in a rasping voice.
The door closed and the doctor looked Barbara over from head to foot, undressing her with his eyes. Then he spread his arms out as if in greeting.
“It’s really sad we two must meet here in the dungeon,” he said with a sigh as he came toward Barbara, smiling. “Don’t you agree? Why didn’t you accept my little offer back then, in the street? We could have had a lot of fun together.”
“I’d have sex with my neighbor’s sheep before I’d let you touch me,” she snarled. “You’re a disgusting lecher and a bootlick. Also, you stink like an old billy goat.”
Angrily, Ransmayer stepped back. “You’d better watch what you say,” he said in a low voice. “Your life is in my hands, and if I decide now that you’re fit for torture, we can begin tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? So soon?” Barbara tried to keep her composure but couldn’t suppress a slight trembling. “But . . .”
Ransmayer smiled on noticing her uncertainty. “Burgomaster Buchner has already looked around for a suitable executioner and has asked Master Hans from Weilheim for help.” The doctor shrugged. “The man isn’t cheap, but he’s said to be an excellent executioner. He’s perhaps a bit overzealous, but, oh well . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he gloated over the look of horror in Barbara’s face. Her legs suddenly felt like two little twigs, and she had to hold herself up on the wall so she wouldn’t fall over. Master Hans was considered one of the most unscrupulous hangmen in all of Bavaria. Since torturing was generally well paid, the executioner from Weilheim did everything he could to draw out the torture as long as possible. Hans had never forgiven Jakob Kuisl for taking a prisoner from him some years ago, and Barbara suspected that was the reason Hans agreed to take on a prisoner outside his district. It wasn’t every day that one could torture the daughter of a competitor.
“I’ve been told that it makes no difference to Master Hans whether he is torturing a man or a woman,” Ransmayer continued, toying casually with a lock of his wig. “He has even put children on
the rack. For him, all people, well . . . are just raw material. He once pulled out every fingernail of a young witch, one by one. Then he started on the teeth, and finally—”
“Filthy swine . . .” Barbara whispered, almost inaudibly.
“As a doctor, you surely know, my job is to examine the body of the accused,” Ransmayer declared, impassibly. “It all depends on whether witches’ marks can be found on you. Moles can assume suspicious shapes.” He went over to her and passed his hand over her dirty, tattered dress. “Witches’ marks can be found in the oddest places—in the crook of the neck, on the breast, indeed sometimes also in the crotch . . .”
Barbara froze. She was choked not just with disgust but the fear Ransmayer might find Magdalena’s message in his search. If he learned that her sister was on the way to Oberammergau, then it was all over. When the doctor’s fingers reached her navel, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She kicked Ransmayer in the groin with more force than the time they’d met near the cemetery.
Melchior Ransmayer collapsed and rolled around on the floor. Barbara knew she’d made a bad mistake, but she was overcome by a fury not unlike that of an approaching thunderstorm. She bent down to whisper in Ransmayer’s ear.
“What’s up between you and Buchner?” she asked. “What were you talking about in the church?” She kicked him again. “Who did you meet in the cemetery? If I have to die, then at least tell me why first.”
The doctor groaned, then he struggled back to his knees and glared at her. Despite his pain, he had a wolfish, evil smile. “You would like to know, wouldn’t you, you hussy? But you never will. Soon I’m going to know every one of your little secrets, though. Everyone breaks down on the rack.”
Barbara spat in his face. “Before that happens, before you see me crying and whimpering, I’ll hang myself in the dungeon.”
“Guards!” Ransmayer suddenly screamed in a high, effeminate voice. “I’m being attacked! Help me!”
The bar in the door was pushed back and Andreas stuck his head inside.
“What’s going on here?” the guard asked when he saw Ransmayer kneeling on the floor.
“A sudden stomachache, probably,” Barbara replied, still trembling with rage. “The doctor is not well. He needs a doctor himself.”
“She . . . struck me,” Ransmayer moaned, bending over again suddenly like a whipped dog. “Watch out for her.”
“This weak young girl beat you? Hmm, I don’t know . . .” Andreas scratched his head, and his eyes sparkled sarcastically. “Are you sure it isn’t a stomachache, after all?”
“Damn it! You’ll pay for this. All of you.” Ransmayer got to his feet and limped toward the door. On the threshold he turned around again to Barbara. “You have just spoken your death sentence,” he hissed. “I’ll pay Master Hans ten guilders extra to make it last a long time.”
The door slammed shut and Barbara was alone again.
The anger subsided and all that remained was naked fear.
10
OBERAMMERGAU, ON THE NIGHT OF MAY 8, AD 1670
LONG AFTER JAKOB HAD LEFT, Simon sat at the table in the house of the Oberammergau medicus, brooding and staring into space.
In front of him stood all the drugs he would need to treat the tortured prisoner the following day. Along with the marigold ointment and dried yarrow, he had found opium capsules and henbane seeds in the jars belonging to the old medicus, and he’d crushed them in the mortar to make a few pills. Perhaps he’d be able to give some of them to Xaver Eyrl secretly in order to relieve at least the worst of the pain. Simon knew that an accused person who was able to survive the various degrees of torture without confessing would be released. Even if the wounds healed, however, as a medicus he knew that these people were usually broken—they lived, though they were already dead. Simon had often seen it, and now, for the first time, he would also take part.
Exhausted from the long day, he rubbed his eyes and tried to think, but no matter how hard he tried, he could find no solution. If he refused to help with the torture, Johann Lechner would probably take away his permission to run the bathhouse, and his family would be ruined. The only thing that could help him now was a miracle.
He thought of Jakob, who had recently revealed a moment of weakness for the first time. The hangman had returned to Ettal to prepare everything for the torture the next morning. Torturing was also hard for Jakob, though, unlike Simon, he had learned to live with it. But at what price? In the last two years Simon’s father-in-law had become increasingly sullen and had often sought refuge in alcohol. And now Lechner was also threatening to banish Jakob’s son, Georg, from the town forever. What if his own son—
Peter! He suddenly remembered.
He shuddered as if he’d just awoken from a bad dream. Absorbed in his gloomy thoughts, he had completely forgotten his own son. Simon felt a twinge of guilt for being so harsh with his son earlier, but Peter had to understand that his father now had more important things to do than listen to some wild adventure stories. So many people here needed his help, and now this accursed torturing . . . When Peter was older, he would surely understand. And that evening, Simon resolved, he would tell him a few stories, leaf through some old picture books with him, and be a good father.
Even if it would be hard for him not to think about the next day.
Someone outside knocked on the shutter, and Simon cringed, as if the guards were coming to summon him to his own torture. He cursed under his breath.
Oh, if only I hadn’t taken the place of the medicus here and gotten involved in all of this, he thought. But now it was too late.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Alois Mayer from the Laine Valley.”
Simon stood up with a sigh and opened the shutter. Blinded by the bright afternoon light coming through the window, he rubbed his eyes and finally recognized the old woodcutter he’d met after the accident in the Laine Valley. Alois grinned at him affably with his stumps of teeth.
“You look pale, Herr Fronwieser,” he said. “You university folks don’t get out enough in the sun.”
“A good day to you as well,” Simon replied with a thin-lipped smile. “What’s going on?”
Alois suddenly took on a grim expression. “It’s about Martin, whose leg you took off. His mother sent me, as his fever is getting worse. The lad is shouting nonsense and thrashing around. Was a curse put on him?”
“By your little men from Venice, I suppose.”
The woodcutter looked angrily at Simon. “Do not mock something you do not understand, city man. In this valley, strange things happen. Men on horseback, black as the night, have been seen, and children have vanished without a trace.” He stopped short. “But why am I telling you that? I’ve come to plead with you to visit the lad in the mountain pasture once again. Farewell.”
He turned around and stomped off.
“Hey, aren’t you going to take me there?” Simon called after him. “I don’t even know where this damned pasture is.”
“Careful what you say. God curses those who curse.” With a stern gaze, Alois turned around again. “The mountain pasture is just below the Laber Mountain trail—just follow the Laine, and shortly before the Laine Valley the path branches off to the right. You’ll find the cabin—after all, you’re a smart university man, aren’t you?” Without another word the old man turned the corner and was gone.
Simon stood there, cursing softly. These Oberammergauers were even more pigheaded and tightlipped than his father-in-law. Simon wondered if perhaps the whole Kuisl family had once come from the Ammer Valley. He paused, wondering if he should just refuse to visit the crippled man, but he felt sorry for him, and the little trip would be a welcome diversion. Otherwise he would no doubt sit there all day thinking about the grim scene that would unfold the next morning in the torture chamber.
Quickly he packed his medical bag, closed the door behind him, and set out for Laber Mountain, which, like a mute brother of the Kofe
l, towered over the other side of the valley.
After less than half an hour, Simon had reached the turnoff that Alois Mayer had described.
A narrow muddy path led up Laber Mountain from the Laine River, which rushed past down here in the valley, seething and swirling. Dark firs blocked the view, making it difficult for Simon to see the steep mountain peaks partly shrouded in mist. The path, still covered in last winter’s snow, zigzagged its way up the mountain.
Simon slung his bag over his shoulder and started the steep climb. Soon beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his breathing came hard and fast. He couldn’t help thinking that those who dwelled in the mountain pasture probably had to hike this trail several times a day, and until yesterday, Martin had also taken it. Now the boy was condemned to life as a cripple up on the mountain. If he doesn’t die of gangrene in the next few days, Simon thought gloomily.
He heard cawing, and a murder of crows rose up from the treetops, fluttering noisily down into the valley over Simon’s head, as if mocking the little medicus. An eerie feeling came over him, as though he was being observed from behind the branches of the thick undergrowth, but whenever he turned around, he saw nothing but dark firs and snowfields. He shivered, astonished at how long the winter lasted up here in the mountains.
After another half hour he came to a clearing, and a gently sloping Alpine meadow appeared, free of trees and bushes. The meadow was swampy and shone yellow with buttercups and primroses, and a few skinny goats were drinking water out of a hollowed-out tree stump.
Not far away stood a tumbledown cabin cobbled together from unfinished tree trunks, with two children in threadbare dresses playing with a dog in the slushy snow. When they saw Simon, they ran anxiously behind the house while the dog barked furiously at the stranger.
After a while, the door opened a crack and the mongrel stopped barking. An old woman clothed in a tattered woolen coat with a shawl made of pieces of wolf pelts that had been stitched together stared suspiciously at Simon. Her face was worn and her cheeks fallen. Suddenly she smiled, revealing an almost toothless mouth.