The Play of Death
Shocked, he suddenly remembered his son, who was probably lying in bed in Oberammergau. The quake had not been especially strong, but who could say whether any buildings in the neighboring village might have collapsed.
“What blasphemous nonsense do I hear?” a loud voice suddenly cried out. “You ignorant oafs. It’s not the Kofel but God who is punishing you and trying to lead you back onto the path of righteousness.”
Simon turned to the side and saw the Ettal abbot running over the short distance from the monastery. Benedikt Eckart had spread out his arms as if he were about to ascend into the pulpit and preach. Alongside him, the judge clutched his walking stick and struggled to radiate the authority expected of his high office. Simon remembered how just a short while ago he’d pulled up his robes like an anxious old woman and fled from the tavern. In the meantime some of the monks had also gathered in the courtyard.
“Yes, God is angered because of your sins,” the abbot continued accusingly. “For far too long He has looked down on this valley with compassion, but now He has raised His thundering voice!” As if to underline his point, the bells of the monastery began to ring at this moment and the monks fell to their knees and started to pray.
“Bad things have happened in the Ammer Valley because you have not prayed enough,” Abbot Benedikt admonished them. “I’m telling you to go home and pray to God for forgiveness. We shall hold a mass tomorrow morning and ask the Lord to show mercy.”
The people in front of the tavern seemed uncertain. They whispered and put their heads together, and finally the old farmer spoke up again.
“When I was a child, God was angry with us and made the earth tremble,” he said anxiously. “Who can say we won’t be surprised again in our beds by another quake?”
“There will be no more earthquakes,” Johannes Rieger assured them, but his anxious gaze as he looked over at the walls of the monastery revealed he wasn’t so sure.
“Uh . . . You can go home without concern, but this evening, each of you must say a few rosaries,” the abbot added. “Just to be sure.”
“Bah! What nonsense. When the earth shakes, it shakes. A man should make sure instead that his roof beams are solid, or perhaps when he’s praying one will fall on his head and he’ll be dead as a doornail, even if he is holding rosary beads in his hands!”
It was Jakob Kuisl who now appeared behind Simon. In contrast to the frantic people in the courtyard, the hangman appeared calm and composed. His composure seemed odd in this chaotic environment.
Now Johannes Rieger also had discovered the hangman and glared at him angrily. “Perhaps God is angry because we still haven’t found the perpetrator of these two dreadful murders,” he cried loudly, pointing at Jakob. “The Schongau secretary sent us his hangman, but neither he nor the venerable secretary has been able to find anything. Instead, they drink our beer. I wonder why we need help from outside our valley, and why the help of a dishonorable hangman? Haven’t we always settled matters among ourselves?”
People grumbled and turned around to look at Simon and Jakob. A few of the farmers still held the pitchforks and hoes they’d been using in the fields, and they clenched them firmly now, as if they were halberds and spears.
“I think it’s time to get out of here,” Simon whispered to Jakob, “before they start looking for a scapegoat for the earthquake.”
The hangman nodded. “For once you’re right. There’s no point wasting our time fighting with these fools.”
Slowly they retreated. Some of the farmers followed them, their grim faces full of menace, but when Jakob stared back at them just as menacingly the men finally stopped and let them leave. They passed the open gate to the monastery, inside which there seemed to be a great commotion.
Men ran around everywhere. Some of the monks held torches and were checking the buildings one by one for damage. Suddenly loud warning shouts could be heard from the tavern, and Simon stopped on seeing a fiery glimmer coming from one of the houses. An anxious servant had evidently left a lantern in one of the sheds, and it had fallen over. Thick smoke poured out of a window and soon flames were rising from the roof. A chain of men quickly assembled to carry buckets of water from a nearby well.
Simon hesitated. He really wanted to get back to Oberammergau as soon as possible to see if Peter was all right, but on the other hand, such a fire was very dangerous and demanded the services of every single man. If the fire couldn’t be stopped in time, the whole village could go up in flames. Or the monastery.
Simon was still agonizing over what to do when Jakob came running past him through the gate and grabbed several buckets. A few men at the well nodded their thanks.
When a fire breaks out, even the hangman is much sought after, Simon thought, hurrying after his father-in-law. Simon’s dear friend Georg Kaiser would surely take care of Peter. Lives were in danger here.
Filling the buckets and passing them down the line actually calmed Simon’s nerves. The church bells were still ringing in the steeple, and a muted echo came back from the rockfaces of the mountains. It appeared that the fire could be brought under control if everyone joined in the effort.
Simon had just taken another bucket of water from the well when he caught sight of someone up on the roof of the tavern. The man was running along the ridge toward the northeast, the side of the monastery closest to the mountains, and for a brief moment Simon had a good view of him in the glow from the fire. He looked big and strong and his clothing was soiled and torn . . .
And he had fiery red hair.
“Xaver Eyrl!” Simon gasped, tapping his father-in-law on the shoulder. Surreptitiously he pointed up to direct the hangman’s attention to the man running along the roof. Jakob just nodded silently and looked around cautiously, but evidently no one else had seen the fugitive.
“Perhaps the door to the dungeon collapsed,” Simon whispered. “Or the guards with him fled in a panic when the earthquake hit.”
“Perhaps he even set the fire himself in order to flee in the commotion,” Jakob grumbled.
“What should we do now?”
“What should we do?” A broad grin appeared on Jakob’s face and he started to snort. After a while Simon realized that the hangman was laughing.
“Nothing, of course, you idiot,” the hangman said after a while. “Neither of us wanted to torture him, and now we’re spared that by divine providence.” His face turned serious as he continued in a solemn tone: “The Lord God has sent us a miracle. We should accept that gratefully and let Eyrl go.”
Simon stared at Jakob as if he were a ghost. He’d never heard his father-in-law speak like this.
“Since when do you believe in miracles?” he asked in astonishment. “You used to say the holy rosary was just nonsense.”
“Oh, just forget it.” All of Jakob’s solemnity vanished. “Whether or not it’s a miracle, just let the fellow go. Tomorrow I swear we’ll start figuring out what’s going on with your stone circles, the vanished children, and all the other stories. We’ll figure out what’s at the bottom of this accursed riddle, or my name’s not Jakob Kuisl.” He stared at his son-in-law. “And don’t ask me ever again if I believe in miracles or you’ll be sorry.”
The hangman ran with four buckets at once and threw them on the flames with a loud splash.
It was almost three more hours before Simon finally got to his son’s bedside.
Actually, he’d hoped to find Peter still wide awake, as he’d wanted to apologize for being so rude to him that day in the bathhouse. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that this valley had gone crazy. He wished he’d kept the promise he’d made that afternoon to tell his son a bedtime story. But Peter was already fast asleep. His breathing was regular, but his pale face looked even more serious than it did when he was awake. Simon was tempted to lie down beside him—he was so tired, so dreadfully tired. The whole day had been one long nightmare. First the hallucinations of the boy whose leg he’d amputated, then the earthquake and the fire at the monaste
ry in Ettal.
He gently stroked his son’s cheek as he thought about the events of the day. They had finally gotten the fire under control, largely because of Jakob’s help. Simon hadn’t dared to ask his father-in-law again about his solemn words, but something in his behavior had seemed to change. Evidently the hangman really regarded Eyrl’s escape as divine intervention.
He’s just getting old, thought Simon. Perhaps he’ll still find his way to religion.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine the Schongau hangman in a hair shirt, flagellating himself, a pious smile on his lips.
He heard a creaking sound, turned around, and saw Georg Kaiser, stooping to enter the low-ceilinged attic. Simon had learned from his friend that the quake was felt in Oberammergau as well. A few windows had broken and many old people had sought protection in the village church, where the priest had sung and prayed with them. Here, too, the quake had been of short duration, but people were already beginning to describe it in the blackest possible tones.
Georg smiled at Simon and pointed to Peter with a vague nod of his head. “You love him very much, don’t you?” he said softly. “You can be proud of him. He’s a clever lad and will amount to something.”
“I should have been with him during the earthquake,” Simon whispered.
“He was brave and didn’t cry, if that’s what you mean. My maid, dear old Anni, made some hot milk for him, and he asked about you a few times, but I told him you surely were detained by work. Then he fell asleep right away.” Kaiser shrugged and seemed just as tired and overwrought as Simon. He was still suffering from his hacking cough.
“It really seems like this valley is under an evil spell,” said Simon, shaking his head. “There are so many stories and legends, and they all seem to have something to do with these strange events and murders. Now even the earth is shuddering.”
Kaiser gave a dry laugh. “You’re as bad as the superstitious old women in the village. They take everything that happens and spin it into a legend, though it rarely has anything to do with them. In any case, I’m curious what this earthquake means for our Passion play. It looks like the Lord God is directing the play this time. There surely will be a meeting tomorrow about where we go from here.” He ducked to go through the doorway. “Well, I’ll gladly accept whatever they decide—then maybe I won’t have to struggle with a group of untalented farmers and woodcarvers. I have enough to do, anyway.”
Coughing softly, he shuffled out the door. A short time later Simon heard the door to the main room close and a chair scrape across the floor. Evidently Kaiser still had a lot of work to do on the new text for the play, though perhaps this work was no longer necessary, as God had now sent another sign of his displeasure.
One last time, Simon looked out the window to check for fire here as there had been in Ettal, but all was quiet and dark outside. He was about to turn away when he noticed a flash of light up in the mountains near the Kofel. Could there be someone up there at this hour? He couldn’t help but think of the Venetians—the little men said to wear hoods down over their faces, carrying lighted lanterns in their hands and picks over their shoulders, who came to search for treasure in the mountains.
So many stories . . .
No, surely it was just a single woodsman sitting by a fire to warm himself. It must be rather lonely up there in the mountains. On the other hand, you were far away from trouble and human suffering.
Shivering, Simon closed the shutters and looked at his son, who lay sleeping in his bed like an angel. Once this was all over, he’d have lots to make up for—to him, but also to Paul and Magdalena, who were waiting for him in Schongau.
Simon kissed his son’s forehead, then he left for his lodgings.
Once outside he could hear the steady scratching of Georg Kaiser’s quill pen coming from a lighted room above.
12
OBERAMMERGAU, EARLY IN THE MORNING OF MAY 9, AD 1670
ACCORDING TO THE MEDICUS, THERE were a half-dozen broken church windows, five runaway cows, and three cases of old women fainting, and a number of shingles fell from the roof—but no severe consequences. Ah yes, and farmer Pärtl’s old barn collapsed, but he had been planning to tear that down, anyway.” Konrad Faistenmantel looked up from the list he held in his hands and turned to the other council members seated with him at a table in the Schwabenwirt tavern. It was early in the morning, but each of the men already had a mug of strong Märzen beer in front of him.
“All in all, we’ve been pretty lucky,” the Oberammergau council chairman continued. “Also, the fire over in the monastery was extinguished.”
“Still, it’s a sign from God,” mumbled the old miller, Augustin Sprenger. “First a crucifixion, then what looks like a martyr’s death, and now an earthquake. God is angry at us, and we all know why.”
“What nonsense, Augustin.” Faistenmantel took a long drink then slammed his mug back down on the table. “It was an earthquake—that’s all there is to it. My father, God bless his soul, told me about earthquakes, that they just happen for no special reason, so don’t start in again with how we shouldn’t have rescheduled the Passion play.”
“‘We’?” Sprenger practically spat out his reply to the council chairman. “You wanted to have the play four years early, because all you think about is making money!”
With a threatening look, Faistenmantel got up from his seat. “How dare you . . .”
“Silence!” cried Johannes Rieger, the Ammergau judge, who was accustomed to giving orders. “If you want to fight, please wait till the next village fair. This is an official meeting.” He glared sternly at the two adversaries. “The majority of the council has decided in favor of advancing the schedule of the Passion play, and now only the council can decide our further course of action. The views of each individual on this council have always been respected.” He sighed. “Unfortunately. But that’s the law—so?” Rieger looked all around, awaiting a reply. “Who’s in favor of our performing the Passion play despite the recent events?”
The members of the council began to discuss the issue quietly among themselves. Simon sat with Georg Kaiser at the far corner of the large table, anxiously awaiting the result of the vote. Kaiser had asked him to come along again, as the council wanted a report on any possible injuries during the earthquake, but Simon got the impression his friend was also happy to have an enlightened soul at his side. The earthquake had made people in the village even more suspicious of one another.
After a while, the judge pounded the floor with his walking stick. “And how does the council decide? Those in favor of performing the Passion play this Pentecost, raise your hands.”
Konrad Faistenmantel agreed, as well as the vice council chairman, Franz Würmseer, who had just returned from a trip on the road. Old Augustin Sprenger and the sculpture painter Adam Göbl, on the other hand, leaned back and folded their arms over their chests defiantly. Now all eyes were on Sebastian Sailer, manager of the Ballenhaus. Given the death of the sixth council member, Urban Gabler, everything now depended on his vote. Usually very congenial, Sailer was now nervous, pale, and unshaven, and he fumbled with his collar as if he felt too hot.
“What’s wrong, Sebastian?” Faistenmantel asked. “You said yourself that the Passion play makes good money for us. If we want to revive the old trade route, the play is our only chance, and it must be now, not in four years.”
“You are right,” Sailer replied softly, “but events recently have been, uh . . . very strange. Perhaps there’s something to the idea that God is angered. Urban also—”
“Urban was a superstitious fool,” snarled Würmseer. “One mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but for Urban if there were two hailstorms in June, one after the other, that was a sign from God.” Then in a more soothing tone: “We’ll find his killer, I promise you, Sebastian. But now get hold of yourself and don’t let us down. The future of the village is at stake.”
“If I may say something . . .” Kaiser spoke up ca
utiously. He was allowed to speak even though he was a non-voting member of the council. “We are behind schedule in our rehearsals. Actually, we were supposed to have one today, but nothing came of it. The actors lack confidence when they read their lines, and I’m not so sure that—”
“The delays are also caused by your revising the text almost every day,” Würmseer interrupted. “I still don’t know exactly what my Caiaphas is supposed to say when Judas appears before the council of the Jewish high priests. Perhaps it’s easier for you if the play is put off!”
“Don’t forget that I am first of all the schoolmaster in the village,” Kaiser answered between clenched teeth. “If this work demands more of me than expected, that’s certainly because of your son, who can’t learn simple multiplication!”
Würmseer leaned his massive body across the table and waved his finger in Kaiser’s face. “Watch what you say, teacher. Who are you going to get your firewood from, eh? Maybe from the worthless laborers’ children you like so much?”
“Silence!” Rieger ordered, banging his walking stick on the table. “Can’t we just once have a meeting without fighting with each other? We’re off topic.” He looked at Sailer impatiently. “So what is your decision? For or against the Passion play?”
Sailer swallowed hard and Simon noticed how angrily Würmseer was looking at the young administrator. “Until now, you’ve only been Judas in the play,” Würmseer said so softly that it was almost inaudible. “Take care that you don’t really become one.”
Trembling, Sailer raised his hand.
“Then the matter is settled,” the judge said with relief, “and the play will be performed at Pentecost. But now, to another matter.” His face darkened. “I’ve just learned from the abbot of Ettal that Eyrl escaped from the dungeon yesterday, evidently taking advantage of the chaos after the earthquake.”
There was angry murmuring around the table. The men took a few deep gulps of beer, as if they could quench their anger along with their thirst.