Simon was still astonished at how quickly the council chairman had gotten over the loss of his youngest son, but then he remembered how much money Konrad Faistenmantel had already put into the play. The play had to be a success, or he would probably be facing financial ruin. Until the performance was over, nothing else was important. Now, too, Faistenmantel bit his lip and controlled himself.
“Very well,” he grumbled. “But is it essential for us to just lie here during the rehearsal?” he said, glaring at Göbl and rising to his feet. “The backdrop of the Mount of Olives is still missing, and the painters—all of them Göbls—should have finished that long ago.”
“You forget that part of the family was in prison,” Hans replied bitterly. “Falsely accused by the Faistenmantels.”
“And you, you little chicken, no doubt forget that I lost a son.” Konrad Faistenmantel turned red in the face. “Damn, if this play weren’t so important, I’d . . .” His voice broke.
“Let’s continue with our text,” Georg Kaiser pleaded. “We have lots to do today because we are so far behind due to the delays in recent days.” He pointed at Göbl. “So continue.”
Again, Hans Göbl raised his hands heavenward and his face looked transfigured. “I’ll drink it . . . Thy will, not mine, be done,” he lamented. He stopped suddenly and pointed at the three bored-looking apostles. “Now I must shake them and wake them up, but they’re already awake.”
“Good Lord! How is it possible to put on a Passion play with a troupe of peasants like this?” Tobias Herele exclaimed, pulling his hair. “It’s like throwing pearls before swine.”
“We have to wait for Judas anyway,” said Mathis, a young carpenter playing the part of John. “He should have been here long ago. In just a moment we get to the famous scene with the Judas kiss.”
“Sebastian acted so strange in the meeting yesterday,” Sprenger said, with a worried expression. “Do you remember? He was pale and sweating all over. Maybe it’s the fever going around.” He put on a gloomy face and crossed himself. “Or something else,” he added ominously.
Simon shrugged. “He didn’t come to see me in the bathhouse.”
For a while the men waited silently, then suddenly Konrad Faistenmantel kicked one of the gravestones. “It’s always the same with Sailer,” he exclaimed. “You can’t count on him. Damn! Time is running out on us and Sailer is probably sleeping off his hangover somewhere.”
Young Mathis scratched his nose, trying to think. “I’ll go over to the storage house,” he finally suggested. “Maybe he just forgot the rehearsal.” Dressed in the simple cotton garb of an apostle, he ran past the gravestones to the cemetery gate, then down the street toward the village.
“Sprenger is right,” the priest said after a while. “Sebastian has been behaving strangely of late, actually ever since poor Gabler was found dead. I mean, naturally we’re all troubled by his death, but in Sebastian’s case there’s something more to it, even though they weren’t very close friends.”
In the meantime, Hans Göbl continued declaiming his lines. “Oh, Father, I am in such great fear,” he said. “Now I am in the clutches of death . . .”
“Can’t you just cut that out!” Faistenmantel shouted. “You’re driving me crazy.” He seemed unusually restless and kept looking over at the cemetery gate.
“Ah, does this worthy gentleman find the words of our Savior hard to accept?” Göbl said sarcastically. “If I’m going to play the part of Jesus, I’ve got to learn the text.” He loudly continued while the council chairman glared at him. “Oh, Father, help me bear this burden, or I shall surely despair. Fear makes me bitter, and so—” He stopped short as suddenly loud cries rose from the street outside the cemetery. Shortly thereafter Mathis returned, followed by some old wailing women.
“What is it?” Georg Kaiser called out in surprise. “Is the guardhouse burning? Has there been another earthquake? What’s happened now?”
Mathis didn’t stop running until he arrived, panting and struggling for breath, before the group. As he clung to a gravestone for support, he finally burst out, “Seb-Sebastian . . . he . . .”
“Well, speak up,” Faistenmantel demanded impatiently. “What happened?”
“Sebastian hanged himself,” Mathis finally burst out. “In the village pilgrimage church in Unterammergau. The sexton just brought us the news.”
“Oh, my God!” Father Tobias put his hand to his mouth. “That’s dreadful. But why?”
Now everyone began shouting at the same time—there were appeals to the saints and prayers to God, but above the tumult, finally standing out above all the others, came the rasping voice of old Sprenger.
“Have I not told you?” he shouted. “The Lord is judging us, just as it says in the Bible. First Jesus dies on the cross, then Thomas by the sword, and now Judas has hanged himself. The end is near.”
The old women who had entered the cemetery with Mathis fell to their knees, whimpering and praying. After a while they got to their feet and hurried back to the gate, wringing their hands, to bring the horrifying news of Sebastian Sailer’s death to the villagers.
“We have brought down the anger of the Lord upon us,” the priest now wailed. “What crime has this village committed that brings the wrath of God upon us like this?”
I’d be interested to know that, too, Simon thought to himself, looking at the actors one by one. They all looked horrified except for Konrad Faistenmantel, who was staring blankly into space, his face as white as a sheet.
“This is the end,” he mumbled. “The end of the Passion play, my life’s work . . .”
“You’d better have a closer look at Sailer,” Georg Kaiser whispered to Simon. “Perhaps you can find the reason for this suicide.”
Simon nodded resolutely. “I shall, but this time I want to take someone along who really knows something about hangings.”
The stick came down, and little Basti groaned softly with pain. Beads of sweat covered his forehead, but he didn’t shout. The seven-year-old leaned over a bench in the Oberammergau village school with his pants down as Poxhannes flailed him as he would a horse.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .” Poxhannes counted aloud. The other children cowered down stoically in their places, relief showing in their eyes that someone else got caught this time, and not them. Peter was sitting in the first row, quivering with each blow. He was familiar with beatings in the Schongau school, but Poxhannes thrashed away with a special vengeance. For some time Peter had wanted to tell the workers’ children of his plan to observe and follow Franz Würmseer, but then Georg Kaiser was suddenly called away for a rehearsal, and the assistant had to take the class. Since then, talking or planning what to do had been out of the question, so Peter had asked the others to come to the cave in the Malenstein after school.
“Fifteen, sixteen . . .” said Poxhannes loudly between blows. By now, Basti’s naked bottom was covered with welts, but he still didn’t cry.
“He’s going to beat the poor boy to death,” Peter whispered to Jossi, who was sitting next to him, but Jossi waved him off.
“Oh, no he won’t. He still needs Basti. Who else is going to do the dirty work?”
“What dirty work?” Peter asked. Jossi was silent. Instead, his eyes wandered over to fat Nepomuk, who was clearly enjoying the punishment of the slender boy. A faint smile passed over his lips, and he seemed to be counting along softly.
“Nineteen, and twenty,” Poxhannes panted, out of breath from the whipping. He put the stick aside, rolled down his sleeves again, and put on his stained vest, as if he’d just been in a tavern brawl.
“Let that be a lesson to you not to sleep during class,” he said. “Now let’s continue with the catechism.”
He gave little Basti a strong push, and the boy stumbled back to his seat. Moments later the children resumed reciting the Latin catechism.
“Dirty pig,” Jossi snarled softly. “Hannes makes us working-class kids slave away until we’re ready to drop
, and when we doze off, we get whipped.”
“Do you mean Basti had to work for Hannes last night, too?” Peter whispered.
Jossi nodded as he continued silently mouthing the words of the catechism. Only now did Peter notice that one of the working-class children was missing. It was the pretty, freckled Joseffa, who shared with them the secret of the Malenstein cave. It was not unusual for children to be absent from school, especially the poor children who had to lend a hand at home. But it was nine-year-old Joseffa’s turn today to get the firewood, and neither Hannes nor Georg Kaiser would tolerate any excuses.
“Where is Joseffa?” Peter asked as quietly as possible.
Jossi hesitated, and at first it appeared he wouldn’t answer, but then he pulled himself together. “There was an accident last night,” he said darkly. “Something bad, and honestly, I don’t know if Joseffa will ever come back.”
“Do you mean . . . she’s dying?” Peter gasped. He saw how pale Jossi looked. Jossi had dark rings under his eyes, as if he’d hardly gotten any sleep. Maxl, sitting alongside him, also looked exhausted.
“Who cares about a worker’s child?” Jossi whispered. “If we can’t work anymore, then nobody will need us. But that’s not your business. It would be better—”
“Aha, it seems we have someone else here who needs to learn how to behave,” Poxhannes suddenly exclaimed. Seemingly out of nowhere he appeared alongside Jossi and Peter and slapped his stick on the table. He pointed menacingly at Jossi. “Take your pants down and bend over. For you we’ll probably need thirty lashes, you fresh, obstinate rascal.”
“That . . . was my fault,” Peter spoke up. “I asked Jossi something.”
The words just came gushing out instinctively. Hannes glared at him in surprise, and Peter began to tremble. The assistant tapped Peter’s hair with his stick and grinned maliciously, making the red and partially inflamed pockmarks on his face stand out. It reminded Peter of a piece of raw meat.
“Aha! Here we have a little hero who wants to spare his new friend a beating—but it won’t work,” he said, slamming the stick on the table. “Take your pants down right now, both of you. Each of you rascals will get thirty blows so you don’t forget who’s in charge here.”
Peter’s heart was pounding. He’d just seen how badly Hannes had beaten little Basti and doubted he’d be able to hold back the tears like Basti had, especially as he was supposed to get thirty blows. He could feel bile rising in his throat and he choked with anger.
“Now the smarty-pants is finally getting what he deserves,” Nepomuk whispered, and a few other children, among them Nepomuk’s friends Martl and Wastl, started giggling.
I mustn’t cry, Peter thought. I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t . . .
Very slowly, Jossi stood up alongside him, his face pale but determined. “It’s true, Peter asked me something,” he said quietly.
“Ah, so you admit it!” Hannes exclaimed.
Jossi’s voice was so soft that only Poxhannes and Peter could hear him. “He asked me where Joseffa is,” he whispered. “Could you perhaps tell him, Herr Teacher’s Assistant?”
Hannes lowered his stick and glared at Jossi. For a long while he stared right into the eyes of the boy standing before him, who returned the look defiantly. To Peter it looked as if the two were engaged in a silent duel. Finally, Poxhannes smiled at Peter, but his eyes remained cold. “Oh, yes, poor Joseffa,” he finally said in a cloyingly sweet tone. “She had a little accident while collecting pinecones in the forest. I hear that a tree fell on her. Life in the mountains is hard, and some people die there if they’re careless.” As he spoke these last words, his voice suddenly became as sharp as a knife. Then he returned to the front of the room and turned around to the class.
“Because Peter is a good pupil, and also the favorite of the schoolmaster, we will dispense with the whipping for once.” Hannes grinned on hearing angry hissing from some of Nepomuk’s friends and held up his hand for them to be quiet. “I think instead the two will copy the entire catechism, pages five to twenty . . . three times by tomorrow morning. That will teach them not to chatter during class. Now we shall continue.”
“But—” fat Nepomuk started to say, evidently disappointed that Peter had been spared a whipping.
“Hold your tongue,” Hannes barked, “or I’ll regret my kindness and whip you next, you fat little toad.”
Nepomuk fell silent, and all the children continued reciting the catechism. Peter was so relieved that for a moment he couldn’t say a thing. The punishment was still severe, but nothing compared to the beating that he and Jossi had been facing.
After two more long, agonizing hours the church bell rang, and the children hurried out the door. Along with Jossi, Maxl, and the other workers’ children, Peter ran across the Ammer River bridge into the neighboring forest, where they finally took shelter in the cave behind the Malenstein. After they’d all taken a chunk of hard bread and had a gulp of well water from a battered jug, Peter turned sympathetically to little Basti, who couldn’t sit because of his pain.
“My father is a medicus and could probably give you some ointment,” Peter suggested, but Basti just clenched his teeth and shook his head.
“It will be all right. I’ve had worse beatings from Poxhannes. Besides, ointment just costs money, and if I tell my mother, she’ll just give me another whipping.”
“But you can’t just let Hannes beat you like that,” said Peter, turning to the others. “Can’t you go to Georg Kaiser and tell him?”
“You think we should tattle?” Jossi shook his head and laughed bitterly. “That will just make it worse. You’re really smart, but that’s something you still don’t understand. We’re the children of workers, and nobody cares about us.”
“I think I do understand,” Peter persisted. “Don’t forget I’m the grandson of a dishonorable hangman.”
For a while, they all just chewed on their pieces of hard bread and kept silent. Once more Peter noticed the careworn faces of the children and the dark rings under their eyes. The youngest ones lay down on the hard stone seats or huddled down in the dirty straw strewn all around.
“You were going to tell us something,” Maxl finally said to Peter, shaking his curly black locks. “So tell us, what are you hiding?”
“I think . . . actually my father and grandfather believe that Franz Würmseer is involved in some shady deal,” Peter began. “Something that may be connected with these murders, and I thought we could—”
“Did you hear the news?” said Bartl, the crippled boy who lived alone with his father in a charcoal-burner’s cabin in the forest. “There was another murder. I just heard it on my way over here. Sailer, the manager of the storage building, was found hanged to death in the pilgrimage church in Unterammergau. Some say Red Xaver did it—you know, the one everybody’s looking for? Other people say it was a curse from God, and we will all die, one after the other.”
The children whispered excitedly to one another until Jossi finally called for silence. “First let Peter tell us what he knows,” he said. “Perhaps he can tell us something more about it.”
Peter was confused and for a moment couldn’t speak. The fact that there was a new victim was also news to him. Finally, he told the children in a hesitant voice about the strange circles of stone, and the suspicion of his father and grandfather that Franz Würmseer might have something to do with recent events.
“Jossi and Maxl are my witnesses,” he said. “Würmseer also made such a circle of stones here at the Malenstein, so I thought we could keep an eye on him to see what’s behind it all.”
“I’ve seen circles like that,” Basti said. “And strange black riders were also seen around here. One of them almost ran me down when I was on my way down to the Graswang Valley. That was about two weeks ago.”
“Then you’re with us?” Peter asked excitedly.
The children looked silently down at the ground, embarrassed. They all seemed tired, and their wrinkled, fallen ch
eeks reminded Peter of little old men. Finally Jossi cleared his throat.
“Listen, boy,” he said. “Life is hard on us here in the valley, and no one wants to make trouble. Everyone knows that the Oberammergau council as well as the abbot of Ettal wants us workers to leave. Things are getting worse and worse for us; it’s almost as bad as it was more than a hundred years ago, when foreigners were expelled. Many of us fear that our families will suffer the same fate.”
The others nodded anxiously.
“Würmseer is a powerful man in Oberammergau,” Maxl added gloomily. “Nobody wants to pick a fight with him—that would be dangerous.”
Peter could almost smell their fear. Suddenly he had a dreadful thought. He remembered Jossi’s dogged silence when he asked about Joseffa, and he also remembered the two dead children his father had spoken of.
“Does Joseffa’s accident have anything to do with your being so cautious?” he asked hesitantly.
Once again there was nothing but silence, and none of them looked up at him.
“What’s wrong with Joseffa?” Peter asked, now even more insistently. “What happened?”
“It would be better if you didn’t ask. It wouldn’t be good for you—or for us. Sometimes too much knowledge just leads to disaster. Here’s a suggestion, Peter. Maxl and I will help you with your plan, we’ll keep an eye on Würmseer, but you must leave the others out of it, it’s not worth it.” Jossi moved toward the entrance of the cave, where he turned around again to Peter. “Now let’s go home. Many of us have to help our parents in the field or in the forest, and the two of us have a long homework assignment.”
“I really have no idea what that fellow is doing here. I mean, a hangman in a church . . . a church containing the blood of our Savior—one of the most sacred religious relics in all of Christendom?”
Crimson with rage, Judge Johannes Rieger stood at the entrance of the Sacred Blood Chapel in Unterammergau, pointing at Jakob Kuisl, who was just coming up the steep path from the village with Simon. The ancient pilgrimage church was set in a blooming, rolling meadow above Unterammergau, about half an hour’s walk from Oberammergau. Many pilgrims on their way to Ettal stopped here to pray to the blood of the Savior, which had been mixed with soil and preserved in a silver monstrance.