The Hangman's Daughter Part 38

In addition, by a stroke of luck, the former mercenary soldier and robber Christoph Holzapfel was arrested by the Landgrave's men on the morning of the third of May. Magdalena, the hangman's daughter, identified him immediately as her abductor, and by the evening the wicked soldier had confessed, in the keep, to having murdered three little children from Schongau out of pure malice.

Remarkably, no torture was necessary to obtain this confession. But the hangman must have shown him the instruments during the short time that he was alone with the abductor of his daughter. In any case, the murderer was afterward prepared to make a written confession, which he signed with his left hand. The right hand hung down like a damp red rag and seemed to be only held together by skin and sinew.

The Landgrave made a few lame attempts to have the Stechlin woman tried for witchcraft after all. But as she had not confessed up to then, he would have had to apply to Munich for permission to continue the torture. The four burgomasters and the court clerk made it clear to him that he could not rely on their support.

The final touch was supplied by old Matthias Augustin, who described in lively detail before the whole council the horrors of the last great witchcraft trial of 1589. Even the Landgrave did not want to do anything to bring that about again.

And so at noon on May 4, 1659, the entourage of the Landgrave Count Wolf Dietrich von Sandizell set out again for his estate at Thierhaupten, from there to direct the destinies of Schongau at a distance. As the soldiers in their s.h.i.+ning breast-plates rode through the town gates, the burghers waved a long farewell to their lord. Noisy children and barking dogs accompanied the carriage as far as Altenstadt. The burghers all agreed it had been nice to see such important people close up. It was even nicer to see them ride away.

The hangman went to the keep and had the door unlocked by the bailiffs. Martha Stechlin lay sleeping among damp straw and her own foul-smelling excrement. Her breathing was regular, and the swelling on her forehead had gone down. Jakob Kuisl bent down to her and patted her cheek. A smile came to his face. He remembered how this woman had stood by his side at the birth of his children-the blood, the screaming, and the tears. Strange, Strange, he thought. he thought. People fight with tooth and nail when they come into the world, and when they have to go they fight too. People fight with tooth and nail when they come into the world, and when they have to go they fight too.

Martha Stechlin opened her eyes. It took some time before she found her way out of her dreams back into the prison.

"What is it, Kuisl?" she asked, not yet fully conscious. "Will it go on? Have you come to hurt me again?"

The hangman smiled and shook his head.

"No, Martha. We're going home."

"Home?"

The midwife sat up. She blinked, as if she wanted to see if she wasn't still dreaming. Jakob Kuisl nodded.

"Home. Magdalena has been tidying up a bit at your house, and young Schreevogl has contributed heaps of money. For a new bed, pots and pans, whatever you need. It'll do for the beginning. Come, I'll help you up."

"But why?"

"Don't ask now. Go home. I'll tell you about it later."

He grasped her under the arms and pulled her to her feet, which were still swollen. Martha Stechlin limped along at his side toward the open door. Sunlight flowed in from outside. It was the morning of May fifth, a warm day. The birds were twittering, and from the town they could hear the cries of the maids and housewives haggling in the marketplace. From the fields the scents of summer and flowers wafted over to them, and if you closed your eyes you could even hear the murmuring of the Lech. The midwife stood in the doorway and let the sun s.h.i.+ne on her face.

"Home," she whispered.

Jakob Kuisl wanted to support her by taking her under her arms, but she shook her head and pulled away. Alone she limped along the alley toward her little house. At the next bend in the road, she disappeared.

"The hangman, a friend of humanity-who would have thought it?"

The voice came from another direction. Jakob Kuisl looked around and saw the court clerk strolling toward him. He was wearing his dress coat, the brim of his hat was turned up jauntily, and in his right hand he held a walking stick. The hangman nodded a wordless greeting, then he turned to go on.

"Would you care to come for a little walk, Kuisl?" Johann Lechner asked. "The sun is smiling, and I think we should have a good talk. What's your yearly salary, actually? Ten gulden? Twelve? I find you are underpaid."

"Don't worry, I've earned a lot this year," the hangman growled without looking up. He filled his pipe calmly. The inside of the bowl seemed to him to be of more interest than the man standing in front of him. Johann Lechner remained standing and played with his stick. There was a long silence.

"You knew it, didn't you?" Jakob Kuisl asked at last. "You knew it all the time "

"I always had to think of the interests of the town," said Lechner. "Nothing else. That's all that counts. It seemed to me to be simpler that way."

"Simpler!"

The court clerk fiddled with his stick. It looked as if he was searching for notches in the handle.

"I knew that old Schreevogl owed a lot of money to Matthias Augustin. And it was clear to me that as a respected businessman he must have had more money than was mentioned in his will," he said, blinking in the sunlight. "And I knew about the old man's eccentric sense of humor. So when the sketch of the building site disappeared from the archives, it was clear that someone was very interested in the site. First I suspected young Schreevogl, but he had no access to the archives...Finally I realized that Ferdinand Schreevogl had certainly told his friend Augustin about the hiding place behind the oven tile. From then on it was all clear. Well, I'm pleased that everything has turned out for the best."

"You've covered up for Augustin," Jakob Kuisl grumbled as he drew on his pipe.

"As I said already, for the good of the town. I couldn't understand that business with the mark. Anyway...who would have believed me? The Augustins are a powerful family in Schongau. It seemed that the death of the midwife would resolve all the problems at once."

He smiled at Kuisl.

"Wouldn't you really like to come for a little walk?"

The hangman shook his head silently.

"Well, then," said the clerk. "A good day to you, and G.o.d's blessing."

Swinging his stick he disappeared in the direction of the Lech Gate. Burghers who saw him greeted him courteously, raising their hats. Before he disappeared into a narrow street, Jakob Kuisl thought he saw Lechner raise his stick once again as if he wanted to send him a distant greeting.

The hangman spat. Suddenly his pipe didn't taste good anymore.

EPILOGUE.

ONE SUNDAY MORNING IN JULY 1659, THE HANGMAN and the physician were sitting together on the bench in front of the hangman's house. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted over to them from the house. Anna Maria Kuisl was preparing the midday meal. There would be hasenpfeffer with barley corn and turnips, her husband's favorite dish. Out in the garden, the twins Georg and Barbara were playing with Magdalena, their big sister. She had pulled a clean bedsheet over her head and, thus disguised as a frightening river spirit, ran through the flowering meadows. Screaming and laughing the children fled from her, seeking protection from their mother in the house. and the physician were sitting together on the bench in front of the hangman's house. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted over to them from the house. Anna Maria Kuisl was preparing the midday meal. There would be hasenpfeffer with barley corn and turnips, her husband's favorite dish. Out in the garden, the twins Georg and Barbara were playing with Magdalena, their big sister. She had pulled a clean bedsheet over her head and, thus disguised as a frightening river spirit, ran through the flowering meadows. Screaming and laughing the children fled from her, seeking protection from their mother in the house.

Lost in thought, Jakob Kuisl puffed on his pipe and observed this scene. He was enjoying the summer and did only what was necessary. The trash in the streets had to be swept up every week, and now and then a dead horse had to be removed, or someone needed a salve for itching and stings...Over the past two months he had earned enough that he could afford to be a bit lazy. For the execution of the remaining soldier, Christoph Holzapfel, the town had paid him ten whole guilders! The condemned soldier, who had been arrested shortly after the arrival of the Landgrave, had been broken on the wheel to the applause of the watching crowd. Outside the town the hangman had broken his arms and legs with a heavy wagon wheel and braided him on the wheel next to the scaffold. Christoph Holzapfel lived, screaming, for another two days; finally Jakob Kuisl had pity on him and strangled him with a neck iron.

The body of Andre Pirkhofer, killed on the building site, was hung in chains next to his countryman, as was the corpse of Christian Braunschweiger, whom the townspeople, even after his death, referred to as "the devil" while crossing themselves three times. His charred corpse, shrunk to the size of a child, was removed from the tunnels before the entrance was sealed off once and for all. His lips were burned off and his scalp shriveled, so that the teeth stood out, grinning. The bony left hand shone out white among all the black flesh, and people said that even from the gallows it seemed to beckon. Two weeks later, the devil's entire body was just bone and mummified skin; nevertheless the council let it hang longer as a dreadful warning until the bones fell off one by one.

The fourth soldier, Hans Hohenleitner, was never found. Most likely the Lech had washed him down toward Augsburg, where the fish ate his corpse. But all this was of no more interest to Jakob Kuisl. Altogether the hangman of Schongau had earned more than twenty guilders in the past two months. That should be enough for some time.

Simon sipped his coffee, which Anna Maria Kuisl had kindly brewed for him. It tasted strong and bitter and drove the weariness out of his body. Last night had been strenuous. A feverish infection was going around in Schongau. It was nothing really serious, but people were demanding the new powder from the West Indies, which the young physician had been prescribing since last year. Even his father seemed to be persuaded of its efficacy.

Simon glanced over at the hangman. He had news that he did not wish to keep any longer from his friend and mentor.

"I was at the Augustins this morning," he said, as casually as possible.

"Well?" inquired Jakob Kuisl. "What's the young fool doing? I haven't heard anything from him since his father's death last month. Seems that he's devoting himself diligently to the business, so people say."

"He is...ill."

"A summer fever? May G.o.d see to it that he sweats and s.h.i.+vers for a long time."

Simon shook his head.

"It's more serious. I discovered red patches on his skin, which are gradually spreading. In many places he has no feeling anymore. I believe...he has an infection. He must have caught it during his last journey to Venice."

"Leprosy?"

The hangman was silent for a moment. Then he laughed loudly.

"Augustin a leper! Who would have thought that? Well, then, he'll be very pleased that the leper's house is nearly finished. First of all the half-wit sabotages the building and then he must move in himself. Say what you like: G.o.d is just, after all."

Simon had to chuckle. But immediately his conscience started to trouble him. Georg Augustin was a bad man, a lunatic, a child murderer who had, moreover, tortured him. The scar on Simon's thigh still hurt. But in spite of this, he would not have wished this disease on even his worst enemy. Georg Augustin's body would slowly rot away while he was still alive.

To turn their minds to other thoughts, Simon changed the subject.

"This betrothal of Magdalena with the Steingaden hangman," he began.

"What about it?" Kuisl grumbled.

"Are you really serious about it?"

The hangman took a puff on his pipe. It was some time before he answered.

"I turned him down. The wench is too stubborn. He doesn't deserve that."

A smile spread over Simon's face. It seemed that a heavy weight had been lifted from his mind.

"Kuisl, I'm really very-"

"You be quiet!" the hangman interrupted him. "Or I might change my mind."

Then he stood up and went to the door. Without a word he motioned to Simon to follow him.

They went through the living room, which smelled of fresh-baked bread, across to the little workroom. The hangman, as always, had to stoop to get through the low doorway. Behind him Simon entered the holy of holies. Once again he looked reverently at the ma.s.sive cabinet, which reached up to the ceiling. A treasure chest, A treasure chest, thought Simon. thought Simon. Full of the medical knowledge of centuries... Full of the medical knowledge of centuries...

Immediately the young physician was overcome with the urge to open the cabinet so as to browse through the books and folios. As he moved toward it he almost stumbled over a small chest standing in the middle of the chamber. It was made of polished cherrywood, with silver fittings and a solid-looking lock, with the key still in it.

"Open it," said the hangman. "It belongs to you."

"But..." Simon interjected.

"Consider it as payment for all your trouble," he said. "You helped me to rescue my daughter and also save the woman who brought my children into the world."

Simon knelt and opened the chest. The lid sprang open with a little click.

Inside there were books. At least a dozen.

They were all new editions. Scultetus's Wundarzneylisches Zeughaus, Wundarzneylisches Zeughaus, or or Surgical Armory, Surgical Armory, the book of midwifery by the Swiss Jakob Ruf, the complete works of Ambroise Pare in a German translation, Georg Bartisch's the book of midwifery by the Swiss Jakob Ruf, the complete works of Ambroise Pare in a German translation, Georg Bartisch's Augendienst Augendienst, Paracelsus's Grosse Wundarzney Grosse Wundarzney, bound in leather with ill.u.s.trations in color...

Simon rummaged through them, turning pages. A treasure lay before him, much greater than the one they had found in the tunnels.

"Kuisl," he stammered. "How can I ever thank you? It's too much! That...it must have cost a fortune!"

The hangman shrugged.

"A few golden coins more or less. Old Augustin didn't notice it."

Simon sat up, shocked.

"You mean, you-?"

"I believe that Ferdinand Schreevogl would have wanted it like that," said Jakob Kuisl. "What use would so much money be to the church or the old moneybags on the council? It would have taken on dust just as it did down below in that hole. Now off you go and start reading, before I regret it."

Simon gathered the books together, shut the chest, and grinned.

"Now you can borrow a few books from me when you want to. If in return, Magdalena and I..."

"You rascal, be off with you!" The hangman gave him a gentle slap on the back of the head so that Simon almost tripped over the threshold with the chest. He ran outside and along the banks of the Lech through the tanners' quarter, into town, over the cobblestones of the Munzstra.s.se, and into the narrow stinking alleys, until he arrived panting at his house.

He would have a lot of reading to do today.

A KIND OF POSTSCRIPT.

I DON'T KNOW WHEN I HEARD OF THE KUISLS FOR DON'T KNOW WHEN I HEARD OF THE KUISLS FOR the first time. I must have been about five or six years old when, for the first time, my grandmother gave me a questioning look. It was the same thoughtful look she has to this day when she is busy cla.s.sifying her entire family, by now consisting of more than twenty descendants, into Kuisls and non-Kuisls. At the time I wasn't quite sure whether or not Kuisl was something good or bad. It sounded like a quality, an unusual hair color, or an adjective that I did not yet understand. the first time. I must have been about five or six years old when, for the first time, my grandmother gave me a questioning look. It was the same thoughtful look she has to this day when she is busy cla.s.sifying her entire family, by now consisting of more than twenty descendants, into Kuisls and non-Kuisls. At the time I wasn't quite sure whether or not Kuisl was something good or bad. It sounded like a quality, an unusual hair color, or an adjective that I did not yet understand.

Extrinsic characteristics such as an arched nose, strong dark eyebrows, an athletic body, or abundant growth of hair have been regarded for a long time as Kuisl-like in our family, as have our musical and artistic talents and a sensitive, almost nervous disposition. The latter includes an introverted nature, a tendency toward alcoholism, and a certain dark melancholy. In the Kuisl description left to us by my grandmother's cousin, a pa.s.sionate amateur genealogist, we can read among other observations: "Bent fingernails (claws)" and "tear-jerking sentimentality and sometimes brutality." Altogether not exactly a sympathetic picture, but then you can't choose your family...

It was this same cousin who introduced me, much later, to the subject of what an executioner actually did. I was in my early twenties when one day I found a pile of yellowing papers on the table in our house-tattered pages, covered with typewritten text, in which Fritz Kuisl had collected everything about our ancestors. Along with them were black-and-white photos of instruments of torture and the Kuisl executioner's sword (stolen in the 1970s from the Schongau town museum and never recovered), a two-hundred-year-old master craftman's diploma belonging to my ancestor Johann Michael Kuisl, the last of Schongau's hangmen, typed copies of newspaper articles, and a handwritten family tree several feet long. I heard about Jorg Abriel, a remote ancestor, and his grimoires, grimoires, or books of spells, which are still supposed to be kept in the Bavarian State Library, and learned that the Kuisl executioner dynasty had been one of the most famous of such dynasties in Bavaria. Supposedly more than sixty executions were carried out by my bloodstained ancestor during the Schongau witch trials of 1589 alone. or books of spells, which are still supposed to be kept in the Bavarian State Library, and learned that the Kuisl executioner dynasty had been one of the most famous of such dynasties in Bavaria. Supposedly more than sixty executions were carried out by my bloodstained ancestor during the Schongau witch trials of 1589 alone.

Since then the history of my family has never ceased to intrigue me. When Fritz Kuisl died some years ago, his wife, Rita, allowed me to enter his holy of holies, a small study filled to the ceiling with dusty files and old books about what an executioner is and does. In the tiny room were piles of chests full of family trees and copies of church registers, some from the sixteenth century. On the walls hung faded photographs and paintings of long-dead ancestors. Fritz Kuisl had recorded them on thousands of index cards-names, professions, dates of birth and death...

On one of those index cards my name was written, on another that of my son, who had been born just one year previously. Rita Kuisl had written in the name after the death of her husband.

The end of the line.

A shudder came over me at seeing these things, but also a feeling of belonging, as if a large community had taken me under its wing. In the past few years, genealogical research has become increasingly popular. Perhaps one of the reasons for this is that we are trying, in a world of increasing complexity, to create a simpler and more understandable place for ourselves. No longer do we grow up in large families. We feel increasingly estranged, replaceable, and ephemeral. Genealogy gives us a feeling of immortality. The individual dies; the family lives on.

In the meantime I tell my seven-year-old son about his remarkable forefathers. I leave out the b.l.o.o.d.y details. (For him these people are like knights, which sounds better than hangmen or executioners.) In his bedroom hangs a collage made up of photos of long-dead family members-great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, their aunts, their uncles, their nephews and nieces...

Sometimes at night he wants to hear stories about these people, and I tell him what I know about them. Happy stories, sad stories, frightening stories. For him the family is a safe refuge, a link binding him to many people whom he loves and who love him. I once heard that everyone on this earth is at least distantly related to everyone else. Somehow this is a comforting idea.