Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  “I see the Ocean, Dombaumeister.”

  “But you have never seen the ocean, Master Schäffer. I have seen it. In Normandy. It was grey.”

  “I’ve seen it in my mind, and it is Blue.”

  And it is such a blue, on a day like this. A blue such as only dreamers can conceive, the Blue in the mind of God when He first created Blue.

  The Cathedral of Our Lady of Hagenburg? She seems a ghost, a thankfully forgotten shade. What was once Master Achim’s Holy Vision had become, under Werlinus, a Whore offered to the highest bidder. The Bishop’s Knights competing to commission glass windows with their coats of arms, statuary of saints that bear their own likenesses, Holy Virgins with the faces of their wives.

  It is bitter medicine to think of the past. To think of the hopeful young Shepherd stepping from the river barge, holding his brother’s hand, and striding for the first time into the Hagenburg crowds. To know now, with the melancholy consolation of older age, that Hope and Innocence can never last.

  And all that Hagenburg struggle and tumult between Bishop and City, for Rettich, it all seems as distant as his youthful dreams. Here, the Sun’s honest light dispels all gloom. And Emmerich, God bless him, has bought some land by the side of the waters at the foot of the Pera hill, a grove of hazelnut trees overlooking the straits. Rettich will build them a cabin there, a little house of beech and pine. But for now they have hung hammocks from the fruit-laden branches where they can swing and slumber in the dappled shade.

  Today they have brought some bread, honey and wine, some cheese and olives. The boatman will wait for them. They can sit, drink and eat, sleep in the hammocks through the afternoon heat.

  “Emmle,” says Rettich, “I’m thinking. I don’t want to, but maybe I should return home.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I feel old. I feel pains in my chest in the mornings.”

  “Then rest, brother. You’ve earned it.”

  “Should a man not die at home? With his family all around?”

  “A man can die anywhere. It’s all the same. The only important thing is how he lives.”

  Rettich dips his bread in honey, takes a gulp of wine. He lies back in his hammock, and sways. The hazelnut’s boughs are blown by angels’ breaths, by a restful breeze.

  On the waters the silver sunlight dazzles, the fishermen’s coracles bob and dance. Darkness will come, but will come slowly, she will creep from the sea to the shore, a welcome guest.

  † Rettich Schäffer

  (1210, Lenzenbach, Alsace–1256 Constantinople)

  END OF BOOK TWO

  BOOK THREE

  THE PEN

  (1260–1273)

  PROLOGUE

  ANNO

  1349

  O HAGENBURG

  (ANNO 1349. QUIRIN VON LENZENBACH I)

  On the morning of Saint Valentine’s Day, the Year of Our Lord 1349, an armed crowd, led by the Butchers’ and Tanners’ Guilds, broke into the Jewish Quarter of Our City of Hagenburg. With them they had brought the tools of their trades; meat cleavers and sinew knives, bone mallets and hide-scrapers. The assault was brutal and fierce.

  Some Jews tried to protect their families with kitchen knives and wood-axes, some of the Jewish women slit the throats of their own offspring rather than let them be taken by the mob. Those Israelites who were not killed in the struggle or sacrificed by their own hand were dragged in chains to the Burning Ground. For the purpose of this assault was not the Salvation of the Jews’ souls from the errors of their faith, but their Pillage and Destruction.

  As soon as a Jewish home was emptied of its inhabitants, a plundering began. All property was taken: pins, knives and linen, bowls, plates and candlesticks. From the homes and trading shops of the Moneylenders and Pawnbrokers much coin was despoiled and pledged items returned with triumph to their former owners. Elsewhere floors were broken open, plots of land and courtyards dug up with mattocks in a fevered search for buried treasure. So certain were the mob of the secret, hidden wealth of all Jews that even the homes of the poor and indigent were torn apart.

  In the Jewish Cemetery gravestones were broken with mallets and scattered, and a pyre built, and a trench for burning. One month before, Basel had burned her Jews locked into a wooden house on an island in the middle of the Rhine, Mayenz would soon burn hers on its execution ground with a fire so hot and high that the Cathedral’s very lead gutters melted and ran. Here in Hagenburg, the Jews, nigh on a thousand souls, were burned on the desecrated graves of their own ancestors. Spared were only those young women who, upon being disrobed and their headdresses unravelled, were discovered to be of great physical beauty. These Jewesses were forcefully baptised and then forcefully defiled.

  I and my colleagues in the Council, threatened by the butchers’ mob when we called for the slaughter to cease, could only later return to the burning ground in stealth and darkness. An uncanny sight, the embers of the conflagration still glowing, and amongst the red pulsing jewels of the cinders, an ash-blackened ossuary of human bones.

  Be it on our heads, and the stain on our hands. For weeks we had striven to prevent this massacre, but in vain. This was a mutiny, a revolt of the working people, led by their representatives in the Guilds. The Butchers and Tanners, to a man indebted to Jewish moneylenders who had lent them hard silver in times of flood and famine, who had sold them hundreds of head of cattle on the never-never when times were harsh, were the leaders of this insurgency. And the rest followed in the hope of easy gains, and the settling of petty debts.

  But now the Sun has darkened, the Lord has turned his eyes from us in anger, and Disorder and Calamity are unleashed upon the world. In Hagenburg, the Jews have paid the price for the great misfortune that is now upon us. It was they who were blamed, tried, judged and burned at the stake.

  Some months before the burning, given up to torture, a Jew of Geneva had confessed that he had plotted with the Jews of Toledo to bring the Pestilence and the Great Calamity that now rages through the world. This forced confession had been enough for the Guildmasters of the Rhineland to draw the conclusion that if they murder their Jews, they will be spared the scourge of Plague.

  Yet now, only months after the immolation of the Jews, the Plague is here in Hagenburg.

  I have seen the first corpses, laid on a cart, unshrouded and unshriven, for No One, neither priest nor relative, would come near them for fear of contagion. They were piled against each other, faces contorted in terrible rictus of horror, their skin black-blotched, open sores clotted with scabrous blood.

  The Executioner’s men, at a high price, and mummed in leather and wearing blacksmiths’ gloves, loaded these first carts and took the bodies beyond the walls to the Pit that has been dug, at my instructions, for this purpose. I have specified that the grave should be able to contain one thousand bodies. And I wonder now if that will be enough.

  At the instruction of His Grace the Bishop, I have drafted a Proclamation, to be read in the Public Gathering Places and in the Cathedral, that the ill-gotten gains of the sack of the Jews should not be kept by their Purloiners. The thieves are instructed to leave their thievings on the Altar of the Frauenwerk, for the fabric of the Cathedral of Our Lady of Hagenburg, in the Hope of Her intercession in the punishment of their blackened souls.

  It remains for me, Quirin von Lenzenbach, to consider my own legacy. For if the Pest takes me, as well it might, should I not also fear for the future of my soul? I would not die a Hypocrite, preaching in the corners of the street, and knowing in my own heart a similar sin. For it is said that my own family’s wealth was once stolen from the Jews of Hagenburg, it is said that my esteemed grandfather Emmerich’s position and prominence, the noble title von Lenzenbach itself, was bought with stolen Jewish gold, with the treasures of the so-called “Rosheimer Fortune.”

  This is a sin that I myself have not committed. But can one repent of a Sin, an
d yet keep the profit and benefit thereof? And does not the taint of transgression seep through the generations?

  If I must act to salve the sins of my fathers, I must need act soon. The Calamity is upon us. The Apocalypse, the End of Time.

  The Cathedral bell slowly tolls, the streets are empty. Those who have not already fled the city cower in their homes.

  O, Hagenburg, woe upon thee.

  BOOK THREE

  THE PEN

  (1260–1273)

  I: SNOWDROPS

  (ANNO 5020. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER VI)

  *

  II: POLYPHONY

  (ANNO 1260. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VIII)

  *

  III:THE CHRONICLE OF WALTHER VON KOLZECK: PART I

  (ANNO 1260. WALTHER VON KOLZECK I)

  *

  IV: BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE

  (ANNO 1261. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL V)

  *

  V: PENTECOST

  (ANNO 1261. GRETE GERBER IV)

  *

  VI: NINEVEH

  (ANNO 5021. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER VII)

  *

  VII: QUILL, INK AND PARCHMENT

  (ANNO 1261. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL VI)

  *

  INTERLUDE–ANNO 1318

  VISITATIONS

  (ANNO 1318. ALBRECHT KAIBACH I)

  *

  VIII: MONEYLENDERS’ LANE

  (ANNO 5022. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER VIII)

  *

  IX: CHRIST IS RISEN

  (ANNO 1262. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VIII)

  *

  X: THE CHRONICLE OF WALTHER VON KOLZECK: PART II

  (ANNO 1262. WALTHER VON KOLZECK II)

  *

  XI: VULTURES

  (ANNO 1262. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL VII)

  *

  XII: THE CHRONICLE OF WALTHER VON KOLZECK: PART III

  (ANNO 1262. WALTHER VON KOLZECK III)

  *

  XIII: BRUSHWOOD

  (ANNO 1263. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL VIII)

  *

  XIV: ORVIETO

  (ANNO 1263. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN IX)

  *

  XV: PRINZBACH

  (ANNO 1263. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL IX)

  *

  XVI: THE STRAWHEAD GOY

  (ANNO 1264. EMMERICH SCHÄFFER II)

  *

  INTERLUDE II–ANNO 1318

  THE ROSE

  (ANNO 1318. ALBRECHT KAIBACH II)

  *

  XVII: BLOOD

  (ANNO 1269. TYBOLT I)

  *

  XVIII: THE WOODEN DOLL

  (ANNO 1269. GRETE GERBER V)

  *

  XIX: INK

  (ANNO 1270. EMMERICH SCHÄFFER III)

  *

  XX: KALISZ

  (ANNO 5030. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER IX)

  *

  XXI: THE SILVERED SOW

  (ANNO 1271. GRETE GERBER VI)

  *

  XXII: VON LENZENBACH

  (ANNO 1273. EMMERICH VON LENZENBACH NÉ

  SCHÄFFER IV)

  *

  XXIII: INFINITY

  (ANNO 1273. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN X)

  ANNO

  1260

  SNOWDROPS

  (ANNO 5020. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER VI)

  Herr Rosheimer? Herr Rosheimer?”

  The wintry gloom of the Hagenburg Counting House. Lamps burn over the Counting Table, hanging on long chains from the dark, stone ceiling. Müllenheim the Monetarius, his pale, blinking face golden in lamplight, leans towards Yudl. “Others are waiting. If you would be so kind . . . ”—“Yes, Herr Münzmeister, I will . . . I was . . . distracted.”—“So I see. Would you like me to help you?”

  Yudl runs his fingers over his cheeks and eyes, returning his absent mind to the business in hand. He has made a pile of coins on his right; the coins of which he is uncertain. “These coins, Herr Münzmeister?”

  The Master of the Mint pulls up a stool and sits by Yudl’s side. “These Händelheller coins are good. We are taking them at twenty for nineteen.” “Twenty for nineteen! This is a good trade you’re making, Herr Münzmeister.”

  Müllenheim shrugs, pulls a face that says take it or leave it. “We need coin, Herr Rosheimer. And we need coin out there, circulating from hand to hand, from buyer to seller, from trader to trader. We don’t need it hoarded in chests and under the bedstead. And we certainly don’t need coins like these . . . ” and he rakes from Yudl’s pile a small handful of old Hagenburg pennies, stamped on one side with a faded crown. “These we take and melt down, and issue to the bearer new pennies valent, equivalent to the weight in silver that comes from the melt.” And he makes a sour face. “If there’s any bloody silver in them at all. These are some fifty years old, when times were hard.”

  Yudl raises an eyebrow, pulls his cap from his hair, and scratches his head. “I could lose a couple hundred shillings in this ‘Recoinage’ of yours.”—“Everyone will gain in the long term, Herr Rosheimer.” The Master starts to pick out the faded, tarnished pennies and put them in a pot. “The new coin we are striking with the Prinzbach silver will inspire confidence. What you merchants need is uniformity in currency. Uniformity and clarity.”

  Yudl replaces his cap. “And for that we sacrifice some five per centum of our fortune?”—“A fortune based on fifty-year-old copper coin is not a fortune, that is our contention. We all need a coin we can trust.”—“Nevertheless, it’s a sly trick of the Bishop’s.”

  A mocking exhalation of air. The Master of the Mint smiles. “Of course, the Recoinage bears the Bishop’s seal. But don’t, Herr Rosheimer, confuse all this with the Bishop himself. For years that sick old fool has done nothing but eat pigeon pie, hand out trinkets to his sycophants and beatings to anyone who farts near a Priest.”

  The Monetarius stands. “It’s we who run this City on the day-to-day, don’t forget it.” The “we” echoes in the Counting House strongroom, reverberating darkly. “We who run the Mint, we who tally the accounts, who collect the Tolls, write the statutes, administer the courts. It’s we who keep the whole city on its feet. And we formulate a plan to give strength to the Hagenburg currency, and what thanks do we get from you?”

  Yudl’s hands rise up in protest. “I was only grumbling, Master Müllenheim. Don’t I have a right to grumble if you give me nineteen new Hagenburg pennies on my twenty old Händelheller?”

  Master Müllenheim grunts, sweeps the pennies from the city of Hall am Kocher onto a pewter plate. “With your permission, Herr Rosheimer, Wikerus the Younger is waiting outside to make the tally of his coin. So, let us make an inventory of your coinage banked here. And place all the good coin back in your beautiful strongbox.”

  The fine strongbox that Yudl has inherited from Uncle Meir, the silent vessel of the Rosheimer Fortune: varnished wood bound in bronze buckles, painted with the coat of arms of the town of Rosheim and with words written beautifully in the Holy Script: The refining pot is for silver and the furnace is for Gold, but the Lord tests the Heart.

  “And these ones?” Yudl asks, taking a pouch from his pocket.

  The Master of the Mint bends over Yudl’s shoulder, and plucks out a golden coin, holds it to the light. On one side, a fleur-de-lis, and on the other, St. John the Baptist enhaloed, holding a staff bearing the Lamb of God. A golden Florin, the glorious standard of surgent Florence.

  “A beautiful coin, a beautiful coin,” he murmurs. “Have no fear, young man. These coins you may keep. A full Mark you will get for this, anywhere in the Christian World.”

  

  It was last year in the beth midrash, late on the afternoon of Shabbat. As the last prayers were said and the men prepared to head home for the havdalah, the unknown Stra
nger rose from his bench in the corner.

  He was tall, his ginger beard was long, and in his eyes was a fomentation. “Jews of Hagenburg!” he called, and his voice was soft, but even so the room fell quiet. “You have been wondering who I am, and why I am here. Many of you have asked me, but I have given no answer. Now is my time to speak.”

  When he had arrived in Hagenburg, his boots had been caked in purple-brown mud from the winter roads, his heavy wool cloak bespeckled with grime. But now his boots were polished to a shine, his clothes pristine. His voice rang out in the darkening temple. “I have been sent to you by his grace Duke Boleslav of Kalisz! A righteous gentile such as the lands of Ashkenaz have never before seen! I have travelled here from his bounteous lands, a fertile plain fed by the gentle Prosna river. In his Dukedom the rivers teem with pike, the ponds with carp, and the cattle grow fat on the emerald grass. In the forests, silver birch, raspberries and blackberries, mushrooms and fowl. In the city of Kalisz itself, cleanliness and order such as you may only dream of in the stink and crowd of Hagenburg.”

  In front of the ark, the everlasting light flickers, and there is silence in the beth midrash. Yudl’s eyes search out Rabbi Menahem, but he is leaned against his lectern, eyes closed, facing the floor, listening, rapt.

  The Stranger smiles. “Jews of Hagenburg, I do not pretend to paint to you a picture of Earthly Paradise. True, the winters are cold. True, in autumn, the winds blow and in the spring, the rain falls, like anywhere else in this tearful vale of Ashkenaz! But, in Kalisz, by order of the Duke, the Jews are free!”

  Yudl looks up, studying the Stranger’s glowing countenance. He knows a salesman when he sees one, knows the preamble that precedes the harder sale.

  “The Jews of Kalisz are free to own property in town or country, free to practice any trade. The Duke concedes the Jews these rights in a written proclamation, of which I have a copy here.” And from his cloak he pulls a roll of parchment, which he slowly unfolds.