Now, too, they kept their distance and looked frightened as they observed the seething crowd, all of whom looked ready to put up a fight. Kuisl doubted that his party would last longer than a few sword blows in a fight with these angry mountain folk.
Johann Lechner turned to the crowd, most of whom were looking down in embarrassment. “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded in a loud voice.
A huge man stepped forward, his arms crossed defiantly over his potbelly. He raised his head and stared at Lechner as if to suggest he was unaccustomed to taking orders. “My name is Konrad Faistenmantel,” he growled. “I’m chairman of the town council here in Oberammergau.”
“The chairman of the town council goes out and picks fights in a cemetery?” Lechner said with a smirk. “I must say, you Oberammergauers are a strange lot.”
“And who are you to judge us?” Faistenmantel snapped back.
His opponent did not bat an eye. “I am Johann Lechner, the Schongau secretary,” he said in a flat voice. “Representative of the Bavarian elector and investigator of the grisly murder that recently took place in your ill-fated village.” Then he pointed to the broad-shouldered hangman still standing with his grandson in the middle of the cemetery. “And this man is the Schongau executioner. Anyone who resists my orders will make his acquaintance.”
A murmur went through the crowd, and for a moment even Konrad Faistenmantel seemed intimidated. He quickly pulled himself together, however. “We have no need of Schongauers here,” he said. “We have our own judges, and His Excellency Johannes Rieger won’t be especially pleased if you start snooping around in his district.”
“You can leave that to me. Evidently, His Excellency is not even able to put an end to this tumult in the cemetery.” Lechner looked them all in the eye to make sure his point was clear. “In any case, he doesn’t seem to be around, and I am thus dissolving this meeting at once.”
“But this . . . this is a burial service, Your Excellency,” came a hesitant voice from back in the crowd. It was the priest, who until then had remained silent. “Please . . .”
“One that has come to a most inglorious end,” Lechner said. “The gravediggers will now close the grave, and everyone else will immediately leave the cemetery.” He turned to the crowd. “Go home. And ask the dear Lord to forgive your reprehensible behavior.”
Some of the men muttered and clenched their fists again. “We won’t let anyone tell us when to end our burial services,” one of them cried out. “And certainly not someone from Schongau.” The speaker was a powerfully built young man, a son of the town council chairman, and he now approached Lechner’s coach with threatening eyes and a swaying gait. When he reached the gate to the cemetery, he bumped into Jakob Kuisl, who was standing in the way.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, young fellow?” the hangman asked. “Are you coming to see me?”
For a moment, young Faistenmantel seemed to be considering a fight with the Schongau executioner, but then he noticed his huge upper arms that were as large as the trunk of a birch tree and saw the determined look on Jakob’s face, and sullenly he lowered his head.
“We’ll meet again, hangman,” he mumbled.
“My pleasure . . . at the scaffold.” Kuisl gave him a light push on the chest, and the young man hurried back to his people. After this confrontation, the locals seemed to give up. One after the other they left the cemetery, though not without casting a few more angry glances at Lechner and Kuisl.
“This is not the end of the matter,” Faistenmantel growled. “I’ll see to it that the judge and the Ettal abbot learn about this.”
Lechner twirled his goatee. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll let them know right away. I’m sure we’ll soon have a very animated conversation,” he said, stretching and yawning, “but first I’d like to rest a bit from this strenuous trip. By the way, I’ll be in the Schwabenwirt tavern, across the street from the judge’s house. Tell the innkeeper I’m taking the entire top floor . . . and, Kuisl?” Lechner turned to his hangman. “If you wish you can go and look after your family. In an hour we’ll leave for Ettal Monastery, where the dear abbot and his judge will graciously receive us—with absolutely no brawling.”
With that, the secretary left the astonished Konrad Faistenmantel standing there and climbed back into his coach. The driver cracked his whip, and, rattling and squeaking, the wagon turned into the little lane that led to the tavern.
“Better do what he says,” Kuisl said, tapping Faistenmantel on the shoulder. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. This guy is tough.” He grinned. “If Lechner doesn’t get what he wants, he can become a real pain in the backside.”
A short time later, Jakob and Simon were sitting in the main room of the bathhouse opposite some shelves containing pickled snakes, salamanders, and toads.
Simon was excitedly telling his father-in-law about everything that had happened recently, while Jakob sat, calmly smoking his pipe. So that they could speak undisturbed, they’d sent Peter into the next room, where he was translating a short text by the ancient doctor Dioscorides from Latin to German—homework that Peter did grudgingly at first, but later with greater and greater enthusiasm.
“A person is crucified just so someone can get a certain role in the Passion play?” Jakob grumbled after Simon had finished. “That seems to me a bit far-fetched, but I suppose the Ammergau judge wants to find a culprit as soon as possible in order to restore order in the village.” He was deep in thought, chewing on his pipe stem. “No doubt I should start questioning this Göbl soon.”
Simon nodded. “Especially since some sheets with Dominik Faistenmantel’s lines in the play were found in his room, and the two had a physical confrontation. Things look pretty bad for Göbl, unless we can find evidence pointing to another culprit.” He sighed. “And if I understand correctly, that’s exactly what Lechner is expecting of you, even if I don’t yet understand why.”
Earlier, on their way to the bathhouse, Kuisl had told him about his confrontation with Dr. Ransmayer and how Barbara had been snooping about. Even though Simon was secretly pleased to hear how the obnoxious nobleman had been put in his place, he was sure that Jakob’s attack on the doctor presented a grave danger for the entire Kuisl family. Evidently the Schongau secretary had been able to use that to put pressure on the hangman.
“Lechner has an eye on the trusteeship of the Murnau district, to which the Ammer River valley belongs,” Jakob Kuisl explained. “If he solves this case, he can count on support from Munich. The abbot of Ettal Monastery will of course attempt to stop him. This area used to be under one jurisdiction, and the abbot and judge will surely try anything they can to restore that power.”
Simon groaned. “Isn’t that just fine. Either we get on the wrong side of Johann Lechner and have trouble in Schongau, or we anger the abbot of Ettal here in this district where my son attends school.” Exhausted, he leaned over, propping his hands on the table where the medications, crucibles, and measuring scoops used in his recent treatments still lay. “What does Lechner expect of you? As a hangman, it’s hardly possible for you to go around knocking on doors, asking questions.”
Jakob grinned. “No, of course not, but I can think about things and draw my own conclusions. Lechner knows that I’ve often figured things out that way. Knocking on doors is your job. As the medicus you can keep your ears open, and I’ll do the brainwork.” His face darkened as he took another drag on his pipe. “Just the same, this case is damned tricky. Nobody could have put Dominik up on the cross by himself, right? So there had to be several people involved.”
“Perhaps the whole Göbl family?” Simon suggested. “At least they’d have a motive. They had a blood feud with the Faistenmantels, and it’s an established fact that Hans Göbl was trying to steal the part of Jesus Christ from Dominik. Perhaps the rejection was more than they could take?”
“Enough for them to want to nail Dominik to the cross?” The hangman shook his head. “No, a real Oberammergau
er slams his archenemy over the head with a beer stein, he doesn’t nail him to a cross.”
“So was it someone from out of town? But why?” Simon coughed as a cloud from Jakob’s pipe enveloped him. He remembered seeing something strange at the cemetery that he couldn’t put his finger on, but he was distracted by all the smoke and put the thought aside again.
“There’s something strange going on in this valley,” he finally continued. “The driver of the wagon that brought us here said he thought there was a curse on the town, and perhaps he’s right.” Simon paused. “I can’t put it into words, but I can feel how these mountains are moving in and crushing the people between them. And then there is this sinister Kofel Mountain with all its gruesome stories. They say a witch lives up there in a cave and bakes little children in his oven.”
“Are you a doctor or a superstitious old woman?” Jakob growled. “Stop these silly stories and let’s have a look at the facts. Someone has been put to death on a cross—and on a Friday, just like our Savior. Why?”
“To redeem our sins?” Simon shrugged. “I don’t know—tell me.”
“Perhaps because this crime is so vile that it distracts us from something. Perhaps someone wants people to be thinking only about this crucifixion, and not about something important.”
“And what would that important thing be?”
“That’s what we have to find out, but it surely has nothing to do with a mountain, a witch, or other such folderol.” Jakob frowned. “I’ve heard that the Oberammergauers fight all the time, in any case, and not just the Göbls and the Faistenmantels. We have to learn more about this place and its people. Behind every deed, no matter how vile, there are people.”
“Oh, I just remembered something,” said Simon. “Konrad Faistenmantel threatened the judge during the autopsy. Evidently he had in his hand some incriminating document pertaining to a business deal. Perhaps Dominik knew something about it and had to be silenced? And perhaps the victim himself also had something to hide. I’ve heard from a number of people that Dominik was saying strange things before he died.”
Jakob nodded. “You see, we’re starting to put things together. As I said, we’ve got to learn more about the people here, including the judge, the Faistenmantels, the Göbls, and many others.” He stroked his shaggy beard, lost in thought. “At the same time we mustn’t forget we’ve left two women at home who actually need us to look after them.”
Simon was startled. In the last two days he’d rarely thought about Magdalena. So much was going on here in Oberammergau. How was she—and Barbara, and little Paul? Jakob had told him that Magdalena was displeased by the news that Simon would be away from home for a while—he expected that. But what he didn’t consider was that she was possibly in danger, especially because of Barbara’s silly snooping around.
“Do you think the burgomaster and Doctor Ransmayer intend to take revenge on the Kuisls?” Simon asked cautiously.
The hangman thought it over. “Ransmayer swore he would take his revenge on me—that much is clear. But whether Buchner will get involved or not, I can’t say. Actually, it’s not such a serious matter that the burgomaster would make a big issue of it. Unless . . .” He paused, and took a drag on his long-stemmed pipe, which by then had gone out.
“Unless what?” Simon asked.
“Well, unless Barbara really learned something when she eavesdropped on the two in the church. Then we need to clear up this case here as fast as possible and get back home before the guards come and burn our house down.”
The wife of the young wagon driver was screaming like a deranged cow.
Magdalena gently dabbed the sweat from her brow while the midwife Martha Stechlin groped deep down inside the woman for the child. For two weeks Eva Baumgartner had been waiting expectantly for the child to come, and as the pains had gotten worse and worse recently, Magdalena decided to give the woman a potion made from buttercups to induce the birth. That afternoon she called for Stechlin when the woman’s water finally broke.
Now the two of them cared for young Frau Baumgartner, who was barely eighteen and almost a child herself. Two old women, relatives of the young mother-to-be, sat in a corner of the stuffy room saying their rosaries; the air was thick with the fragrance of incense, sage, and juniper. In accordance with ancient custom, the husband would be permitted back in the house only after the birth. Three times already, Lukas Baumgartner had anxiously and impatiently rapped on the closed shutters, but each time Magdalena had sent him away.
“You’re almost there,” she whispered into the ear of the screaming Frau Baumgartner. “We can already see the head. It will be over soon . . . Just push hard once more.”
In fact, a little head with black, curly locks was appearing between the woman’s thighs, and with bloodied hands Martha Stechlin was gradually pulling it out. The young mother screamed at the top of her voice one last time, and the midwife finally took the child in her arms. Martha cut the umbilical cord with a rusty pair of scissors and gave the baby a slap on the back so that it gave its first cry before she finally handed the child to Eva Baumgartner.
“It’s a boy,” she said. “And he looks strong. I’ll pray that the Lord doesn’t take him away again this time.”
In fact, Eva Baumgartner had already given birth to two children that had both died after a few weeks. At least the priest had baptized the poor little souls in time so they would not spend eternity in limbo, the abode of unbaptized infants.
As Magdalena fetched a bucket to dispose of the afterbirth, she couldn’t help thinking of her own child who was on the way. She nearly choked with emotion—would the Lord take this child from her as well, just as He had little Anna-Maria?
In the meantime, Eva Baumgartner had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and the baby had closed its eyes as well. The two old women shuffled out the door to bring the good news to the husband while Magdalena collapsed on a stool next to Martha.
“That’s the seventh birth this month,” she sighed. “None of them was simple, and now my miserable husband has abandoned me, and it’s up to me to run the bathhouse alone, to say nothing of the worries I have because of Barbara’s snooping around. If I wasn’t so tired I would scream.” Once more, anger welled up in her over how Simon had decided so casually to stay in Oberammergau for a while longer. “That’s the way it always is: the men take off, and it’s up to the women to figure things out as best they can. Curses! There’d have to be three of me to take care of all the work here.”
Martha Stechlin smiled. “It’s just that people trust you,” she said. “Perhaps even more than Simon. And even more than me. Who would believe that you started your training with me just ten years ago?”
Magdalena couldn’t help smiling as well. She remembered only too well her first birth as a midwife’s helper. Back then, she’d been a young, clumsy kid who, instead of helping Stechlin, got in her way most of the time. Since then, she’d assisted at hundreds of births. A number of mothers had died following childbirth from the fever that was just as mysterious and unavoidable as a curse, but Magdalena had also been able to help many others.
“You have what we midwives call healing hands,” Stechlin said suddenly in a serious voice.
Magdalena looked at the old woman with surprise. “Healing hands? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, most people think they are saved by medicines.” She pointed at the many crucibles with ointments and powders scattered around on the table. “But take this from an old woman: it’s not so much medicine that heals, it’s faith. By that I don’t mean faith in our dear Lord—people believe in you, Magdalena. They trust you. You listen to them, and that’s what makes you a good healer.”
Magdalena silently studied her own calloused hands, still spotted and sticky with blood. In recent years she had in fact become known not just as a good midwife but as a respected bathhouse keeper, respected especially in the poor sections of Schongau—the Tanners’ Quarter and down here in the marshlands by the river. Up
in the village, on the other hand, many people still thought of her as the dishonorable hangman’s daughter—even though she was now over thirty years old. Just the same, well-placed citizens of the town came to her, and to Simon, because they trusted the talents of the bathhouse keepers more than those of the learned doctors. Increasingly, people would even seek Magdalena’s advice about everyday matters—whether they should take a long trip, how to appease an angry husband, or if a contentious engagement could be called off.
“Hmm, healing hands.” Magdalena smiled as she looked at her dirty fingernails and the blisters from her work in the garden. “Well, these healing hands still have work to do today.”
She arose upon hearing a cautious tapping on the shutter.
“You can come in now, Lukas,” she called to him. “Everything went well.”
There was a sound of running feet, the door was flung open, and young Lukas Baumgartner rushed in. After kissing the sleeping woman on the forehead, he looked with some embarrassment at the baby wrapped in towels.
“Is it, uh . . .” he started to say.
“Yes, you can rest easy, it’s a boy,” Stechlin interrupted. “Another one of you drunken, brawling men, as if we didn’t already have enough.”
Lukas Baumgartner grinned. He was a tall, handsome lad just twenty years old and had been accepted only last fall as a full member of the wagon drivers’ guild. Magdalena had known him when he was still a child who would run after her father, shouting fresh words. Now Lukas had his own family.
Suddenly the young man’s gaze darkened. “What do I owe you two?” he asked hesitantly.
“Half a guilder,” Martha responded. “I’ll give you the mugwort for free. It’s just a weed that grows in my garden.”
The Play of Death Page 11