Another character in my novel is based on a historical figure: the madam Dorothea. In the eighteenth century a certain Dorothea Maria Bächlein ran a house of prostitution at Peterstor (St. Peter’s Gate) on the south side of the city. Unfortunately nothing remains of the gate or the bordello, and the Henkershaus (Hangman’s House) at the present-day 2 Königsstraße is no longer standing, either.
My search for the Regensburger Brunnenstube (Regensburg well chamber), where my final showdown takes place, turned out to be a difficult one. Once located near the Galgenberg (gallows hill) south of the city, it lies under the busy Universitätsstraße today. When I expressed my wish to visit the well chamber, the city informed me regretfully that such a visit would require setting up a detour for all local traffic. I had to rely on a few photos, and you’ll have to rely on the description in the book.
The Rathausplatz (city hall square), the end of our present tour, is easy to reach by heading west along Unter den Schwibbögen. The little House of Fools, where Simon meets the drunken Father Hubertus and spends a few unpleasant hours, was once attached to the magnificent city hall. Right next to it was the entrance to the dungeon where Magdalena sneaks past the guards to visit her father.
The tourist information center is located in city hall itself. By all means book a tour through the Reichstagsmuseum and the Fragstatt (Reichstag Museum and the torture chamber). The Reichstag is an absolute must-see in Regensburg! Nowhere else in Germany can you get such a good feel for the politics of the period as in the assembly hall where representatives from all parts of the German Empire met and debated for 150 years (though they debated more than they actually made any real decisions). Anyone trying to understand the European Union or the German parliamentary system need only come to Regensburg, where it all began. If you’re a German speaker, you’ll learn the origins of some German phrases, such as auf die lange Bank schieben (to procrastinate, or literally, “to push onto the long bench”) and am grünen Tisch (to negotiate, literally, “at the green table”).
Just as interesting is the gloomy torture chamber next door, in whose dungeons major portions of this novel take place. I hope you get a sense of what Jakob Kuisl might have felt when he saw the rack, the Schlimme Liesl (Bad Lizzie), and the Spanische Reiter (Spanish Rider). The Regensburg torture chamber is the only one in all of Germany still preserved in its original condition. All the instruments of torture actually come from here. And the niche for the inquisitors behind the latticework, as well as the little bench with half a backrest, is historical.
After so many grisly scenes, treat yourself to a mocha in the Café Prinzess (Princess Café) on the city hall square, the oldest coffeehouse in Germany, according to its owners. Admittedly the café didn’t open for business until 1686, but I simply opened it a few years early for Simon and Magdalena. I beg your pardon for this; perhaps I can humor you a bit with the exquisite pralines the café offers.
If you plan to stay a second day, that would be a good time to board a boat and take a trip down the Danube. Just like our two executioners, you’ll float along at a leisurely pace until you reach the town of Donaustauf and the Walhalla, a reproduction of the Parthenon commissioned by Ludwig I. While this national monument didn’t exist at the time, a visit is nevertheless worthwhile. From here, a path leads up to the ruins of the nearby Donaustauf Castle, which was destroyed by the Swedes in the Thirty Years’ War. But please don’t go looking for the ruins of Weidenfeld there! You’ll just get lost in the woods and starve to death—though not without first cursing my overactive imagination.
With this tour you’ve seen only a fraction of Regensburg, of course. You’ll have to find a reason to come back—perhaps with a new book of mine? There are countless stories yet to be told about this grandiose city.
Wishing you much pleasure in reading, strolling about, and poking around,
—OLIVER PÖTZSCH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people have helped me in the writing of this book. My special thanks to the late local historian Karl Bauer. His book, Regensburg, is a treasure trove of true stories, upon which many of the ideas for this novel are based. Without such tireless and energetic historians, books like mine wouldn’t be possible.
Special thanks also to Matthias Freitag of Regensburg, the team of STADTMAUS, and Dr. Heinrich Wanderwitz, curator of the city archives, whom I pestered with endless questions. Any errors that may have slipped in are, of course, my responsibility.
Thanks also to Rainer Wieshammer, who taught me how to make green oil; the Wagner family, who guided me through the Weltenburg Enge (Weltenburg Narrows); the incomparable colleague and writer Günther Thömmes, who, over ten mugs of wheat beer, introduced me to the secrets of brewing beer; Dr. Peter Büttner of the Bavarian Agricultural Department for his information about ergot; Till and Christian for the Italian translations; Ingo for the idea of the hanged hangmen; my agent, Gerd Rumler, for wine and truffle ravioli; my editor, Uta Rupprecht, who’s taught me what a confoundedly difficult language German is; and above all, to my brother, Marian, and my wife, Katrin: first readers who once again did a first-rate job.
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THE WARLOCK:
A HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER TALE
LIGHTNING FLASHED FROM the sky like the finger of an angry god.
Simon Fronwieser saw it directly over Lake Ammer: for a fraction of a second, it lit up the foaming waves in a sickly green. It was followed by a peal of thunder and a steady downpour—a black, soaking wall of rain that drenched the two dozen or so pilgrims from Schongau in seconds. Though it was only seven in the evening, night had fallen suddenly. The medicus gripped the hand of his wife, Magdalena, tighter and, along with the others, prepared to climb the steep hill to the Andechs monastery.
“We were lucky!” shouted Magdalena over the thundering downpour. “An hour earlier and the storm would have caught us out on the lake!”
Simon nodded silently. It wouldn’t be the first time a ship of pilgrims had gone down with all hands in Lake Ammer. Now, barely twenty years after the end of the Great War, the crowds of pilgrims streaming to the famous Bavarian monastery were larger than anyone could remember. In a time of hunger, storms, ravenous wolves, and marauders, people were eager to find protection in the arms of the church more than ever. This longing was fed by reports of miracles, and the Andechs monastery in particular, a full thirty miles southwest of Munich, was renowned for its ancient relics that possessed magic powers—as well as for its beer, which helped people to forget their worries.
When the medicus turned around again, he could just make out through the rain clouds the wind-whipped lake that they had just managed to escape. Two days before, he had left Schongau with Magdalena and a group from their hometown. The pilgrimage led them over the Hohenpeißenberg to Dießen on Lake Ammer, where a rickety rowboat took them to the other shore. Now they were proceeding through the forest along a steep, muddy path toward the monastery, which towered far above them in the dark clouds.
Burgomaster Karl Semer led the procession on horseback, followed on foot by his grown son and the Schongau priest, who struggled to keep a huge painted wooden cross upright in the wind. Behind him came carpenters, masons, and cabinetmakers and, finally, the young patrician Jakob Schreevogl, the only city councilman along with Semer to heed the call for the pilgrimage.
Simon assumed that both Schreevogl and the burgomaster had come less in search of spiritual salvation than for business reasons. A place like Andechs, with its thousands of hungry and thirsty pilgrims, was a gold mine. The medicus wondered what the dear Lord would have to say about this. Hadn’t Jesus chased all the merchants and moneylenders from the temple? Well, at least Simon’s conscience was clear. He and Magdalena had come to Andechs not to make money but only to thank God for saving their two children.
Simon couldn’t help smiling when he thought of three-year-old Peter at home and his brother, Paul, who had just turned two. He wondered if the children were giving thei
r grandfather, the Schongau hangman, a hard time.
When another bolt of lightning hit a nearby beech, the pilgrims screamed and threw themselves to the ground. There was a snapping and crackling as sparks jumped to other trees. In no time, the entire forest seemed to be on fire.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
In the twilight Simon could see Karl Semer fall to his knees a few paces away and cross himself several times. Alongside him, his petrified son stared open-mouthed at the burning beeches while, all around him, the other Schongauers fled into a nearby ravine. Simon’s ears were ringing from the bone-jarring thunderclap that accompanied the flash of lightning, so he heard his wife’s voice as if through a wall of water.
“Let’s get out of here! We’ll be safer down there by the brook.”
Simon hesitated, but his wife seized him and pulled him away just as flames shot up from two beeches and a number of small firs at the edge of the narrow path. Simon stumbled over a rotten branch, then slid down the smooth slope covered with dead leaves. Arriving at the bottom of the ravine, he stood up, groaning, and wiped a few twigs from his hair while scanning the apocalyptic scene all around.
The lightning had split the huge beech straight down the middle. Burning boughs and branches were strewn down the slope. The flames cast a flickering light on the Schongauers, who moaned, prayed, and rubbed their bruised arms and legs. Fortunately, none of them appeared injured; even the burgomaster and his son seemed to have survived the disaster unscathed. In the gathering dusk, old Semer was busy searching for his horse, which had galloped away with his baggage.
Simon felt a slight satisfaction as he watched the animal run through the forest, bellowing loudly.
I hope the mare took off with his big moneybags, he thought. If that fat old goat shouts one more hallelujah from up there on his horse, I’m going to commit a mortal sin.
Simon quickly dismissed this thought as unworthy of a pilgrim and quietly cursed himself for not having brought along a warmer coat. The new green woolen cape he’d bought at the Augsburg cloth market was dapper, but after the rain it hung on him like a limp rag.
“One might think God had some objection to our visiting the monastery today.”
Simon turned to Magdalena, who had directed her eyes at the sky as rain ran down her mud-spattered cheeks.
“Thundershowers are rather common this time of year,” Simon replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact and somewhat composed again. “I don’t think that—”
“It’s a sign!” cried a trembling voice off to one side. Sebastian Semer, son of the burgomaster, held out the fingers of his right hand in a gesture meant to ward off evil spirits. “I told you right away we should leave the woman at home.” He pointed at Magdalena and Simon. “Anyone who takes a hangman’s daughter and a filthy bathhouse owner along on a pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain might as well invite Beelzebub, too. The lightning is a sign from God warning us to do penance and—”
“Shut your fresh mouth, Semer boy,” Magdalena scolded, narrowing her eyes. “What do you know about penance, hmm? Wipe your britches off before everyone notices you’re so scared you’ve peed in your pants again.”
Ashamed, Sebastian Semer stared at the dark spot on the front of his wide-cut reddish purple petticoat breeches. Then he turned away silently, but not without casting one last angry look at Magdalena.
“Don’t mind him. The little rascal is the spoiled offspring of his father.”
Jakob Schreevogl now emerged from the darkness of the forest, wearing a tight-fitting jerkin, high leather boots, and a white lace collar framing an unusual face with a Vandyke beard and a hooked nose. A fine rain trickled down his ornamented sword.
“In general I agree with you, Fronwieser.” Schreevogl turned to Simon and pointed at the sky. “Such violent storms aren’t unusual in June, but when the lightning strikes right beside you, it’s like you’re feeling God’s anger.”
“Or the anger of your fellow citizens,” Simon added gloomily.
Almost four summers had passed since his marriage to Magdalena, and since then a number of Schongau citizens had let Simon know just how they felt about this marriage. As the daughter of the hangman, Jakob Kuisl, Magdalena was an outcast, someone to be avoided if possible.
Simon reached for his belt to check that a little bag of healing herbs and medical instruments was still attached there. It was quite possible he’d need some of his medicines during this pilgrimage. The Schongauers had often sought his help in recent years. Memories of the Great War still haunted some of the older people, and plagues and other diseases had swept over Schongau again and again. Last winter, Simon and Magdalena’s sons had also fallen ill, but God had been merciful and spared them. In the following days, Magdalena prayed many rosaries and finally convinced Simon to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain with her after Pentecost, along with nearly two dozen other citizens of Schongau and Altenstadt—citizens who wanted to show their gratitude to the Lord at the famous Festival of the Three Hosts. Simon and Magdalena had left the two children in the care of their grandparents—a wise decision, in view of the last hour’s events, the medicus again admitted to himself.
“It looks as if the rain will finally quench the fire.” Jakob Schreevogl pointed at the storm-ravaged beech, where only a few flames still flickered. “We should move along. Andechs can’t be far off now—perhaps one or two miles. What do you think?”
Simon shrugged and looked around. The other trees were smoldering, but the rain had now become so heavy that the pilgrims could hardly see their hands in front of their faces in the growing dusk. The Schongauers had taken refuge beneath a nearby fir to wait out the heaviest rain. Only Karl Semer, still looking for his horse, was wandering around somewhere in the nearby forest, shouting loudly. His son had decided in the meantime to sit down and pout on an overturned tree trunk, trying to drive the cold from his bones with help of a flask he’d brought along. His Excellency Konrad Weber frowned at the young dandy but didn’t interfere. The old Schongau priest was not about to pick a fight with the son of the presiding burgomaster.
Just as the pilgrims were beginning to calm down, another bolt of lightning struck not far away and once again the Schongauers ran like spooked chickens down the muddy slopes, farther into the valley below. The priest’s wooden cross came to rest, filthy and splintered, between rocks.
“Just stay together!” Simon shouted into the thunder and rain. “Lie down on the ground! On the ground you’ll be safe!”
“Forget it.” Magdalena shook her head and turned to leave. “They don’t hear you, and even if they did, they’d hardly obey a dishonorable bathhouse owner.”
Simon sighed and hurried with Magdalena after the others. Beside them the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle carried an almost thirty-pound pilgrimage candle. Though its flame had gone out, the powerful, nearly six-foot-tall man held it up as straight as a battle flag. In comparison, Simon looked even smaller and more slender.
“Stupid peasants!” Hemerle grumbled, stepping around a muddy puddle with great strides. “It’s just a thunderstorm! We have to get out of this goddamned forest—fast! But if those cowards keep running around like that, we’ll get completely lost!”
Simon nodded silently and rushed ahead.
In the meantime darkness had descended completely under the dark canopy of trees. The medicus could see only vague shadows of some of the Schongauers, though he heard anxious cries farther off. Someone was praying loudly to the Fourteen Holy Helpers.
And in the distance now howling wolves could be heard.
Simon shuddered. The beasts had multiplied considerably in the years since the Great War and now plagued the land just like wild pigs. The hungry animals were no threat to a group of twenty hardy men, but for Schongauers wandering alone through the forests they presented a real danger.
Branches lashing his face, Simon struggled not to lose sight of at least Magdalena and the sturdy Balthasar Hemerle’s pilgrimage candle. Fortunately, the carpe
nter was so tall that Simon could see him over the tops of bushes and even some low trees.
When the huge man stopped as if rooted to the spot, Simon stumbled and almost bumped into him and Magdalena. The medicus was about to utter a curse when he froze and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
In a small clearing directly before them stood two wolves with drooping jaws, growling at the three pilgrims. Their small eyes were red dots in the night, and their hind legs were tensed, ready to pounce. Their bodies were thin and scrawny, as if they hadn’t found prey for a long time.
“Don’t move!” Hemerle whispered. “If you run, they’ll attack you from behind. And we don’t know if there are any more nearby.”
Slowly Simon reached for his linen pouch, where along with his medical instruments and herbs he kept a stiletto as sharp as a razor. He wasn’t sure the little knife would help against the two famished beasts. Beside him, Magdalena stared at the wolves, unmoving. A few steps away Hemerle raised the heavy candle above him like a sword, as if he were about to smash the skull of one of the beasts.
A pilgrimage candle sullied with wolf’s blood! Simon thought. What would the abbot in the monastery have to say about that?
“Stay calm, Balthasar,” Magdalena whispered to the carpenter after a few moments of silence. “Look at their tails between their legs. The animals are more afraid of us than we are of them. Let’s just slowly step back—”
At that moment, the larger of the two wolves lunged for Simon and Magdalena. The medicus dodged to one side and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the animal rush past. Scarcely had the wolf landed on his feet than he turned around to attack again. The animal snarled and opened his mouth wide, revealing huge white fangs dripping with saliva. Simon imagined he could see every drop individually, magnified as if through a microscope. The wolf prepared to jump again.
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (US Edition) Page 47