Freude returned with the young woman, who, when she turned around, had the appearance of being simple-minded. Her eyes were dull, her mouth slack, her face pasty and pockmarked.
Father Streng came forward, held up the crucifix, and commanded her to swear.
“Ja,” she said eagerly, bobbing her head.
“State your name and age,” said Judge Steinbach.
“Fraulein Ursula Spatz, age 18, sir.”
“Date of birth,” said Chancellor Brandt.
“March 22. Or maybe 23 or 24. I-I’m not sure.”
Father Streng, having returned to his seat and his ledger, waved the quill. “Year?”
The girl stood, her face blank.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll do the subtraction. You say you are 18?”
“I-I think so.”
Father Streng made no effort to hide his contempt. “Apparently then you were born in 1608. Does that make sense to you, Fraulein Spatz?”
The girl gave a small shrug.
“Parents?” said Chancellor Brandt.
“My mother died when I was born. I never knew my father.”
“An orphan then, probably a bastard,” said Father Streng. “Do you know your real name?”
“I was named by the director of the Julius Hospital. I lived there with the other orphans until I was hired out by Herr Zwingen.” She spat the name.
“Do you know why you’ve been brought here?” asked Judge Steinbach.
“N-nein.”
“You do not know, Fraulein Spatz, of the accusations made against you?” said Chancellor Brandt.
Her face crumpled. “I-I know about them, but they’re all lies.”
“How did you know Frau Imhof, Fraulein Stolzberger, and Frau Basser?” asked Hampelmann.
“I didn’t.”
Hampelmann cocked his head. “You claim not to have known them and that their accusations are lies. Yet all three witches testified that you attended the sabbath with them.”
“Nein,” she shouted. “I’ve never been to a witches’ meeting.”
Chancellor Brandt nodded toward the executioner. Freude loosened the shift’s laces, untied the girl’s wrists, then quickly pulled the shift from her shoulders so that it fell to the floor. Though her shocked face was plain and doughy, her large body lumpy and ungainly, her heavy legs widely bowed, Hampelmann felt himself respond to the nakedness she tried so desperately to hide. Chiding himself for his body’s weakness, he concentrated on the pulley on the ceiling. This was exactly what witches wanted, for men like him to be made weak and stupid by lust – so stupid they might actually believe them to be innocent.
The executioner drew out his pin and poked it into a large pockmark on the girl’s shoulder. “O-o-ow!” she wailed. With a hand now free from restraint, she tried to cover the place he’d pricked. He slapped her hand away.
“What am I to record, Herr Freude?” said Father Streng, his quill poised.
“She feels the pain, but there is little blood. She could be feigning. Most of her marks would appear to be from smallpox.”
“Then search her more thoroughly,” the priest said impatiently. “It is repugnant, I know, but Der Hexenhammer requires it. Accused witches must be searched: even in the most secret parts of their bodies, which must not be named.”
The girl’s neck and face flushed scarlet when Freude forced her to bend forward so he could examine her buttocks and crotch. The commissioners watched closely. Whimpering, she covered her face with her hands. Hampelmann looked away and saw that Lutz had bowed his head. Torchlight played across the lawyer’s blanched face.
“I see nothing unusual,” said Freude. “Herr Doktor Lindner, would you have a look?” The physician came forward and directed Freude where to poke and prod with the birch rod. They stepped back and consulted, then Lindner pointed, and Freude poked her again in the crotch, carefully separating the folds. The girl bit down on her lip, but did not cry out.
Lindner returned to his seat. “She bears the stigma diaboli in the most secret of places,” he announced. “It could have been given to her in only one way. The girl has copulated with a demon.”
“Nein,” she screamed. “Never.”
Freude smacked the back of her bald head. “You are not to speak except to answer questions.” He held out the shift to the girl, who pulled it over her body as quickly as she could. He bound her wrists.
“Where and when did you first meet with the Devil?” said Hampelmann.
“Never. I go to mass every Sunday, and confession. Just like I’m told. I’m a good girl.”
Chancellor Brandt laid a hand over the gold medallion on his chest. “You claim to be a good girl, but didn’t you bear a child out of wedlock?”
“I-I was forced.”
“Forced?”
“By my employer, Herr Zwingen.”
Snorting incredulously, Lindner leaned forward. “Fraulein Spatz, you conceived a child. Medical evidence proves that conception cannot occur unless there is pleasure. How can you possibly insist you were forced? Have you forgotten that you have sworn to tell the truth?”
“Nein. I mean ja, Herr Zwingen forced me. I did not do it willingly.”
Chancellor Brandt whispered into Judge Steinbach’s ear. “Let the record show,” said the judge, “that the initial testimony of the accused has proved to be false.”
Lutz lowered his head into his hands.
“There are people who claim they heard a baby crying the night your son was born,” said Hampelmann, “but you made a statement to the Prince-Bishop’s bailiff that the child was born dead.”
“That’s the truth,” she said. “They heard some other baby.”
“You are absolutely certain the child was born dead?” said Chancellor Brandt.
“Ja.”
“During the birth, could you see the midwife at all times?” said Father Streng.
“Ja.”
“Was there ever a time when you fainted from pain or fell asleep, or even closed your eyes to rest,” said Hampelmann, “a time during which the midwife might have murdered the child without your knowing?”
Lutz stood. “Wait! What evidence is there that the baby was murdered? Did anyone examine the body? Were there marks of strangulation or smothering? A crushed skull?”
“The body was examined by a qualified physician,” said Lindner, “a respected colleague of mine. According to his report, there were no bruises or abrasions. In fact, the infant was perfect, and of such size and weight that he should have lived. That and the secrecy of the birth are what make this death so suspicious. Smothering leaves no marks.”
“But did anyone check the lungs?” said Lutz. “Were they still filled with birth waters or had the child drawn breath?”
Lindner thrust out his fat lower lip. “Doesn’t matter. A midwife could easily smother a baby before it ever draws breath.”
Lutz sat down, his shoulders slumped.
“Herr Lutz,” said Chancellor Brandt, “bitte, let us continue without further interruption. We have much to do today. Fraulein Spatz, could the midwife have murdered the baby?”
“Nein. My son never breathed.”
“Are you sure?” said Hampelmann.
“Ja. I felt no movement during the final month. Frau Lamm told me, before he was born, that the baby was dead.”
Chancellor Brandt’s nose twitched like a rodent’s. “The midwife told you the child was dead? Even before it was born?”
Father Streng smoothed the brown quill. “Tell us, Fraulein Spatz, did the midwife show a special interest in the infant’s body?”
“Nein.” She sniffed, her face angry. “Frau Lamm wanted nothing to do with it. She made me bury it myself.”
“Why were the birth and the burial so secret?” said Father Streng. “You were discovered all alone, in the middle of the night, trying to bury the infant near Saint Stephan’s Cathedral.”
The girl’s head hung low. “I hid my...my condition, cause I didn’t wa
nt anyone to know.” She looked up at the priest. “But I wanted my son to be buried in consecrated ground.”
Judge Steinbach wagged a bony finger at her. “An unbaptized baby in consecrated ground? The Church does not allow it. Moreover, Fraulein Spatz, you violated the lantern ordinance. You were out that night without a lighted lantern.”
Father Streng’s eye twitched, making the mole above his eyebrow jump. Lindner’s oafish face contorted in puzzlement. Hampelmann rubbed his temples. Leave it to Judge Steinbach to worry about the lantern ordinance when they were investigating charges of witchcraft and infanticide.
“Show her the first instrument of torture,” said Chancellor Brandt.
Freude held out the thumbscrews. The girl turned to Lutz, her eyes round and dark in a face completely drained of colour. “Sir?”
“The truth,” Lutz said. “Just tell them the truth.”
“Do you still insist you were forced?” said Chancellor Brandt.
“Ja.”
“Do you still insist that the bastard son resulting from this illicit union was born dead?” said Hampelmann.
“I-I think so.”
“So now you’re not sure? said Chancellor Brandt. “Did the midwife have any opportunity to kill the baby without your knowing?”
Freude held the thumbscrews only inches from the girl’s nose. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Sh-she might have.”
“Have you changed your mind about anything else?” The chancellor’s words were clipped and harsh. “How did you know Frau Basser, Fraulein Stolzberger, and Frau Imhof?”
“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”
Chancellor Brandt persisted. “When and where did you attend the sabbath?”
“I’ve never been to a sabbath.”
“When did you receive your mark?” said Lindner.
She shook her head, her eyes locked on the thumbscrews.
“You must answer, Fraulein Spatz,” said Father Streng.
“I got no mark,” she wailed.
“Take her back to her cell,” Chancellor Brandt said with disgust. “Very often meditation and the misery of imprisonment dispose the accused to discover the truth.” He pointed at the judge’s gold watch.
Judge Steinbach tapped the gavel. “We’ll adjourn for dinner and reconvene in two hours.”
Chancellor Brandt glowered at Lutz. “Bitte, do not be late.”
16
I laugh and the shadows dance. The men cross themselves then touch the balls of wax at their throats. They believe I always attend the interrogations of my followers. Of course I am here. Their fear has brought me here. Yet they refuse to hear me, or to see me. I can shout as loud as I please, and still, they pretend not to hear.
The men are waiting for the one who has not yet come, and while they wait, they drum their fingers on the table, pick the wax from their ears, smooth the lace on their collars and cuffs, cross and uncross their legs. And pretend they are not thinking of me. Nearly all are wishing they were at home, lounging in a sunlit courtyard, sipping wine with a friend, or reading, contemplating God, or embracing a wife - or lover.
The boyish priest beholds their flagging zeal. His iron eyes narrow behind the glass disks. He jumps up, startling the old man, who blinks and cowers. Infusing his words with fiery passion, the priest reminds the men of the great importance of their work, reminds them that the end-time is near and God will punish them all if they do not seek out and punish witches.
He reminds them of their most terrifying fears.
To bolster the men’s fervour, and their courage, he quotes the labyrinthine arguments of Dominicans and Jesuits, arguments that circle and double back like deer paths through a thicket of willow and alder. He speaks with such a potent and slippery tongue that his words straighten the sharpest switchback, make clear the faintest trail. Only now and again does he talk himself into a dead end. His eye twitches then, and I chuckle at the little priest’s conundrum.
He paces before them, waving his small black book as if his wrist were attached to strings pulled from above. I listen with interest to his strident logic. He lectures about what the Dominicans have written in their manual, what the Pope has declared to be true. They claim I have three types of followers: those who can injure but cannot cure, those who can both injure and cure, and those who can cure but cannot injure. I raise my hand, making the torches gutter, and shout out my question. The boy stands alert, peering from side to side. If he would just allow himself to hear me, I am quite certain he could explain why women who cure but do not injure should still be burned.
The priest points the book at the men. The most powerful witches, he says, are found among those who can injure. They can perform every sort of spell. The list is long and impressive. To invigorate the men’s fear, he names each crime: witches can raise hailstorms, hurtful tempests and lightning, make the generative desires ineffective and even destroy the power of copulation. They can kill infants in the mother’s womb by a touch to the belly. They devour unbaptized children.
And all of them practice carnal copulation with me. I sigh morosely. Would that it were so.
The priest has not yet come to the end of his list. Not by any means. I must admit to some pride that the Dominicans and Jesuits believe my followers and me to be so powerful. The Dominicans have written that witches can make horses go mad under their riders; they can transport themselves from place to place through the air; they can affect judges and commissioners so that they cannot hurt them. That is why witches must walk backwards when they enter the chamber. The men have been told - and they always believe what the Church tells them - that witches cannot lay a curse upon them if they see the witches before the witches see them.
My followers can cause themselves and others to keep silent under torture, he says, and can bring about a great trembling to the hands and horrors to the minds of those who arrest them. They can show to others future events, can see absent things as if they were present and turn the minds of men to inordinate love, or hatred. They can bewitch men and animals with a mere look, without touching them, and cause their deaths.
They dedicate their own children to me. I am perplexed. Why would the Dominicans and Jesuits imagine I have any interest in the weak and helpless? I scratch my head in puzzlement, the sound like the scrape of a boot on stone.
The young priest begins to speak quietly, in a whisper, as if he were telling a secret. Or a lie. This last crime is my favourite.
The Dominicans, he says, report that witches sometimes collect male organs in great numbers, as many as twenty or thirty together. They put them in a bird’s nest or shut them up in a box, where they move like living members and eat oats and wheat. There is a story of a certain man who lost his member. The young priest blushes, and I laugh out loud at his unease. The man approached a known witch, he says, to ask her to restore his member to him. She told the afflicted man to climb a certain tree, told him he could take whichever one he liked out of a nest in which there were several. But when he tried to take a big one, the witch said, You must not take that one...it belongs to the parish priest.
Only the stout man with the shaggy white hair dares to smile. When he sees that no one else is amused, he hides his grin behind his hand. Then his face takes on furrows of bewilderment as he struggles to follow the tangled twists and turns of the priest’s logic. He will learn. Or he will learn to keep silent.
The chancellor arrives, and the men are ready now. The priest has restored their zeal. They bring in the midwife and search her naked body for the mark they believe I have made upon her. Her limbs are sturdy, her breasts large and pendulous. The members the men are so afraid of losing stiffen within their loose breeches.
The Dominicans say I can enter only the heart that is bereft of all holiness. In this, as in most things, they are quite mistaken. I can enter only the heart that contemplates God.
We dwell in the same heart, God and I.
17
22 April 1626
The midwi
fe stood, chin thrust forward, shoulders back, arms at her sides. Unashamed of her bald nakedness. A hot flush rose from Lutz’s neck to his cheeks, and he found himself unable to meet Frau Lamm’s bold gaze. He’d never even looked at Maria’s body that closely. An unsettling mix of shame, fear, and carnal prurience made his heart – and his member – throb.
Freude jabbed the woman with the birch rod and turned her around so that her back was to the commissioners. He pointed to a wine-coloured stain, a small fleur-de-lis blooming on her shoulder. “There, gentlemen, is the stigma diaboli.”
Father Streng’s quill scratched across the paper.
“Shouldn’t you test it?” said Judge Steinbach.
“No need. The evidence is clear.” Freude handed the linen shift to Frau Lamm, who slipped it over her shaved head and tugged it down to cover her sturdy body. Tying her wrists, Freude gave the hemp rope an extra twist. The midwife bared her teeth at him, teeth that were straight and strong, and looked sharp enough to bite into a man’s throat and hang on like a wolfhound.
Lutz shuddered, and felt himself shrink. Of all the accused, Frau Lamm was the one he most suspected of being a witch. She’d been a widow for twenty-three years, a midwife for thirtytwo, since she was nineteen. She was as old as Maria, but that was where the similarity to his wife ended. Frau Lamm was brash and outspoken, her face hard and angular, especially without her bushy silver hair. She was not a large woman, but her arms and legs were heavily muscled. When he visited her cell, she’d treated him with derision, and told Father Herzeim that he’d do better to confess his own sins than to ask to hear hers. When Lutz tried to question the midwife, her unflinching stare and dark laughter had stopped his breath in his throat, making him choke and stammer. He’d have fled the cell if the priest hadn’t been there with him.
Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Page 11