Of course there were never any real werewolves, and the suspects were often simple shepherds or charcoal burners living in the forest, and for that reason alone were objects of suspicion. There may have been a few mentally ill people among them, since back then any form of mental illness was viewed as proof that person had signed a pact with the devil.
One interesting theory is that “werewolves” may have simply been people infected with rabies, at that time called Hundswut, or “canine madness.” The symptoms of the disease, still largely incurable today, actually made the victims look like wolves. They ran around biting people and other animals, they sometimes howled, their teeth looked longer due to spastic paralysis in their face, and they were terrified of water. The disease was transmitted at that time, just as it is now, by dogs and wolves, but also by small predators like foxes and ferrets, and even by bats.
When I read about this connection between werewolves and rabies, I knew I’d come across an interesting murder weapon—for crime writers, always an exciting moment.
The second historical inspiration behind this novel were the Bamberg witch trials of 1612 through 1630, in which about a thousand people met their deaths. These trials, along with the Würzburg witch trials, are considered to have been the most cataclysmic in all of Europe. In the neighboring town of Zeil am Main, a special oven was built just to cremate all the corpses. For decades afterward, many houses in Bamberg stood empty and fell into disrepair because their owners had died at the stake. Ruins, haunted houses, the decline of a once-wealthy city—in my novel, this all provides a gruesome backdrop based on historical facts.
Many years ago, I came across an article about the so-called Bamberg Malefiz (malefactor or criminal) or Druden (druid) House. The building was probably the most modern prison and torture facility of its time, sort of a Guantanamo Bay of the seventeenth century. In addition to the usual means of torture, victims were immersed in caustic lime, fed a salty mash of fish, forced to sit on iron chairs over a hot fire, or placed in tiny enclosures whose bottom was covered with small, sharp wooden pyramids. Have I mentioned that historical reality is often much more cruel than any writer’s imagination?
When the Swedes invaded Bamberg in 1632, during the Thirty Years’ War, the citizens learned about the atrocities committed there. The ten remaining prisoners were quickly released and the Malefiz House torn down in an effort to erase all evidence of the cruelty perpetrated there.
An online museum (http://www.malefiz-haus.de) offers a gruesome picture of the interior of this horrific building, as does the graphically remarkable nonfiction work The Factory of Death by Ralph Kloos and Thomas Göhl (available at http://www.hexenbrenner-museum.com), from which I took a short passage from a Bamberg sentence for witchcraft. For anyone interested in the period of the Bamberg witch trials, I especially recommend Sabine Weigand’s well-researched novel Die Seelen im Feuer, from which I have excerpted a short description taken from the trial minutes.
I’ve often wondered what effect these witch trials had on the Bamberg hangmen at the time. After all, they had to torture and execute hundreds of people. How does anyone process that psychologically? Does the constant killing turn one into an unfeeling monster? Did the hangman have nightmares? Anyone who wants to learn more about torturing at that time should visit the terrifying torture museums in Siena and San Gimignano during a vacation to Italy. I’d like to emphasize, however, that these museums are definitely not suited for small children! I only mention this because in my research trips I kept bumping into families with small children licking ice-cream cones and looking very upset.
The only way one could practice that bloody vocation with a good conscience, in the long run, was to be like the Bamberg executioner Jeremias (alias Michael Binder) in the novel, who was modeled after an actual, historical person. The last German hangman, Johann Reichhart, beheaded almost three thousand people during the Nazi period alone, presumably a record for executioners. He then continued working for the American occupation forces after the end of the war. The GIs beat him up before giving him the job of hanging war criminals in Landsberg, and after that they put him in a labor camp. Reichhart always performed his dirty work professionally and, above all, quickly, no matter which side he was on. Nevertheless, he died poor and impoverished at the age of seventy-nine. He insisted he never regretted the work he did.
The trial of Chancellor Haan and his family, by the way, is something I didn’t make up, either. His name is recorded in the city archives. Most of the members of the so-called Witches Commission also appear in the official documents, so they also really existed. Whether, decades later, there was still one last living survivor plotting revenge . . . very well, I did take a little artistic license with that. Also, at that time Sebastian Harsee was not the suffragan bishop of Bamberg.
And to the best of my knowledge, there never was a werewolf commission in Bamberg, though it surely is a possibility.
Just a word about the group of actors in the novel, which I really enjoyed writing about—after all, I studied theater “with great passion” like Faust, as a minor subject, for my own enjoyment. Yes, there were such groups of traveling actors in the German Reich at the time, presenting plays by Shakespeare, though in edited form. The focus was clearly on the action; poetic form, plot development, and complex characterization were secondary—just like in Hollywood, three hundred and fifty years later. According to information from the German Shakespeare Library in Munich, it isn’t certain that these works were published under Shakespeare’s name, but it’s quite possible that my Barbara would have been able to find such a book.
Otherwise, as I said, history always writes the best stories. Do you know, by chance, the story about the collapse of the latrine in Erfurt in the year 1184, in which almost the entire German nobility in that city fell into the cesspool and almost literally drowned in its own excrement? No? Or perhaps the Fourth Crusade, which ended in folly when it got to Constantinople, where Christian knights plundered and torched the Christian city? Or the execution of the pirate Störtebecker, who . . .
Well, you see, there’s plenty of material left for books yet to come.
As always, I’d like to thank many people who contributed to the creation of this novel. First of all, the art historian and city guide Dr. Christine Freise-Wonka, who patiently and helpfully told me everything I needed to know about Bamberg. The same is true of Rita Hoidn of the Bavarian Castle and Lakes Administration, Anna-Maria Schühlein of the Bamberg Tourist Office, and the kind people at the Bamberg City Archives.
Petra Nerreter showed me her master’s thesis about Bamberg executioners, Dr. Thomas Löscher of the Institute for Tropical Medicine at Munich University told me all I needed to know about rabies, and Dr. Bettina Boecker of the Shakespeare Research Library helped me with my questions about the acceptance of Shakespeare’s work in seventeenth-century Germany.
Thanks also to Christine Hartnagel, whose guided tours of Bamberg are outstanding, and who gave me a valuable tip for my next Hangman’s Daughter novel. Likewise, sincerest thanks to my esteemed colleague and writer, the erudite Richard Dübell, who helped me a number of times with my research.
Have I forgotten anyone? Naturally I am deeply indebted, as always, to Gerd Rumler and Martina Kuscheck at my literary agency for their proofing and encouragement, Uta Rupprecht and Nina Wegscheider for edits, the always energetic Stephanie Martin at Ullstein Publishers, my brothers and my father for medical matters, Christian Wiedemann for the desk with a view of the Eiger North Wall—and my wife, Katrin, who’s always lent an ear when I reach a dead end. Thanks for all your tips, and I love you even if I sometimes grumble like a Kuisl!
And, as always, all the errors are mine. If you find some, let me know. You never stop learning.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OLIVER PÖTZSCH, BORN IN 1970, was for years a radio personality for Bavarian radio and a screenwriter for Bavarian public television. He is a descendant of the Kuisls, the well-known line of Bavaria
n executioners who inspired the Hangman’s Daughter series, which has now sold more than a million copies in English. He lives with his family in Munich.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
LEE CHADEAYNE, TRANSLATOR, IS A former classical musician and college professor. He was one of the charter members of the American Literary Translators Association and is editor in chief of the ALTA Newsletter.
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