If you think we’ve left those dark times behind, take a look around. In India, scorned lovers douse women in acid; in parts of Africa they sew the labia of young girls together or mutilate them; and in some areas of Nepal, women are still forced to retreat into so-called menstruation huts during their time of the month because they are considered impure. Oh, and I’m sure crazy antiabortion activists like Walburga, the hangman’s wife, also exist in the USA, where doctors have been killed in the name of God because they fought for the right to abort. With that in mind, this historical novel is more relevant than one might first think. History always repeats itself, only dressed in a different outfit.
I tried to describe the locations in The Council of Twelve as closely to historical reality as I was able to learn about, although many have changed significantly or no longer exist. The names of most characters are historically correct, including the hangmen in the Council of Twelve. I changed only some first names or used a middle name instead, to avoid confusion. Unfortunately, Jakob and Johann were very popular names for men back then. As far as I know, the only portrait of any council member in existence is of Nuremberg executioner Johann Michael Widmann, so I made up the appearances of all other hangmen. I must thank several of my faithful readers for all their help with my research. And thanks also to various city archives, which helped clear up many mistakes.
I must admit, however, that I invented the guild meeting of the executioners in Munich. It’s not unlikely that such meetings took place, though. It has been well documented, for example, that around the year 1500, a guild meeting of hangmen took place in the Swiss city of Basel, enabling me to borrow some of the rituals. (Not all, however, because they were just too bizarre. For example, the guild master’s right leg had to be bared and his foot submerged in a tub of water . . .)
A masquerade like the one I describe at Nymphenburg Palace might very well have taken place. In her interesting biography about the Bavarian electress Henriette Adelaide, Roswitha von Bary writes about costumed Amazons, Romans, Muscovites, shepherds, Greeks, Chinese, Arabs, and Romani. Over the years, the electoral couple appeared as a pair of Turks, Persians, Native Americans, and innkeepers. Kerll, the court music director, and Treasurer Pfundner also were historical characters—although I’m sure they weren’t as unpleasant in real life as I described them here. Dr. Malachias Geiger existed, too, and was a famous and respected physician from a dynasty of doctors in Munich and across Bavaria.
The so-called Kipper und Wipperzeit (literally “tipping and seesaw period”) takes a special place in this book. The period of financial crisis had its climaxes in the 1620s and 1680s. Precious silver coins were mixed with cheap copper, tin, or lead, leading to immense inflation throughout the German Empire. The name of the period relates to the seesawing and tipping of scales while trying to sort heavier coins from lighter ones. Often, the territorial sovereigns had a hand in it themselves, and as a result, the population suffered poverty and hunger. Pamphlets from that time make frequent mention of it.
I invented the storyline about the Munich treasurer and the master of the mint participating in such a crime, but I think the plan is genius. All right, the dies were probably guarded much too closely for it to work in reality. Never mind—the truth can afford to turn a blind eye once in a while in crime novels. That’s the advantage of being a novelist as opposed to a virtuous author of nonfiction.
I must mention that I don’t know of a serial killer in Munich during the seventeenth century, or at least none who executed his victims like a hangman. The most spectacular case from the time is probably the trial of the Pämb family, known as “the Pappenheimers,” which is mentioned in my novel. The family was accused of murdering 120 people, robbing twenty-eight churches, setting twenty-six fires, and conjuring twenty-one hailstorms. During their execution in 1600, the mother’s breasts were cut off and rubbed in the faces of her sons. The men were partially broken on the wheel, partially impaled, and finally burned alive. My stomach turns at the thought of the large Munich crowd cheering and applauding at the execution. But those were the times.
One location in the novel was particularly important to me: the Au silk manufactory. When I read about it for the first time, I couldn’t imagine that there really was a silk manufactory in the cold Munich of the seventeenth century. But it’s true, and there were even two of them, one at Jakobsplatz Square and the other one in Au. If you dig a little deeper, you find a true industrial-crime drama.
A certain Dr. Johann Joachim Becher convinced Elector Ferdinand Maria of this abstruse idea in 1664. They hired Italian specialists and engaged in industrial espionage in Venice, and mulberry trees with silkworms were grown in the court gardens and other parks around Munich. From then on, only Bavarian silk could be sold in Bavaria—calling to mind Kurt Tucholsky’s motto, “Germans, buy German bananas!”
Someone named Lucas van Uffele was appointed director of the manufactory. He was a rather shady character who began looking for investors all over Bavaria. And just like today, there were plenty of fools willing to invest in a dubious business venture. None of them ever saw their money again. In 1672, after only six years, the manufactory was shut down. Uffele fled to Augsburg in the dead of night, but he was caught, taken back to Munich, and locked up in the Falkenturm tower for several years. (An excellent read on the subject: Hermann Wilhelm, In der Münchner Vorstadt Au.) That was the end of one of the most bizarre chapters in Munich’s history.
By the way, the electress’s lapdog did indeed run away in 1675 . . .
Have I ever mentioned that history always writes the best stories? It’s anecdotes like these that made me become an author of historical fiction!
As always, I have many people to thank for the fact that an initial idea turned into a novel of well over five hundred pages.
My first thanks goes to Barbara Reis, from Stattreisen Munich, who guided me through my hometown and knew an answer to nearly every one of my curious questions. The same goes for Karin Niederländer, my tour guide in Au. Dr. Manfred Heimers from the Munich city archive helped me with the names, and the State Coin Collection provided me with information about the Kipper and Wipper period and coin minting in the seventeenth century.
Dieter Brenner from the Haus der Seidenkultur (silk museum) in Krefeld helped me learn about silk. A good read on the subject is Ursula Niehaus’s novel Die Seidenweberin, which I found very helpful during my research.
Dr. Matthias Graw, head of the Munich Institute of Forensic Medicine, patiently answered all my questions regarding the yucky subjects of poisoning, decomposition, and mummification. Dr. Thomas Puyol helped me in the broad field of gynecology—and my father did, too, as always. Thanks, Papa, for letting me call you about every tiny medical issue! (And I don’t mean the countless hypochondriac questions pertaining to my own person. Everyone gets older . . .) My clumsy Latin translations were proofread by Dr. Manfred Heim from the Catholic theological faculty of the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich.
I can’t forget to thank the lovely ladies from the ever-supportive Ullstein Publishing—in particular Nina Wegscheider, Sarah Ehrhardt, Marion Vazquez, Pia Götz, and Siv Bublitz, and, of course, my favorite editor, Uta Rupprecht, who is as precise as she is kind. Gerd, Sophie, and Martina from the agency were my trial readers, as was my wife, Kathrin, who always has a friendly ear for all my questions and fears, and always comes up with a good idea. And last but not least, thank you to my friend Oliver Kuhn, who unknowingly gave me the idea for the villain in Tuscany. Thank you to you all, you’re the best. Until the next book!
Sincerely, your still hopelessly romantic
Oliver Pötzsch
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OLIVER PÖTZSCH, BORN IN 1970, has worked for years as a scriptwriter for Bavarian television. He is a descendant of one of Bavaria’s leading dynasties of executioners. Pötzsch lives in Munich with his family.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photo © 2017 Danice Hamilton
LI
SA REINHARDT STUDIED ENGLISH and linguistics at University of Otago and lives with her family in rural New Zealand.
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