As soon as they arrived at the narrow Zankgasse, Magdalena was sure this was no ordinary birth. Through the small bolted windows of the baker’s house the screams sounded more like a cow awaiting slaughter than a woman giving birth. Farmers and workers had come running to the door of the bakery and were whispering anxiously to one another. When Simon and Magdalena approached, the group stepped back reluctantly.
“Here comes the hangman’s daughter to drive the devil out of the baker’s maid,” somebody said.
“I say they’re both witches,” an old woman whispered. “Just wait, and we’ll see them fly out through the chimney.”
Magdalena pushed her way past the gossiping women and tried not to take what they were saying too seriously. As the hangman’s daughter, she was accustomed to people thinking of her as the spawn of Satan, and ever since she started working for the midwife, her reputation had grown even worse. Mostly it was the men who were convinced the hangman’s daughter could prepare magic elixirs and love potions, and in fact, a few of the aldermen had already obtained such preparations from her father. Up to now, however, Magdalena had always refused to swindle people with such nonsense, primarily to avoid arousing even more suspicions about her being the devil’s consort. But to no avail, she had to admit to herself with a sigh.
As the crowd continued whispering and gossiping, she entered the bakery with Simon, where they were received by Michael Berchtholdt, who looked as white as a sheet. As so often, the scrawny little man smelled of brandy, and his eyes were ringed in red circles as if he’d passed a sleepless night. He was rubbing a dry bouquet of mugwort between his fingers to ward off evil spirits. His wife, who was just as skinny, knelt before a crucifix in a corner of the room, murmuring prayers, which were, however, drowned out by the screams of the maid.
Resl Kirchlechner lay by the fire on a bench covered with dirty straw. She writhed in pain as if a fire burned inside her. Her face, hands, and legs were covered with red pustules, and the tips of her fingers had turned a shiny black. Her belly was distended into a little round ball and almost looked like a foreign object on her otherwise spindly body. Magdalena presumed that, until now, the maid had wrapped her dress tightly around herself to conceal the pregnancy.
At just that moment, the young woman sat up as if someone had rammed a broomstick up her back. Her eyes were vacant and her dry lips opened as she let out a long, drawn-out scream.
“He’s in me!” she gasped. “My God, he’s eating through my body and tearing out my soul!” A loud moan followed. “Oh… I can feel his teeth. I can hear his lips smacking as he gnaws through my belly! I want to spit him out like a rotten piece of fruit!” She made a retching sound as if preparing to regurgitate something large and undigested.
“My God, what is that?” Simon asked in horror from the doorway.
“Can’t you see? The devil is in her!” Maria Berchtholdt moaned from the corner of the room, rocking back and forth on her knees and tearing at her hair. “He’s eating her alive from the inside out. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”
Her prayers turned into a wailing monotone as Michael Berchtholdt stared silently at his maid thrashing around in spasms.
“It looks like Resl took something to abort the child,” Magdalena whispered to Simon so the others couldn’t hear. “Perhaps castoreum, or rue.” All of a sudden she frowned. “Wait-she didn’t…”
Magdalena cautiously approached Resl Kirchlechner and felt the pustules on her arm. When the maid started thrashing around again, the hangman’s daughter jumped back. “I think I know what it is now,” she whispered. “It must be Saint Anthony’s Fire. Resl probably took ergot to abort the child.”
Simon nodded. “I don’t know much about it, but I think you’re right. The pustules… the black fingertips… and then the feverish dreams. Everything points to that. My God, the poor girl…”
Magdalena squeezed his hand and then cursed under her breath. As a midwife, she knew about ergot, a fungus that grew on rye and other kinds of grain and was used now and then to abort a pregnancy. But ergot could be taken only in small doses or it would cause cramps and horrible visions of witches, devils, and demons. The victims’ fingers and toes turned black and finally fell off, and because they felt like they were being burned by fire inside, the sickness was called Saint Anthony’s Fire.
Simon turned to Michael Berchtholdt. “This girl isn’t possessed by the devil,” he replied, pointing to the girl’s swollen belly. “Resl took ergot, and I wonder who might have given it to her.”
“I–I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the master baker stuttered. “It may be that Resl has been fooling around with some young fellow and-”
“No, with Satan!” his wife interrupted. “She’s been carrying on with Satan!”
“Nonsense!” Magdalena whispered softly enough so Berchtholdt couldn’t hear it. She dabbed the face of the screaming maid with a damp cloth and tried to comfort her. But all of a sudden Magdalena couldn’t stand it any longer. Her eyes flashed as she turned around and glared furiously at the baker.
“Nonsense! It’s not Satan,” she growled. “Everybody in town knows that you’ve been running after Resl! Everybody!”
“What are you trying to say?” Michael Berchtholdt asked softly. His facial features looked even sharper than usual. “Are you saying that maybe I-”
“You impregnated your own maid!” Magdalena blurted out. “And so that nobody would find out, you gave her the ergot. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
Berchtholdt’s face turned beet red. “How dare you talk about me like that, you fresh little hangman’s girl!” he gasped finally. “You’re forgetting that I sit on the city council and all I have to do is to give the word and you Kuisls can pack your things and leave. All it takes is one word from me!”
“Ha! And who will give your wife her little sleeping potion then?” Magdalena jumped up and pointed at the praying Maria Berchtholdt. “How often has she come to my father for a little potion to calm down her husband at home so he will nod off after drinking his wine?”
The baker glared in disbelief at his wife, who looked down at the ground, embarrassed, her hands folded. “Maria, is that right?”
“Quiet!” Simon said. “It’s disgraceful to quarrel like this while the poor girl is probably dying. If we are to help, we at least have to know how much ergot she took and who gave it to her.” He looked at Michael Berchtholdt in desperation. “For God’s sake, say something! Did you give the medication to the girl?”
The master baker remained defiantly silent, but then his wife spoke up in a soft voice. “It’s true,” she whispered. “It would be a lie to say anything else. God help you, Michael! You, and all of us!”
The baker struggled for words but gave in at last. He slumped over, sighing, and ran his hand through his hair, which was thinning and matted with flour. “Well, yes, then, I–I gave it to her,” he stammered. “I–I told her to take it all at once just to make sure it worked.”
“All at once?” Magdalena looked at him in horror. “And how much was that?”
Berchtholdt shrugged. “A little bag, perhaps as large as my fist.”
Simon gripped his forehead and groaned. “Then there’s no way we can save her. All we can do is try to relieve her pain.” With clenched fists he advanced toward Michael Berchtholdt. “Who in God’s name gave you so much ergot?” he shouted. “Who, damn it! What quack?”
The baker retreated toward the doorway and finally mumbled something so softly that Simon couldn’t understand him at first. “It was your father.”
The young medicus stood there dumbfounded. “My father?”
Berchtholdt nodded. “The stuff cost me two guilders, but your father said it was the surest way.”
Simon had trouble speaking. “Did my father at least tell you how much to give her?”
“Actually he didn’t.” The baker shrugged. “He just said it would be better to take too much than too little, just to make sure it worked. So I just gave her all of it.”