“This is the group we’re looking for,” he said finally, handing the sheet of paper to Jeremias. “Can you make anything out of that?”
“I think so.” Jeremias considered for a moment and nodded. “That must have been during the last wave of persecutions, or the name of young Paulus Braun wouldn’t have been there. Let’s have a look.”
He walked along the shelves until he reached the number 1627. “I think we need to begin here. That was the year they built the last Inquisition House. I remember it well.”
“It’s more important for you to remember who was on the commissions at that time,” Jakob insisted as he himself began searching the individual drawers and pigeonholes on the shelves. Dust swirled up as he leafed quickly through the documents. The hangman found an almost endless number of lists and trial transcripts, each one documenting the cruelty. In the dark dungeons of the Inquisition, suspects were set down on chairs heated until they were glowing; given a mash of salted herring and pepper that made their thirst almost unbearable; immersed in a bath of lye that stung their eyes; or locked into tiny enclosures of sharp, wooden pyramids until, screaming and wailing, they confessed to the most outlandish crimes.
Jakob Kuisl found yellowed transcripts and sentences so horrifying that they even made the hangman’s hair stand on end. On some pages, rust-brown specks of blood were still visible.
The woman was beaten with switches, then put again on the rack, and the entire day she lay there, confessing nothing. .
The arm and leg screws were tightened, but she still screams she knows nothing. .
She is put again on the rack and whipped, but still confesses nothing. .
. . continues to show no remorse. .
In carcere mortua.
“Died in the dungeon.” Jakob translated the final Latin words. He shook his head in disgust, then turned to examine another dusty record.
It is thus duly noted that the woman has given herself heart and soul to the Evil One, and will therefore be tortured with red-hot pincers applied to her breasts, and since she has repeatedly dishonored the sacred host, her right hand will be cut off, whereupon with the other women she will be burned alive at the stake.
Jakob cast a surreptitious glance at Jeremias, who was also rummaging through the files. Jakob wondered what the former Bamberg executioner could be thinking as he read about his own deeds many years ago-but Jeremias remained remarkably calm, attentive, and focused, outwardly untroubled by anything he saw.
Would I be like that if I’d broken, beheaded, and burned hundreds of people? Or am I perhaps already a bit like Jeremias? What is it that makes monsters of us?
But the strange thing was that Jeremias wasn’t a monster at all. He was a kind old cripple, a lover of animals, and a learned man who had relieved others of having to do this filthy work and was now peacefully living out the last years of his life. He didn’t even seem much concerned about having murdered the young prostitute. Jakob frowned. Perhaps Jeremias was so hardened by the sorrow at the death of his fiancée, back then, that he could no longer feel anything.
In his position, would I have done the same?
Inwardly Jakob had just answered his own question when Jeremias, standing nearby, suddenly let out a cry.
“Here,” he said, holding up a thick dossier. “I think I have it. It was right up on the top shelf. Here are the names we’re looking for. And now it all comes back to me.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How could I ever have forgotten this trial? I’m clearly getting along in years.”
“What do you mean?” Jakob asked, still lost in his gloomy reveries. “What was special about that trial?”
Jeremias grinned. “Hah! What was special? It was perhaps the most sensational trial that Bamberg had ever seen, and our current candidates were all, in fact, part of it. Here, see for yourself.”
He handed the report to Jakob, who quickly perused the pages.
It didn’t take the Schongau hangman long to realize they were on the right track.
Magdalena, her brother, and her uncle were wandering through the streets of Bamberg in a desperate search for Barbara and Hieronymus Hauser.
Since Georg was familiar with the town, he searched the western part as far as the Green Market while Magdalena and Bartholomäus combed through the eastern section. At first, Katharina had intended to take part in the search, but then she quickly realized she was much too confused and upset to be useful. She therefore volunteered to remain at their house by the Sand Gate and keep an eye on the two boys. Magdalena hoped that the monotonous children’s games would calm her aunt down a bit.
In contrast with the preceding days, the little streets were calm now. A heavy November fog had settled over the houses, so it was impossible to see farther than to the next corner. In addition, it was drizzling slightly. Everything sounded strangely muted, as if buried under a wet blanket. Occasionally, heavily clothed citizens carrying baskets came toward them, evidently on their way home from the cemetery, where they had taken soul bread for their deceased. Some freezing beggars were standing behind empty bowls in front of the small churches in town, but otherwise half of Bamberg seemed to be at the mass in the cathedral. All Souls’ was a high feast day on which work was strictly forbidden, and for many it was an opportunity to sit in their warm houses by the fire, knitting, baking, or repairing broken household items.
Magdalena watched as her uncle, with a grim expression, hobbled along beside her. It was astonishing how quickly he moved, despite his crippled foot. They’d briefly cast glances inside empty buildings, looked under bridges, and asked the ragpicker Answin and a few beggars, but they hadn’t turned up the slightest lead. The whole time Bartholomäus had seemed strangely disinterested, and Magdalena assumed Katharina’s rude remark was still bothering him.
I should never have gotten engaged to an executioner. .
As a hangman’s daughter, Magdalena knew all too well how it felt when people looked away when they saw you and secretly crossed themselves. How hard it had to be when his own fiancée apparently regretted her decision-and if she believed a curse hung over the hangman?
“That nonsense that Katarina said earlier,” she ventured, looking her uncle straight in the face, “you mustn’t take seriously.” They were heading down Lange Gasse toward the city wall, in the hope of possibly learning something from the city guards. “She only said those things because she’s afraid.”
Bartholomäus glared at her. “How do you know about-” he began, but then he waved it off. “Oh, what difference does it make? Katharina’s right, you know. A curse does seem to be lying over this wedding. Executioners should marry executioners’ daughters and not put their noses up too high in the air. It’s unbecoming to us.”
“My father also didn’t marry an executioner’s child,” Magdalena said. “Nor did I–I married a bathhouse owner who’d studied medicine. So you can do it, too.”
“Your father always wanted something better,” Bartholomäus grumbled, “even as a child. You probably got that from him.”
Magdalena rolled her eyes. “Tell me why you’re always so angry at Father. I understand he made a bad mistake back then when he abandoned you, but that’s ancient history, and he was still practically a child. Why can’t you just let it go?”
“There are some things that keep seething inside you and you can’t forget. It’s a daily reminder.” Bartholomäus pointed at his leg and pulled up his trousers. “This foot here, for example. You weren’t there, Magdalena. You didn’t look into his eyes when he left me behind on the roof, like I was an annoying burden too heavy to carry. The damage was too great to repair.”