Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  He returned to Chancellor Brandt’s report.

  Ninth execution, 16 December 1625, five persons: An old woman who sold pigeons. Frau Niebur, a midwife. Fraulein Schwarz, a laundress. Two women, strangers.

  Always, it seemed, the investigation began with charges raised against some tongue-ripe hag, charges of maleficium, dark curses and potions she’d employed to work ill upon her neighbours. Hampelmann felt a prickling cross the back of his neck. With her snaggled yellow teeth, floating eye, and humped back, one had only to look upon the loathsome old crone - and to hear her sharp tongue - to know that she was a witch. If the Devil gave her strength, it ended with her, but if he abandoned the wretch, as so often he did, she weakened and named her accomplices.

  First execution, 16 January 1626, four persons: Old Frau Stolzberger, a widow and beggar. Another woman, a stranger. A young man named Niebur, son of Frau Niebur, a thief and sodomite. Executed at the same time was a guard who had helped a prisoner escape.

  Second execution, 23 February 1626, two persons: Frau Stolzberger, widowed daughter of Old Frau Stolzberger. A butcher’s widow, Frau Dietrich, was burned alive.

  Third execution, 14 April 1626, three persons: Frau Imhof, a widow and beggar. Fraulein Stolzberger, a beggar, daughter of Frau Stolzberger. Frau Basser, wife of a tavern-keeper.

  Hampelmann picked up the quill and signed the report in his elegant hand: Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann. He rubbed his aching eyes. His duties weighed heavily upon him. He was especially troubled by what he’d recently learned about a young man, a law student at the university who was rumoured to be openly questioning how the Würzburg Malefizamt investigated charges of witchcraft. During the most recent hearings, Hampelmann had even asked the witches about those rumours. To his surprise and horror, all three confirmed them and then named Herr Christoph Silberhans as an accomplice. It disturbed Hampelmann that denunciations of men contradicted the Dominicans’ witch-hunting manual Der Hexenhammer. He closed his eyes to bring the words clearly to mind: All this comes to pass because of the carnal appetite that is insatiable in women...and this is why they have dealings with demons, so that their lust may be satisfied...Hence it is but logical to speak of witchcraft as a matter of female witches, and not of men...And may the Lord be praised, who hath seen fit unto this day to preserve the male sex from this depravity.

  Then again, thought Hampelmann, perhaps there was no contradiction. Lust. That was the key. The Dominicans had known well enough that the Devil worked his evil through lust. From the moment of his fall, the Devil has been seeking to destroy the unity of the Church, to injure love, to mar the sweetness of the saints’ holy works with the gall of his envy, and to extirpate and destroy mankind in every way. His strength is in the loins and in the navel, because they hold sway over man through the lusts of the flesh. For the sea of lust in men is in the loins, for it is here that the semen is secreted, as lust is in the navel in the case of women.

  Hampelmann closed the window against the chilly air. Like women, he reasoned, male witches were excessively lustful men who had succumbed to, rather than controlled, their lust. He thought of his own lovely wife Helena and considered, with some satisfaction, how rarely he allowed himself to touch her. He strove to make his love for her pure and chaste, like the love he felt for his daughter. Yet, when he thought of Helena, it was with some regret. If he’d never loved her, never desired her, he’d have been ordained. Hampelmann was quite sure of that. And then he’d have become a member of the Cathedral Chapter, who were, to a man, clerical nobles. It was from the Cathedral Chapter that the next Prince-Bishop would be chosen. Because of Helena, that prize was now forever beyond his grasp. He did not blame her, though. He knew that the fault lay with his own weakness, for which his Jesuit confessor had referred him to First Corinthians, chapter 7: It is good for a man not to touch a woman. But for fear of fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband.

  There was a soft knock on the door. The Prince-Bishop’s florid face contorted with annoyance as he struggled up from his knees. He carefully set down the reliquary, then dropped into his chair. “And what will be his complaint this time?” he groaned.

  A serving man stepped into the room. Father Herzeim swept in behind him. Herr Lutz followed, his steps hesitant. Water dripped from their broad-brimmed hats, which they held clutched in front of them.

  “Your Grace,” said the servant, “I informed Father Herzeim and Herr Lutz that you were far too tired to see them now.” He flicked a hand toward the priest. “He, however, insisted.”

  With a smile that quickly turned to a grimace, the Prince-Bishop addressed the servant. “Leadership carries with it grave responsibilities. Unlike the peasants, who can take their rest whenever they choose, those of us in authority go to our eternal rest only when we pass from this earthly existence. On earth, we must endure–” his gaze slid to Father Herzeim “–continual tribulations.”

  The priest leaned forward. “Your Grace-”

  The Prince-Bishop raised a hand, his gold rings flashing. “Bitte, a moment. Wine, Father? Herr Lutz?” Without waiting for a reply, the servant scurried from the room.

  Hampelmann lifted his goblet and, over its silver rim, studied the priest – head bowed, breviary and hat clutched before him, a supplicant. By no means a stupid man, but weak. He’d been a thorn in their sides ever since his appointment as final confessor. There were times when Hampelmann wondered if he’d been sent by God to test their resolve. He was so different from the other Jesuits. Was it a lack of courage? Or a lack of faith?

  Father Herzeim raised his head. “Bitte, Your Grace–”

  “Patience, Father. To every thing there is a season.”

  The serving man returned with two goblets. Lutz bobbed his head gratefully and reached for the wine. Father Herzeim waved it aside.

  The Prince-Bishop thrust out his lower lip. “An excellent vintage, Father, from the Stein vineyards. What matter presses upon you so heavily that you would eschew such a wine...and risk offence to your superior?”

  The priest held out his breviary, as if making an offering. “I must speak with you about the recent opinion from the University of Ingolstadt.” He spoke quickly. “It rejects the use of accusations made by condemned witches to arrest anyone when there is no other evidence of witchcraft.”

  Hampelmann stepped forward. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I have studied the document, and it bears the mark of sceptics...and heretics. Nevertheless, if read carefully, the opinion states that in a crime as heinous as witchcraft we must proceed with utmost caution.” He looked at Father Herzeim. “But indeed we must proceed.”

  “I, too, have studied the Ingolstadt opinion,” said Father Herzeim, “and believe that it concurs with the opinion of the theologians at the University of Dillingen: The protection of the innocent must be as close to the heart of the judge and the prince as the care of the public good against sorcerers.”

  Hampelmann tasted sour wine at the back of his throat. Protection of the innocent.

  The Prince-Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “The Commission of Inquisition carefully protects the innocent, Father. God protects the innocent.” He turned to Lutz. “And what is your opinion in this matter, Herr Lutz?”

  Lutz shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. “It...it does seem that this opinion raises an important question.” He spread his hands, hat in one, goblet in the other. “When there is no other evidence...” His voice trailed off, and his bulk seemed to shrink beneath the Prince-Bishop’s scowl.

  Father Herzeim persisted. “How can we know that the Devil has not deluded these women into naming innocent people? That’s why the theologians at Ingolstadt rejected the use of denunciations. They questioned how, when we believe deluded old women in no other matter, we can take their accusations as truth.” He touched the wooden cross on his chest. “Moreover, if a witch is truly guilty, can’t we assume that she wishes to harm others and that her accusations are
false? And if she is innocent, then her denunciations must be false.”

  “Innocent!” shouted Hampelmann.

  The Prince-Bishop laid a hand on the reliquary, his thumb caressing the crystal that enclosed the thorn. “It is the duty of the commissioners to sort out truth from falsehood, to separate the guilty from the innocent. If any of the accused are innocent, the commissioners will discover that truth during the hearings.”

  The flutter of wings was loud in the silence. The Prince-Bishop stood and opened a drawer from which he pulled a silver ladle. He scooped black thistle seed from a stoneware jar and moved toward the cage. “I trust, Father, that you will be attending the banquet tomorrow evening?”

  Father Herzeim nodded, his face grim.

  The Prince-Bishop fumbled with the tiny latch on the cage door. “Herr Lutz,” he said, “you appear to be a man who enjoys good food and wine. You must serve on the commission soon. Then you, too, may attend the banquet.” Black seeds rained from the ladle into a porcelain dish. “You are both dismissed now.”

  Lutz set down the goblet and hurried toward the door. Father Herzeim did not move. “There is yet another matter,” the priest said quietly.

  The Prince-Bishop’s eyebrows came together in a thick dark line. “Oh?”

  “On the way to the fires, Frau Basser withdrew her accusations against the others. She said they are innocent, that she named them as accomplices only to end the torture. They must not be arrested.”

  The Prince-Bishop set down the ladle, then folded his arms over the gold cross nestled against his velvet robes. “This witch signed her confession to the commission. And her accusations. It does not matter that she withdrew them later. These people–” he looked toward Hampelmann.

  “Herr Silberhans, Fraulein Spatz, Frau Bettler, Frau Lamm, and Frau Rosen, Your Grace.”

  “Danke, Herr Hampelmann. These people can – and will – be arrested.”

  “But Frau Basser insisted that they are innocent,” said the priest. “And I believe her. Where is the evidence that any crime has been committed? Herr Silberhans is a student of mine. A fine young man. There are no indicia of witchcraft for him.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Hampelmann. “It is widely rumoured that Christoph Silberhans has expressed open scepticism about the way we conduct the hearings. Some of his fellow students even came to the Malefizamt to report that Silberhans is a defender of witches.”

  “I teach my students to examine the law,” said Father Herzeim. “It is not enough merely to learn it. Naturally there are questions. Neither questions, nor hearsay, constitute evidence.”

  The Prince-Bishop pointed a finger at the priest. “Some laws are too important to be questioned. Do not forget the rule of obedience.”

  Father Herzeim took a deep breath. “What then of Frau Rosen? She is known as an honest and pious woman, of no ill repute.”

  “No ill repute?” laughed Hampelmann. “As I recall, and do correct me if I am mistaken, Herr Lutz, she and her husband were nearly fined for having a child too soon after their wedding. They would have been fined had the midwife not testified before the Lower City Council that the child was born early. A claim I do not believe. The girl was born crippled, I might add. Moreover, it is widely known that Frau Rosen’s husband had to discipline her often, and severely.”

  Hands clasped behind his back, Hampelmann walked toward the window. He’d known Eva Rosen years ago, known her quite well in fact, when she was still Eva Hirsch and worked as a maidservant in his father’s household. The woman was beautiful and so seductive that it was a real possibility she was a witch. Certainly worth investigating. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck to think that there might have been a witch working in the Hampelmann household and that he’d nearly been fooled by her charms.

  He pivoted slowly. “About three years ago, Herr Rosen died suddenly, mysteriously, leaving a trade corporation membership for his widow to offer to a new husband. Yet Frau Rosen has chosen not to remarry, though I understand she’s quite a handsome woman.”

  “It’s hardly a sin, or an indication of witchcraft, to remain unmarried,” said Father Herzeim. “The Church commends it, in fact. First Corinthians, chapter 7: But I say to the unmarried, and to the widows: It is good for them if they so continue.”

  “Have you forgotten, Father, how the verse ends?” Hampelmann did not wait for an answer. “But if they do not contain themselves, let them marry. For it is better to marry than to be burnt. Frau Rosen is an experienced woman. I seriously doubt that she has contained herself.”

  Hampelmann smoothed his beard. “God has placed woman under man’s authority, and yet there’s Frau Rosen, on her own, subject to the authority of no man, running the bakery with only journeymen. No master. The bakery is losing money and she’s not even chosen a legal guardian to manage her financial affairs. Though the Lower City Council has recommended it. Three times. Is it not true, Herr Lutz, that the master bakers have complained to the council about Frau Rosen?”

  Lutz hovered near the door, hand on the latch. Even with his blurred eyesight, Hampelmann could see that the councilman’s white hair and beard needed trimming, his soiled hose drooped at the knees, his white collar was rumpled, and there were copper buttons missing from his doublet where it stretched over his protruding belly. Lutz’s slovenliness and corpulence disgusted Hampelmann. The man was at least fifty, a lawyer and a Würzburg councilman. One would think he could muster a greater dignity, especially in an audience with the Prince-Bishop.

  Lutz chuckled uneasily. “Ach, they’re always complaining about something.”

  “But you cannot deny that Herr Kaiser became seriously ill after he registered his complaint. So ill that he nearly died.”

  Father Herzeim stepped toward Hampelmann. “There is nothing in what you say to indicate witchcraft.”

  Clenching his fists, Hampelmann willed himself to be patient with the priest. He would not yield to Saint Thomas’ sixth deadly sin: anger.

  “Your Grace,” said Father Herzeim, turning away from Hampelmann, “Frau Basser pleaded with me that those whom she’d accused not be arrested. I pray that you will show mercy.”

  “Do I not order that witches who confess and repent be strangled or beheaded before they’re burned? But just as the surgeon is cruel in cauterizing a wound, so must we be cruel in burning away bad flesh from good. If it became known that condemned witches could retract their accusations of others, all of them would do so. Why would they not want their accomplices to go free?” The Prince-Bishop’s face hardened. “Frau Rosen – along with all the others – shall be brought in for investigation. As the law requires.”

  The Prince-Bishop considered the broad tapestry covering one wall. Hampelmann could not see the scene clearly, but he knew it depicted the martyrdom of Saint Kilian, who’d brought Christianity to Würzburg more than 600 years ago, then been murdered by Turkish infidels right there in Marienberg.

  “We must be as dedicated to the true faith as Saint Kilian,” said the Prince-Bishop. “And just as courageous.”

  Father Herzeim reached out to touch the gold cross on the reliquary. “Saint Kilian converted by words, not the sword. These women need religious instruction, not death.”

  “Saint Kilian died by the sword,” said Hampelmann, “murdered by those who would not be converted by words. Witches will do the same to us if we allow them to live.”

  5

  15 April 1626

  Eva had roused the journeymen hours before dawn. Talking quietly to each other, the two men worked at long wooden tables worn smooth and shiny by years of kneaded dough. With floured hands, Eva shaped sweet buns, the only bread the bakers’ trade corporation allowed her to mix and bake.

  There had been four journeymen before Jacob died, but two had left, taunted into quitting “a workshop run by a woman.” Eva was glad they were gone. Barley and rye had become so dear she could not have paid wages to four men.

  She suspected the other two stay
ed only because each yet hoped to marry her, Herr Rosen’s widow, and thereby gain the position of master baker. Both were hard steady workers, and Herr Stolz, with his sandy hair and strong teeth, could even be considered handsome. Watching his muscled arms and shoulders lifting heavy trays from the ovens, she’d been tempted, more than once, to invite him to her bed. She had little doubt he’d accept the invitation. But Eva knew how men changed when they got what they wanted. Before their marriage, Jacob, a childless widower, had been kind and attentive whenever she came in his bakery to buy bread. After they wed, he was gentle at first, and appreciative that she knew her numbers and could keep the accounts. He was delighted when Eva conceived so soon, but when she gave him only Katharina, his disposition hardened. He cared little that his daughter was born early, so small and scrawny the midwife predicted she would not survive. Jacob cared only that Katharina was not a son, and that her foot was misshapen. Later, Katharina’s limp would sometimes provoke him to rage.

  In the succeeding years, Jacob worked as diligently as an old man could to achieve an heir, and when he could not manage a husband’s duties, he blamed Eva, wondering aloud about midwives’ potions and witches’ spells. It had been nearly three years since Jacob’s death, but Eva could still recall the blows of the birch rod on her back and, even more painfully, the thud it made striking Katharina.

  Eva slapped a sweet bun onto the greased tray. Her reluctance to remarry had cost her a few customers, hausfrauen who now went to other bakeries. The women who remained sometimes studied Eva from the corners of their eyes. They might as well speak their suspicions aloud, Eva thought, and simply ask whose husband warmed her bed. A flush rose from her neck to her cheeks, and she again felt the anger, and the shame, she’d known the day she dared to wear a blue gown instead of her widow’s weeds. She’d felt the women’s sharp measuring looks, and less than an hour after the bakery opened, she went upstairs to change back to her black gown, though it reeked of stale sweat and wood smoke.