Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  Hampelmann passed the gavel to Judge Steinbach. It shook in his hand. “We must come to order now,” he said, looking sourly at a small gold watch. “We are already late.” Grimacing, he pushed himself up, straightened his rheumatic knees, and crossed himself, as did the councilmen, who then muttered the Latin invocation with which they began their morning meetings.

  “Ad majorem Dei gloriam. Amen,” wheezed the judge, crossing himself again. He passed the gavel back to Hampelmann.

  Bayer pushed the ledger toward Hampelmann, who squinted at the open pages. “Councilman Rausch,” said Hampelmann, “have the gatekeepers been informed of the council’s decision not to allow strangers into the city nor any citizens who are returning from cities with plague?”

  Rausch rose from his seat beside Lutz. “They have been so directed.”

  Hampelmann nodded, then continued. “At the meeting on Monday last, Councilman Rausch, you were assigned the task of investigating the recent increase in requests for begging licenses. Do you have a report for the council?”

  Rausch dipped his head toward the three burgomasters and then at the assembled councilmen, who sat on two long benches facing each other, eleven to a bench. Rausch held up his open ledger. “My enquiries reveal that the unprecedented increase in requests for licenses is, not surprisingly, related to the poor harvests of last fall, which left Würzburg with exceedingly low grain stores.” He turned to the Würzburg Grain Steward, who nodded his agreement.

  “Finding no work in the countryside,” Rausch said, “a large number of day labourers and their families have come into the city. Finding no work here, they resort to begging. The question before the council is whether to increase the number of licenses given out. Those who argue in the affirmative claim that people are starving and if additional licenses are not issued, people will die.”

  A few councilmen watched Rausch intently. Others, their faces blank, gazed at the smouldering fire in the hearth. Still others studied their hands. Judge Steinbach’s chin, with its tuft of white beard, rested on his chest. His eyes were closed, and his long white hair had fallen forward. Obviously, thought Lutz, it wasn’t the question of begging licenses that had brought the burgomaster to the meeting.

  “Those who argue in the negative,” said Rausch, “claim that people of a certain station will beg, with or without a license. This point seems well taken, as we have all witnessed the increase in beggars in Würzburg, licensed or not.”

  Staring at the large arched window behind the row of black-robed councilmen, Lutz imagined the hordes of ragged children just outside. They loitered near the town hall, on the cathedral steps, all along Domstrasse, and everywhere in the marketplace, begging and picking through piles of refuse. What Rausch said was true: their numbers were increasing daily. No matter where Lutz went, they followed, their voices trailing after him, high and plaintive. Maria scolded him for the number of pfennigs he gave out – never mind that she was guilty of distributing far more. She could not bring herself to turn away from the small open palm of a child, especially a little girl’s.

  Rausch raised a thick forefinger, poking it forward for emphasis. “Secondly, the primary advantage to withholding licenses is that, lacking a license, beggars can be expelled from Würzburg should their continued presence threaten the well-being of the citizens.” He paused expectantly.

  “Comments?” said Hampelmann.

  Lutz stood, smoothing his robes over his belly. “Last year’s cold spring hit the whole of the Rhine valley. Harvests were poor everywhere. No town has any grain to spare.”

  “Ja?” said Hampelmann.

  “If we expel people from Würzburg,” said Lutz, “we are almost certainly condemning them to starvation.”

  Rausch sighed loudly. “But they would not be Würzburg’s responsibility. They would be outside the city walls.” He waved his closed ledger. “And away from the city, they could search the meadows and woods for roots, wild birds and hares, new spring growth, that sort of thing. They might even be better off if we forced them to leave.”

  Herr Meier, a master carpenter, stood. “But haven’t you just told us, Councilman Rausch, that people have fled the countryside because they can find nothing to eat?”

  Rausch gave Meier a patronizing smile. “Nein, Councilman Meier, I did not say that. I said they had come into the city because there is no work for them in the countryside.”

  “But there are so many children,” said Lutz.

  Hampelmann held up both hands, palms out. “Danke, Councilman Rausch, your report and the comments of Councilman Lutz and Councilman Meier are all well taken. But first and foremost, we must remember the teachings of our Lord, and be generous to those less fortunate than ourselves. We must take pity on those who suffer. And look, instead, to punish those agents of the Devil responsible for their suffering.” He banged the gavel. “Are we prepared to vote on the question of increasing the number of begging licenses issued by...one quarter?”

  “One quarter?” grumbled Rausch.

  Hampelmann banged the gavel again. “Those in favour?” He raised his own hand.

  “Ja!” said Lutz and Meier. Under Hampelmann’s stern gaze, Bayer and at least a dozen other councilmen voiced a staccato chorus of jas.

  “Those opposed?”

  A few disgruntled neins from Rausch and the remaining councilmen rumbled through the council room.

  Bayer dipped his quill and recorded the vote.

  Hampelmann glanced at Bayer’s ledger. “It is decided then. Eighteen jas to six neins. I shall direct the city office to increase the number of begging licenses issued by one quarter.” He picked up the ledger. “Burgomaster Bayer,” he said, “do you have a report on the allegations of rape made by...” he brought the pages closer to his face “Frau Greta Himmel against Herr Karl Seiler?”

  Bayer stood. “I do, and the allegations have proved to be groundless. Herr Seiler, a respected goldsmith and a trade corporation master known to nearly all of us, does not deny that he has known Frau Himmel.” He surveyed the councilmen, his pale eyebrows arched. “But he denies the woman’s charges.”

  Bayer leaned forward. His words floated like a conspiratorial whisper on the hazy smoke from the hearth. “After all, gentlemen, Frau Himmel was married for thirteen years. She’s been a widow for five. It stretches credibility to imagine that such a woman, so long without a man, would spurn the attentions of Herr Seiler, or those of any other man for that matter.”

  There was soft knowing laughter throughout the room. Lutz found himself chuckling as well.

  Hampelmann banged the gavel. “Gentlemen, lust and fornication are hardly to be laughed at. Lust is the Devil’s tool. And it’s no secret that Herr Seiler is much given to lustful indulgences. Burgomaster Bayer, are you certain there’s no merit to Frau Himmel’s charges? She’s reputed to be a pious and honourable woman.”

  Bayer waved his hand dismissively. “Nein. Herr Seiler’s journeyman, Herr Konrad Lambrecht, is willing to testify that he saw Frau Himmel encourage Herr Seiler’s attentions. Albeit, as a matter of record, it should be noted that, because Herr Seiler has damaged the honour of his trade corporation, the other masters have agreed to discipline him for his indiscretions. They have levied a fine of five gulden.”

  The trade masters among the councilmen nodded their approval.

  “Are there any objections to dismissing Frau Himmel’s charges against Herr Seiler?” said Hampelmann.

  The room was silent but for the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats.

  “Done then,” said Hampelmann. He nudged the sleeping judge.

  Jerking to attention, Judge Steinbach sat up. He took the gavel from Hampelmann. “The next order of business,” he said, “is the impending inquisition into the accusations made by the three witches who were executed Tuesday last.”

  Lutz’s stomach lurched. So that was why Judge Steinbach had come to the meeting: witches, not taxes.

  “I have been informed by the Prince-Bishop�
�s bailiff that all five of the accused–’’ the judge read from his own ledger “–Frau Eva Rosen, Frau Lilie Lamm, Frau Gertrude Bettler, Fraulein Ursula Spatz, and Herr Christoph Silberhans – are now in custody. The first question before us is: Do we wish to retain the services of Herr Georg Freude?”

  Bayer sneered. “The man is vulgar and offensive, but he seems an able executioner, quite skilled at eliciting confessions.”

  “I agree,” said Meier. “Herr Freude knows his business. And his fees are not unreasonable. I recommend he be retained.”

  “Do you all agree?” said Judge Steinbach. There were nods from both benches.

  Bayer recorded the decision, then picked up a small ivory-handled knife and sharpened the quill with a few quick strokes.

  “The second question,” said Judge Steinbach, “concerns the Commission of Inquisition for the Würzburg Court. As judge of the court, I will, of course, preside at the preliminary inquisition. Prince-Bishop Philipp Adolf has appointed his chancellor, Herr Doktor Johann Brandt, to represent the central government. Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann is to represent the Malefizamt. His Grace has also appointed Father Streng from the Cathedral Chapter and Upper City Council. The physician, Herr Doktor Hans Lindner, has also been reappointed. That leaves only the representative from the Lower City Council.”

  The councilmen looked at the floor, the windows, their hands, the hearth. Through his robes, Lutz toyed nervously with a loose button on his doublet.

  Judge Steinbach blinked his watery eyes. “His Grace has honoured Herr Doktor Franz Lutz with the appointment.”

  Lutz’s hand jerked. The copper button hit the slate floor with a ping that echoed off the walls.

  Hampelmann regarded him with undisguised contempt. “You agree then to serve, Councilman Lutz?”

  Lutz pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his wet palms, then mopped the sweat from his brow. “Ja,” he squeaked, his throat tight.

  Walking from the town hall to his home on Augustinerstrasse, Lutz looked up toward the Prince-Bishop’s castle high atop Marienberg Mountain, its pale towers gleaming in the sunlight. He tried to convince himself that the appointment was a good thing. If he served well on the commission, His Grace might reward him with an appointment to the Upper City Council, perhaps even as second burgomaster when old Judge Steinbach finally died and Hampelmann took his place.

  Maria, the wife of a burgomaster. She would be so pleased and proud.

  The sun was almost directly overhead. Lutz felt its warmth on his face. Pink blossoms covered the cherry trees, the fallen petals forming a carpet beneath his feet. Hadn’t both the Dominicans and the Jesuits written that God protects those who do his work? Hampelmann himself was evidence of that. He’d served on the commission time and time again, and he and his family prospered.

  As soon as Lutz stepped through the doorway, Maria began fussing. He feigned mild irritation while she tut-tutted over his rumpled doublet and the missing button, straightened his wide white collar, and made him pull up his sagging hose. She sat him down in the dining room, then bustled about, setting the table with silver and porcelain. They retained two maidservants, but Maria preferred to prepare and serve meals herself.

  Breathing in the heady fragrance of simmering carp and onions, Lutz felt his stomach begin to settle, then rumble with hunger. He watched his wife open the damask drapes to let in the midday sun. Twenty-four years of predictable fussing, predictable ritual. Some men found it constricting. Lutz found it comforting. He’d never tell her so, but he’d miss it if Maria didn’t fuss. And he enjoyed the good food and drink prepared by his wife’s capable hands. He laced his fingers over his protruding belly. He knew what the parish priest said, but was it really such a grievous sin to enjoy God’s gifts? Did it make him any less holy to be portly, to savour what he ate and drank?

  Maria lifted silver spoons from a drawer, her back to Lutz. He considered the ample curves under her plain dark gown, the long silver-streaked hair, plaited and coiled under her embroidered matron’s cap. He recalled then, with some discomfort, Frau Himmel’s charges against Herr Seiler, his own laughter at her presumed lustfulness, the lustfulness of all women. Except Maria, of course. Maria was different. She was affectionate, but he would hardly call her lustful.

  He watched his wife’s graceful hands as she set a spoon and knife before him. He smiled into her smile, so familiar. Lutz sighed then, with gratitude and with mild longing. He was grateful that Maria was more virtuous than other women were. But he couldn’t help thinking that a little show of lust now and again might well be a very pleasant thing. Lately, since her courses had stopped, Maria had shown hardly any inclination at all, and he’d begun to wonder if her only real source of desire had been her desperate longing for a child.

  Maria set a covered tureen on the table, left the dining room, and returned with a plate of dark bread.

  There had been a child, years ago. They’d waited eight long years, through half a dozen miscarriages and stillbirths, for a living child. But the tiny girl took only one short breath, let out one weak whimper. She had not been baptized, and now her soul dwelt in limbo. Every morning, without fail, Maria went to Saint Kilian’s Cathedral, lit a candle for the child’s soul, and prayed. Her prayers saddened Lutz, and he recalled with deep sorrow and anger the words the parish priest offered as comfort to his wife.

  He stared at the dust motes floating in the small square of sunlight. If only he’d recognized the book the priest had pulled from the shelf, he would have stopped him from reading to her the words of the Jesuit, Martin Delrio, cruel words Lutz had regretted so many times they were etched into his memory: If, as is not uncommon, God permits children to be killed before they have been baptized, it is to prevent their committing in later life those sins which would make their damnation more severe. In this, God is neither cruel nor unjust, since, by the mere fact of original sin, the children have already merited death. At hearing those words, Maria had wept even harder, begging the priest to tell her how she could pray the child into heaven. He could not. He had no more words to give her.

  There had been several conceptions since, but no living children. Lutz felt almost relieved that Maria’s courses had stopped, that there would be no new grief for his wife to bear. She had a surfeit of old ones.

  Only a few months ago, the same dull-witted priest had pulled Lutz aside, his breath reeking of wine. He congratulated Lutz on his recent appointment to the Lower City Council. “Such a pity,” he’d said then, “that you have no son to carry on your tradition of service to Würzburg. Yet a woman’s barrenness is a judgement from God.” Lutz had spun away, his fists clenched, ready to strike the priest’s doughy face. No, his wife was not to blame for their childlessness. How could the priest, or God, for that matter, find fault with the gentle and generous Maria?

  She set a bowl of soup in front of him, filled a bowl for herself, and sat down.

  If she was not to blame, who was? Lutz knew what Der Hexenhammer suggested: It is witchcraft...when a woman is prevented from conceiving, or is made to miscarry after she has conceived. Was it possible his wife’s barrenness was the result of a curse?

  Maria lifted a spoon to her full lips and blew on the steaming broth. “What happened at this morning’s meeting?”

  “The council decided to increase the number of begging licenses issued.”

  “Good. Now if the Grain Steward would just release more rye and barley from the stores.”

  Lutz reached for a thick slice of bread. “There is little enough to release, Maria.”

  “I think there is more than he claims.” She bent her head over the bowl. “What else did the council decide?”

  Lutz pursed his lips. “They voted to dismiss Frau Himmel’s allegations against Herr Seiler.”

  “Fra-a-anz!”

  He held up a hand to ward off her rebuke. “Herr Meier’s investigation found no grounds,” he said.

  “No grounds? Everyone knows Herr Seiler is a pig.”


  “A pig? He’s a respectable goldsmith, a trade master.”

  “Respectable to men perhaps. To women, he’s a schwein. No woman wants to go into his shop alone.”

  “Is this just women’s gossip? Or is there something you haven’t told me?”

  She bowed her head. “It is shameful to speak of such things.” Lutz studied her down-turned face. “Maria?”

  “We must not speak of it. The poor woman will be humiliated by the council’s decision.” She toyed with her spoon and knife. “What else?”

  Lutz swallowed. “I’ve been appointed to the Commission of Inquisition.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “It is my duty as a city councilman.”

  “But it’s so dangerous.” She blinked back tears.

  “Where is your faith, Maria? God protects those who do his work.” Lutz laid a hand over hers. To comfort her? Or himself? “We will be safe.”

  9

  17 April 1626

  Lutz walked slowly along the narrow street, his fingers combing absently through his beard. He stopped and leaned against the stone wall of a courtyard. The unopened buds held the promise of colour amidst the drab greys and browns of mud and stone and wood, a promise that would normally gladden Lutz’s winter-weary heart. But on this sunny afternoon, he felt faint-hearted, not light-hearted. Despite his brave words to Maria, and to himself, he was afraid, and ashamed of his fear.

  He breathed deeply of the soft spring air, taking in the sweet fragrance of the white blooms of a horse chestnut, then proceeded on. He could think of no better man to seek out for advice than the final confessor for condemned witches. Father Herzeim knew their wicked ways better than anyone. Certainly he could tell Lutz how to protect himself and Maria from their vindictiveness.