Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  It would be a mercy really, saving the children from eternal damnation.

  Hampelmann studied Anna’s profile, her lips moving as she read poetry to herself. So innocent. Could one so young, just ten years old, really be capable of witchcraft? Boguet thought so. And Hampelmann knew that children were conceived and born in sin; it was only the rite of baptism that exorcised the Devil from them. For some, that exorcism was incomplete. Their natures were flawed. Just as women’s natures were flawed – even if they weren’t witches. It was only after reading Der Hexenhammer that Hampelmann fully understood the true nature of women.

  He went to the shelf and exchanged Discours des sorciers for the Dominicans’ manual. He snapped open the tabs and flipped through the pages. Yes, there it was. He squinted to bring the print into focus. And it should be noted that there was a defect in the formation of the first woman, since she was formed from a bent rib, that is, a rib of the breast, which is bent as it were in a contrary direction to a man. And since through this defect she is an imperfect animal, she always deceives. And it is clear in the case of the first woman that she had little faith...And all this is indicated by the etymology of the word; for Femina comes from Fe and Minus, since she is ever weaker to hold and preserve the faith...Therefore a wicked woman is by her nature quicker to waver in her faith, and consequently quicker to abjure the faith, which is the root of witchcraft...And, indeed, just as through the first defect in their intelligence they are more prone to abjure the faith; so through their second defect of inordinate affections and passions they search for, brood over, and inflict various vengeances, either by witchcraft, or by some other means. Wherefore it is no wonder that so great a number of witches exist in this sex.

  Lifting the goblet, Hampelmann looked again at Anna. How could he keep her from growing up to be deceptive and lustful? He’d already noticed hints of a coy seductiveness and a bold outspokenness – and had moved at once to quash these tendencies. He disciplined his daughter severely whenever she spoke a sharp or defiant word, smiled flirtatiously, or flashed her pale blue eyes. He’d have no sharp-tongued harpy or seductress in his household. He held before his daughter the image of the Holy Mother, a genuinely pious woman, a silent woman. And his efforts seemed to be bearing fruit. Anna was learning to keep her eyes modestly down-turned, her smile demure, her voice soft, and to speak only when addressed.

  Hampelmann was also reassured by the fact that there’d been no sin to taint Anna’s birth. True, he was chagrined that she was born almost nine months to the day after he and Helena were married. Their lust made public. But there’d been no sin. He and Helena had waited. And now he struggled to keep his lust strictly in check, as did Helena. They loved chastely, in the way God intended, a model for Anna to follow.

  Reaching down to stroke Wache’s head, Hampelmann caught a thumbnail on his breeches. He took a small knife from the drawer and pared the ragged nail. There was no fire in the hearth, so he tucked the paring into the pocket that held Anna’s strand of hair. With so many witches around, he was scrupulous about disposing of nail parings as well as hair and clippings from his beard. Anything that could possibly be used in a charm against him or his family went into the flames.

  He rested his elbows on the desk and felt himself slipping into a familiar despondency. It was occurring more and more often lately. No matter how many miles he walked, no matter what teas the maidservant prepared, his melancholy hovered nearby, always at the ready to enclose him like a dark shroud. It made him feel fatigued and listless, unable to carry out his duties with his former zeal.

  Hoping to find a cure, he’d read widely about the condition, finding comfort in Aristotle’s observation that a certain amount of cold black bile was necessary for genius. It had pained him, though, to read that Saint Thomas Aquinas considered melancholia a sickness of the soul and believed that a melancholic’s despair suggested that he was not sufficiently suffused with joy at the certain knowledge of God’s divine love and mercy. Now, during his morning prayers and meditations, Hampelmann prayed for a stronger faith, prayed to know joy. But his melancholy clung tenaciously, black bile flowing through his body.

  He’d also read Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. Despite his being an Anglican clergyman and, therefore, in some ways heretical, Burton’s contention that miseries encompass life and that it is folly to look for perpetual happiness made sense to Hampelmann. He also found agreeable Burton’s observation that the disposition of melancholy men brought about a kind of enthusiasmus that caused them to be excellent philosophers, poets, and prophets. But Burton’s recommendations to “open up” to friends and to seek out mirth, music, and merry company were beyond ludicrous. Hampelmann couldn’t imagine talking to anyone but his physician about his dark moods. And how, when the world was nearing the end-time and evil abounded on all sides, was one to find mirth, music, and merry company?

  Recently, Hampelmann had acquired a far more reasonable book by Marsilio Ficino. He fastened the tabs on Der Hexenhammer, stood, and slid it back onto the shelf. He reached for Ficino’s book and turned to chapter six: “How Black Bile Makes People Intelligent.”

  20

  23 April 1626

  Lutz walked swiftly along Dommerschulstrasse, eager to reach the university, both to get out of the rain and to meet with Father Herzeim. His most pressing concern was that the commissioners wanted to examine the accused under torture at the next day’s hearing. The Carolina Code strictly forbade torture unless there was sufficient evidence that a crime had been committed. Except in the case of the midwife, the evidence was exceedingly sparse. Yet, if he wasn’t allowed to challenge the accusers or the evidence or to interrupt the proceedings with questions, how could he protect the old beggar, Fraulein Spatz, and Frau Rosen? Should he protect them? The other commissioners seemed to have little doubt the women were guilty, and those men all had far more experience with witches than he did. The dilemma had vexed Lutz all night long, roiling his thoughts and dreams.

  And then there was the question of calling an eleven-year old girl as a witness against her own mother. Lutz had never heard of such a thing.

  He yawned broadly, so tired he could hardly think. Not only had he slept poorly, he’d also spent the entire morning sitting through a dreary city council meeting, during which Hampelmann had proposed some nonsense about rounding up mongrels. Shaking his head, Lutz pulled his flapping cape back over his shoulders. In the midst of all the city’s turmoil – witches, threats of war from the north, reports of plague from Offenbach, hardly more than fifty miles to the west, grain shortages and the ever increasing number of beggars – Hampelmann expected the councilmen to worry about stray dogs?

  Lutz had come home to dinner exhausted, and while Maria changed his soiled cuffs, she lectured him about his health and his need for rest. He nearly fell asleep over his soup. Even so, after dinner, he kept an appointment with a goldsmith who wanted clarifications in a contract Lutz had overseen several months earlier. It had been a relief to think about something as simple and straightforward as a contract. Soon after the goldsmith left, however, Lutz found himself fretting again about the hearings. It was then that he decided to visit Father Herzeim, both to seek advice and to warn him about Hampelmann’s suspicions, even if they were unfounded.

  Lutz huffed as he climbed the stone steps. He passed by several students in the corridor, paused outside the priest’s office to wipe his sweating brow, then rapped on the door. At the muffled ja, he cracked it open. Father Herzeim sat at the desk. Across from him sat a sallow young man with a patchy beard, whose thin arms enclosed a tall stack of ledgers and books.

  “Come in, Herr Lutz, come in.” Father Herzeim turned back to the student. “We can continue this discussion tomorrow morning, Herr Schelhar. I recommend that you re-read what the Carolina Code has to say about theft of Church property, specifically articles 157 and 171, and then re-consider your interpretation of the recent opinion published by the theologians at the University of Cologne.”


  The young man gathered up his books and nodded deferentially toward Father Herzeim. Clearly annoyed at the interruption, he walked past Lutz without so much as a glance.

  Lutz closed the door, shook off his dripping hat and cape, and laid them aside. “Good news, Father. The commission is recommending that Herr Silberhans be released.”

  Father Herzeim put his hands together as if to pray and looked upward. “Good. They’ve made the right decision. And the others?”

  Lutz sat down in the chair recently vacated by the student. The seat was still warm. “They’re to be questioned again tomorrow.”

  “Tortured?”

  Lutz combed his fingers through his beard. “Perhaps, though the evidence warrants it only in the case of Frau Lamm.”

  “Remind the commissioners of Article 109 of the Carolina Code. It directs jurists to consult with the law faculty of the nearest university before proceeding with torture.” Father Herzeim closed the ledger in front of him. “But since they’ve ignored that article before, your strongest argument is to remind them again that there must be evidence – more than just hearsay. Though the executioner and Father Streng will be deaf, Herr Hampelmann and Chancellor Brandt may yield to reason. If you can convince –”

  “But do you think they’re guilty? If they are, they should be examined under torture.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. The evidence is entirely circumstantial, but I’ve had so little experience with witches. And if all the other commissioners believe they’re guilty...” Lutz raised his hands, palms up. “I’ve never known a witch, or at least I don’t think I have. I don’t know what to look for. You’ve known dozens. What do you think?”

  The priest rubbed at a blemish on the ledger’s leather binding. “The old woman suffers from ill health and dementia, but is harmless, I think. As to the midwife, it could be that she gives desperate young frauleins herbs, and it could be that Fraulein Spatz took such herbs. But is that a crime worthy of death?”

  “The Church says it is.”

  “True, but you know better than I that there’s no real proof that either of them did so. There is only a secret birth and a baby nobody wanted, who apparently died in the womb. But no evidence that anyone killed it deliberately.”

  “If the women are tortured, won’t they tell us that?”

  Father Herzeim’s face looked pained, as if he had an agonizing griping in his bowels. “If they’re tortured, they’ll tell you anything.”

  “But isn’t torture supposed to free the defendant from the Devil’s grasp and elicit truth?”

  “That’s the theory, but I have my doubts.”

  “Doubts?” Lutz slid forward on the chair. “Damn, if Jesuits have doubts, what are the rest of us supposed to think?”

  “Precisely that. Think.”

  “I’m not sure anymore what to think.” Lutz slid back on the chair, which wobbled beneath his weight. “Based on your experience, Father, do you believe these women are witches? If they are, I should not help the Devil by defending them.”

  Father Herzeim picked up a white quill and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. He watched it spin. “By reputation, Frau Lamm is known to help, not harm. And to be honest, but perhaps unkind, Fraulein Spatz seems too simple to be a witch. Why would the Devil enlist women who are stupid? How could they possibly help him? Nein, I think their real crime is being poor. And being sinners.” He gave Lutz a sidelong glance. “Just like the rest of us.”

  “I don’t know, the midwife seems wicked to me. I think that one is guilty. And what about Frau Rosen? She’s not poor, and she’s certainly not stupid.”

  “I can’t figure out why Frau Rosen was arrested. I suspect Herr Hampelmann had Herr Silberhans arrested in order to get at me. But Frau Rosen?” The priest hunched his shoulders.

  “So you know then that Hampelmann has suspicions about you?”

  “I know.”

  “Yesterday he even warned me not to seek advice from you.”

  “I warned you not to seek advice from me.”

  “Ja, you did.” Lutz smiled uneasily. “But Herr Hampelmann can’t really believe you’re a sceptic or a defender of witches. He’s just irritated with the questions you raise and your complaints to the Prince-Bishop.”

  “I think he’s more serious than that. Be careful, Lutz.”

  “Ach, he’d never accuse me of being a defender of witches. He knows I’m just trying to carry out the responsibilities assigned to me.”

  Lutz rubbed his hands on the damp scratchy wool covering his thighs. “And in carrying out those responsibilities, the question I keep coming back to is the question of their innocence. Couldn’t it be that Frau Rosen was arrested precisely because she is a witch?”

  “By all accounts, she’s devoted to the Church.”

  “But it’s common knowledge that witches are skilled at appearing pious and innocent.” Lutz pulled on his ear. “I have to admit, though, the evidence against her is hardly compelling.” He whistled through his teeth. “And what a beauty...even with her hair shaved off.”

  “I suppose.”

  Suppose? Lutz examined his friend’s stern countenance. Father Herzeim was a priest, but he was still a man, wasn’t he? Or were Jesuits dead from the neck down? “I do wish I could get the names of the people who reported Frau Rosen to the Malefizamt,” said Lutz. “Then I could determine if their claims have any merit.”

  “But you can’t, can you?”

  “Nein, the Malefizamt won’t release any names. Too dangerous for the accusers.”

  “So they say. And that means there’s no way to determine whether the accusations made against Frau Rosen were made in good faith...or out of jealousy or maliciousness.”

  Lutz had to look away from the priest’s accusing eyes. He bent down to pull up his sagging hose and tucked them under the cuffs of his breeches. Father Herzeim’s criticisms went straight to the heart of his own doubts.

  “I can’t say I like the way these hearings are conducted,” said Lutz. “Nor do I like the secrecy.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I’m disobeying Chancellor Brandt’s admonition about secrecy just by discussing these matters with you.”

  “Nein, you’re complying with Article 109: consulting with law faculty at the nearest university.”

  “Even so, could we call this visit a confession?”

  “Never would I break your confidence.”

  Lutz pulled at the lace on his starched white cuffs, already smudged. He’d come here for Father Herzeim’s advice, so he might as well share with the priest all of his doubts and concerns.

  “Relaxing the rules of evidence and accepting testimony from disreputable witnesses makes me uneasy,” he said. “It seems ridiculous to accept malicious gossip as evidence. And grossly unfair that the accused cannot confront their accusers. Yet, when I question the evidence or the commission’s procedures, Chancellor Brandt orders me, the defence lawyer, to be silent.” Lutz could feel his frustration mounting, but there was also relief in finally releasing it, like steam escaping from a closed pot.

  He stood and began to pace. “Now they’re even considering calling Frau Rosen’s daughter to testify against her. I can hardly believe it: a child testifying against her own mother. It’s a violation of the Carolina Code. But I know already what Father Streng will say if I raise an objection: witchcraft is an exceptional crime.”

  “Crimen exceptum.” Father Herzeim spat the words. “Eliminates all legal restrictions. Listen, Lutz, you must talk with Katharina. She must understand that the commissioners will try to trick her into implicating her mother. And herself. She must be very, very careful in how she answers.”

  Lutz leaned forward. “Are you telling me to advise her to lie?”

  “Nein. Only to be careful.”

  “And what if Frau Rosen is guilty? What if she has pulled her daughter into her foul rites and rituals? What is Katharina to say then?”

  “They are inno
cent.”

  “Do you believe any of the accused is guilty?”

  Father Herzeim smoothed the quill, intently, as if it were a task of major importance. “I do not doubt there are witches,” he said at last, “but I do not believe the newly accused are among them. What I do believe is that the way the trials are conducted – with relaxed rules of evidence, confessions made under torture, and the requirement that accused witches name accomplices – always creates more witches, most of whom are innocent.”

  “Most of them innocent? That cannot be so.” Lutz sank into the chair. “In a crime as secret as witchcraft, the naming of accomplices seems a perfectly reasonable way to identify other witches. How else could we know about them?” He chewed his lip. “I have to admit, though, I’m confused about it all, especially when Herr Freude contends that condemned witches conspired together to accuse Herr Silberhans, an innocent. Couldn’t that be true for any of the others as well? And yet the fact that all three condemned witches named the same five accomplices suggests guilt...until I consider Frau Basser’s claim that names were suggested to her. I once thought her claim preposterous. Now I’m not sure...of anything. What do you think?”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Because she’s a witch.”

  Father Herzeim flicked the quill into the air. The white feather floated lightly to the floor. “That’s always the answer, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why there are so many witches in Würzburg.”

  “You don’t think there are?”

  “I don’t think there are nearly so many as the commissioners manage to find.”