by Anne Boileau
“So is it just that? You want to marry and have children, is that it?”
“No, it’s not only that. Times are changing, don’t you sense that too? The old ways are going out, it’s new and exciting and it should be open for us young ones to go out there and be part of the new way. Even Reverend Mother talks about it, about the reforms: she thinks it’s because of printing, ideas spread so fast. Don’t you feel restless too, and excited, Tante? Don’t you feel confined, restricted, frustrated? I know we took our vows but we no longer feel it’s what God wants of us. It seems a waste of our lives, to be locked up inside these walls. Holy Mary, we could scream sometimes with frustration!”
“I can see that. But it’s different for me. I’m older than you. This is my home, my way of life. I can’t imagine anything else. And as for babies, well, I’ve missed the boat on that.” She laughed and began to hum a song about a dove: ‘Too late, too late, it’s too late for you.’
“So, my rebellious niece, what plans are you and your friends hatching?”
“Nothing definite as yet. But we’re thinking about it. Whispering. Planning our escape.”
“Kathe, do you realise how dangerous it is to run away from a convent? Any lay person caught helping you to escape could be hanged. Think about it. It’s a mean bad world out there! Men are violent and lewd, you don’t realise what dreadful things they can do to women. I’m worried about you, and fearful for you.”
“Oh Tante, you mustn’t worry. Whatever we do, we’ll be careful. Ave has written to her family, they might help. Or else we might even write to Dr Luther. If I had to stay here for the rest of my life I would end up like Sister Ruth, I’d go down with wanhope! Or I’d throw myself out of the tower room window and land splat on the ground, ready for an unsanctified burial!” We both laughed.
“You’re a dreadful girl. But I love you, and want the best for you. I’m not saying I’ll help you, but if you need advice, you know I’m here. Have you written to your father?”
“No. He wouldn’t understand and anyway he never answers my letters. He and Stepmother are dead set against Dr Luther and his reforms as I’m sure you know. Dear Tante, thank you for being so understanding.”
We got up from the bench and turned towards the Abbey, its towers and roofs silhouetted against the darkening sky, a few lights appearing in windows. I gave her a big hug as we parted. I knew in my heart that she would help us escape if need be. And that evening I became resolved to escape, even if it killed me.
Chapter 7
Escape to Wittenberg
Ihr habt einen gnädigen Gott, der will euch nicht würgen. Ein Christ soll und muss ein fröhlicher Mensch sein.
You have a merciful God who does not wish to throttle you. A Christian should, indeed has a duty to be, a happy person.
Ave and I began to hatch our plans. We drew in accomplices one by one, other young nuns who we knew were also feeling like caged birds, longing to stretch their wings and fly. We knew it was risky, that if we were caught we could be punished or even sentenced to death, but by now we simply didn’t care. Eventually nine of us were secretly plotting our escape; we never passed notes, but conveyed our latest plans in whispers when we were alone, or made signs at meal times to arrange secret assignations. These were the names of the plotting sisters: Magdalena, Elisabeth, Leneta, Brigitte, Veronika, Margret, Anna, Ave and me.
Imagine it! To travel, to see market towns and different landscapes: mountains, forests. Famous cities, such as Dresden, Meissen, Torgau; Eisenach with its famous castle, the Wartburg, where we heard the great Martin Luther had spent eighteen months; the Elbe sandstone mountains, the enormous hill fort called Königstein. Such names had a magic ring, I could see them in my mind’s eye, from what I had heard or read, and wondered whether I would ever visit such places.
We imagined the joy of conversation, the excitement of argument; to meet men of our own age and class, who were well travelled and educated, to listen to their discussions and learn from them. Above all, I have to admit, we wanted to experience love, sex and marriage, to be mothers. Martin Luther said that this was the best thing a woman could do, that it was our destiny to bear and raise children, there was no nobler activity. We were all now in our mid-twenties. We knew that if we left it much longer our sands would run out, and we would die barren spinsters.
Ave sent a secret message home to her favourite brother, pleading with him to help her, but he refused, as did her widowed mother. They would not sanction her plans for escape, saying the convent was the safest place. So, several months later, Ave wrote a letter to the great Dr Luther himself. She showed it to me before sending it.
Dear Dr Luther
We are nine nuns in need of help. You have written that nuns should not be kept within convent walls by force. You say that if nuns wish to discard the veil and lead a godly life in the outside world they should be free to do so. You also write that chastity is not for everyone, and that God created women to be with men and bear children. For these two reasons we want to leave the convent, but our families will not help us. We are writing to ask for your help, so that we can leave this convent and start a new life.
We waited in trepidation. Had the letter got there safely, to Wittenberg? Post was so unreliable, even though Sister Clara had sent it with a sympathetic tradesman.
“I cannot help you directly,” she had said to Ave and me.
“But I can help you send letters in secret if you like. I know a traveller who frequently drives to Wittenberg. He will take a letter to Dr Luther for you.”
He did not reply directly. But six weeks later a note came in with a pot of ointment for my sore hands. They get cracked and infected in the cold weather, and this cream came from a special pharmacy in Torgau. So I opened the pot of ointment, and under the lid, folded very small, and separated from the ointment by waxed paper, was a note, in a neat hand.
“Herrings to be delivered on Good Friday. Be ready to leave shortly after nightfall. Wear black cloaks, no luggage. Empty barrels on wagon, get into them. ML.”
Oh dear Mary, Mother of God, what had we let ourselves in for? Was it too late to back out?
Palm Sunday broke clear, cool and bright. It was one of the Sundays when the villagers came to us, a young man dressed as Jesus riding on a donkey, followed by other villagers waving rushes. We all lined the road and cheered him as he passed, strewing his way with the rushes – which represent palms – and sang hymns. But in our hearts we were full of dread for the coming Friday.
The whole of that week we could not sleep. We were sick with terror at what we were about to do. Anna was physically sick at supper and had to go to her bed, and Sister Clara thought she must have influenza.
Yes, we had longed for freedom, as caged birds do; but we were safe in our cage, and knew so little about the world outside. How would they receive us? Would we know how to behave? I knew hardly any men, except the garden boy, the plumber and blacksmith and butchers who came in occasionally; the priest and now and then the bishop.
“I can’t do it, Kathe. I’m going to stay here.” This was Veronika. She was very pale and drawn. “I’ve got a headache and I feel sick. You go. I’ll stay here. I shan’t tell.”
“Have you asked Sister Lena for some powders?”
“No, she might guess something’s up.”
“Roni, she knows already, she alone knows, and she’s my aunt. Come on, we’ll go and find her together, maybe she can prescribe you something and you’ll feel better by Friday. We’ve still got three days to go.”
My aunt was sympathetic. She made up a strong herbal tincture, put it in two bottles and told us all to take a teaspoon three times a day, diluted with beer. It did indeed cure Veronika’s headaches and helped to calm us all down.
Herr Koppe wrote to the Abbess saying that because of the unruly mobs and danger on the roads, he would deliver the usual nine barrels of salt herring himself (he usually employed drivers) on Good Friday when the roads would be safer. The con
vent always provides salt herrings for the village poor at Eastertide as a gesture of thanks and celebration.
From our dormitory window we saw the wagon roll in through the convent gates; we watched with dry mouths as the full barrels were rolled down the ramp into the cellar and twelve empty barrels loaded up onto the wagon. The two horses were led away to the stable to feed and rest while Herr Koppe was invited into the Abbess’s private rooms to take fish broth and bread (but no wine seeing as it was Good Friday). All was quiet as dusk fell. The moon rose, full and bright, and stars began to twinkle. It was cold. But for the first time that week all nine of us felt well. We were excited, frightened, but feeling fired up and ready.
Ave gave a sign. We wrapped the black cloaks about us, and tip-toed down the stone staircase and out into the yard, cursing the moon for shining so bright; praying that no one would look out of a window or walk into the yard, we climbed up onto the wagon and picked a barrel each; I clambered into mine and squatted down, lowering the lid over me. It stank of fish and vinegar and mustiness; my heart thumped like a bell’s clapper and my palms were sweaty. We crouched in our little prisons, very still, no doubt all of us telling our rosaries as hard as we could, saying the Lord’s Prayer, the Nunc Dimitis, anything to ward off the terror, asking God for His protection and mercy. In Latin, of course. It seemed more powerful in Latin. And waited. The door opened, voices in the courtyard, a man, and the Abbess, and another sister. The horses were being led out of the stables, backed into the shafts, hitched up. Restless hooves chafing on the cobbles.
“That’s it, then, Mother. Thank you for the soup. I wish you all a Happy Easter, and enjoy the herrings, they’re the very best, from Lübeck.”
“Fare thee well, Herr Koppe, and thank you for bringing the fish. And a Happy Easter to you and your family too.”
The wagon lurched into motion. Hooves scraped and clattered across the cobbled courtyard; the horses snorted as they got going; we heard the heavy wooden gates swinging open, the night porter’s good wishes, the driver’s farewells. Little did they know, the Abbess, the sisters, the porter, what cargo Herr Koppe was taking away in his wagon. Empty barrels? No. Tonight there would be nine empty seats at supper and nine empty beds in the dormitories. The horses settled into a steady trot and we swung along the road. The driver whistled. Our hearts slowed down, the worst was over.
After what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than twenty minutes in our stifling barrels, Herr Koppe stopped the wagon.
“Out you get, young ladies, stretch your legs, dust yourselves down.” We clambered out of our barrels, climbed down off the wagon and gratefully hid behind some bushes to relieve ourselves. We pulled off our veils and stowed them in a sack and hid them in the ditch. It felt strange having a naked head, because of course as nuns our hair was cropped short.
“We’d better get going now, we’ve a long way to go. Here, you can sit on these sacks in the middle. If we get stopped, they’ll see nothing but barrels. But keep quiet, mind, no laughing or sneezing!”
So the nine of us huddled together, back to back, on a heap of hessian sacks, surrounded by empty barrels, wrapped in our black cloaks. We smelt of fish. But we were free!
It was past midnight by the time we reached the Elbe, and our wagon boarded the ferry to take us across to Torgau. I had never seen such a wide river, and the current seemed so strong, but the ferry was on a chain, and quite safe. Herr Koppe’s kind old mother took us in.
“Look at the poor children, they’re cold and tired and frightened. They’ll be hungry, I’ll be bound.”
She gave us fish broth, seeing as it was Good Friday, which blended in with the fishy smell of our clothes.
“Now you’ll want to sleep. There, you can lay yourselves down on the floor by the stove, I’ve put blankets out for you. Don’t worry about a thing. Tomorrow my son will take you on to Wittenberg. I’ve gathered together some clothes for you, and we’ll cut those habits into rags for the paper mill. Now go to sleep, children and don’t worry about a thing. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
So we slept. Deeper than we’d slept for over a week. The sleep of relief and alleviated tension. The most dangerous part of our adventure was over.
The next morning, that sombre Saturday when Jesus lies in his tomb, we dressed in clean plain clothes and head dresses – how strange it felt to be in secular clothes! I found it quite unsettling, seeing my sisters looking like peasants really, not like themselves at all. Frau Koppe gave us a pair of shears and we cut our habits up into little pieces so they would not be recognised as such. I felt a twinge of regret, my habit was like an old friend.
Magdalena von Staupitz went straight back to her family in Torgau; her parents hadn’t wanted her to leave the convent, but when they heard that she had got out and was already in Torgau her mother came rushing over and embraced her with laughter and joy. Anna and Margret were also taken back, by brothers or parents. Leneta was offered shelter by an old uncle and aunt. But five of us, Elisabeth, Brigitte, Veronika, Ave and I, whose parents would not or could not take us back, travelled on in a smaller vehicle with Herr Koppe to Wittenberg, a two-day drive. We were to be taken to Dr Luther; it was he after all who had incited us to leave, to rebel, and he felt responsible for us. He had told Herr Koppe that his house could be our first refuge.
It was almost dark as our wagon approached the Elster Gate. For the very first time I saw the three towers and the sturdy walls of the little town I would come to know so well. Our wagon rumbled through the gate but came to an abrupt halt, at a barrier across the road. A gatekeeper in uniform sauntered out from a watchman’s hut, with a piece of paper on a board in his hand, and looked up at Herr Koppe.
“Name?”
“Leonard Koppe.”
“Your business in Wittenberg?”
“To deliver my cargo, nothing but five young lady passengers; Dr Luther expects them.”
“And their names, Sir?”
We gave our names, one after another, like roll call. Elisabeth von Canitz, Brigitte Büttelheim, Veronika Lauder, Ave von Schönfeld, Katharina von Bora. The gatekeeper held his list up to a lamp hanging by his booth, and peered at it closely. “Which of you is Fräulein Büttelheim?” Each time he called out the name, he held the lamp over us to peer at the relevant face, then ticked the name off laboriously, oh so slowly. The horses shifted restlessly, tossing their heads and jingling the harness; behind us the big gates were rolled shut by two more uniformed guards. We had arrived just in time.
“And they’ll be staying at the Black Cloister, you say?”
“Yes, as guests of the Doctor.”
“For how long?”
“For the time being, I cannot say further.”
“They’ll have to register with the Council for a permit of residence. Single women aren’t…”
“Yes, yes, we know the regulations regarding single women. Now for pity’s sake, man, let us be going on, my horses are getting cold and my passengers are tired.”
With a shrug he raised the barrier and we drove on past the castle and the church and down the main street. We entered a large market square with fine houses and a town hall. The clopping of hooves on the cobbles rang out in the darkening streets and a few people stood still to watch us pass; there was little traffic at this late hour.
Herr Koppe stopped the carriage at a studded gate set into in a high stone wall. This must be it, the Black Cloister, the home of the great Doctor himself. He got down from the driver’s seat and, lifting the heavy knocker, hammered loudly on the gate. A dog barked. Footsteps. Slowly, the gates swung open and the horses pulled through the archway into a courtyard.
Behind us, the gates banged shut, and out of the dark arch walked a monk with a cowl, holding a lamp, a dog running before him.
“Herr Koppe? Is that you? Is it the fish? Have you brought me my salt herrings?”
“I have indeed, Herr Doktor, five fine herrings, all the way from Nimbschen bei Grimma,
alive and well.”
The two men laughed and embraced.
“You’re a brave man, and a good one. The Lord will thank you. The boy will see to your horses, come in, you must be more than ready for a beer. A fine Sauerbraten1 awaits you.”
We clambered down from the wagon, Herr Koppe helping us. We were stiff in the joints, tired and cold. And nervous too. The great man peered at us through the darkness, holding up his lamp.
“And you, young ladies, welcome to the Black Cloister. Come on in, warm yourselves by the range. Dorothea will serve you your supper in the kitchen.”
The great man himself, the doctor who was known all over Germany, who burnt papal bulls, whose own books were burnt – who had set Germany on fire with his defiance and boldness. Here he was, dressed in a monk’s habit and cowl, talking about herrings and Sauerbraten.
We followed him into the huge monastery, and found ourselves in the kitchen; it was a cavernous, ill-lit room with a high ceiling and a large open fire. Metal hooks hung from the beams, cauldrons hanging from some of them; a spit with a ratchet and handle was on the left of the fire; clumps of herbs hung from the beams and jars of spices stood in rows on a high shelf. Dorothea, who I supposed was his housekeeper, came forward and greeted us, her huge roughened hands clasping ours one by one; this gesture, more even than her voice, a strong Saxon dialect, was filled with warmth. She was a large woman in her forties, dressed in a plain grey frock with a white apron.
Dr Luther stood watching us, the faintest smile on his face.
“You have had quite an adventure. I can see you’re hungry and tired. I’ll leave you now, in Dorothea’s good hands; sit down and eat, her Sauerbraten is next to none. Then she’ll show you where you are to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll decide what to do next. Meanwhile, have a good rest. Come, Herr Koppe, we’ll break bread together through here.”
