It was then that Jan Matthias came into his life with his message of resentment, revenge, and salvation. The younger Jan became his agent, discovering a talent for infiltrating and organizing groups of people as restless and dissatisfied as himself. He visited Münster briefly in 1533, having heard that “the word of God was better preached there than anywhere,” and lived in the house of a Rothmann disciple, Herman Ramert. From there he went to Osnabrück, twenty-five miles northeast, which expelled him immediately. In Schoppingen he stayed with the surveyor Henry Krechting and healed a sick girl, it was said, by baptizing her. He was good at his work, and by the time he returned to Münster in January 1534, he was a wanted man: Queen Marie of Burgundy had put a price of twelve guilders on his head. He was known to Bishop Franz as a troublemaker whose mere presence in Münster was an insult. By the same token, he was drawing to him men such as Henry Krechting and others, who would later leave their homes and businesses to join him in Münster.
Unlike Matthias, Jan van Leyden took care to insinuate himself discreetly into the life stream of the city. He lived in Knipperdolling’s house and married his older daughter, who was unaware that he was already married. He attended all meetings but seldom spoke publicly. His apparently impulsive attack on Herbert Rusher surprised observers who had assumed that Jan never did anything without first calculating its costs and benefits. Now some of those who watched the young man in the church window wondered how it was that he had so readily allowed old Matthias to kill himself.
We have no way of telling what went through Jan’s mind as he looked out on the people awaiting his message. But we do have a full record of what he said, and it is clear that he understood intuitively how to appeal to the fears and emotions of his audience, that he was ingenious and daring, and that he was shamelessly manipulative. This would be Jan’s first major performance during the long drama of Münster. For him to survive, he knew that it had to be a masterpiece.
“Dear brothers and sisters,” he said, stretching out his arms, “you should not allow yourselves to be distressed. It is God’s will that Jan Matthias died. His time had come.” This much the crowd no doubt expected to hear, as it was the traditional consolation. What Jan said next, however, must have shocked them deeply. It was not only that Matthias’s time had come, Jan said, but that he deserved to die: the Prophet had been so vain, so proud, so aspiring to fame, that he had failed to pray and to fast properly before going out to do battle with the Bishop. He had as well disobeyed God’s command to go alone, taking other men with him to their deaths. Matthias had sinned in his pride and his willful disobedience and had been found guilty in the eyes of the Almighty—for could anyone believe that what had transpired had done so without God’s direction?
He knew for himself, Jan continued, that Matthias had been chosen for death because of an extraordinary event well before the Prophet had received his vision. On Jan’s right side, slightly behind him, stood Bernard Knipperdolling; on his left was the dead prophet’s widow, Divara. He gestured now toward Knipperdolling to stand beside him and continued to speak. “The terrible end of Jan Matthias was revealed to me eight days ago by the Holy Ghost. I lay sleeping after meditating on the Divine Law in the house of this man, Bernard Knipperdolling. In my dream Jan Matthias appeared before me, pierced by the spear of an armed knight. His guts spilled out around the haft of the spear. I was frightened at this terrible sight, but the man with the spear said to me, ‘Do not fear me, for you are the well-beloved son of the Father. Stay true to your calling. The judgment of God must fall upon Jan Matthias. When he is dead, you must marry his widow.”
We may assume an astonished murmur among the crowd, as well as a strategic pause for effect as the young man anticipated its questions. “I was profoundly amazed by these words,” Jan said. Knowing that he might be doubted, he had “immediately sought out a witness for this great revelation. That witness is Bernard Knipperdolling. He is here and he will confirm what I have told you.”
Knipperdolling obediently shouted to the crowd that everything Jan had said was true, and the performance was over. As the people milled about in the spring twilight, they must have been mightily confused. Their revered and martyred Prophet was now vilified by his chief lieutenant as a vain, befuddled dotard. The old man’s beautiful wife was now to become his lieutenant’s by virtue of a dream vision conveniently confirmed by a prominent citizen. Unstated but clearly implied was that the old man’s leadership would also pass to the younger Jan. Some of Jan’s audience must have exited shaking their heads in confusion or dismay. But more were entranced with Jan’s vision, first murmuring, then crying aloud, “Father, Father, give us your love!” A few, then many, tore off their clothing and began to dance.
It says much about this strange young man’s personality and character that he could so effectively turn his mentor’s disaster into his own triumph. Of all the qualities that the preceding episode reveals about Jan van Leyden—ingenuity, imagination, timing—the one that stands out most is his intuitive mastery of what would later, in our own century, be called the technique of the big lie. Told with sincerity to a people anxious for reassurance, deriving from some source beyond and greater than its speaker, the big lie is so outrageously improbable that nobody could possibly make it up. Therefore, it must be true. As a tool for demagogues and charlatans to mislead the gullible, it has never been more effectively used than by young Jan van Leyden.
It has been suggested that in Jan Matthias readers of this story might see something of Don Quixote. A contemporary of Cervantes, William Shakespeare, also drew on what he knew of the politics of his time and about human nature for his drama Othello. Othello, a brave general prone to delusion, has a beautiful wife and an apparently loyal servant, Iago, whose treacherous lust after his master’s wife and his power eventually destroys them all. In Münster, the Prince-Bishop had rid himself of a simpleminded, rabid Quixote, only to face in his stead a cunning, ruthless, yet plausible Iago, who would prove immeasurably more difficult to overcome.
5
THE BISHOP AND THE MAIDEN
Who am I that I should refuse my lord? I will do whatever he desires right away, and it will be something to boast of until my dying day.
—“Judith and Holofernes,” XIII: 13–14
THE PRINCE-BISHOP NEGLECTED to follow up on the opportunity that Jan Matthias’s death gave him, having no plans yet to attack and unable, unlike Jan van Leyden, to improvise a response so quickly to the donation by Jan Matthias of his head. His soldiers had little to do other than to insult the besieged shopkeepers, as they considered them. Not only had they nailed the testicles of the previous prophet to the city gate but on another night they tacked up a pair of worn boots with a note requesting their mending, a dig at the humble occupations of the so-called Company of Christ, including its new tailor-prophet. And one young soldier amused his comrades by appearing every morning in the same spot to bend over and expose his bare bottom for the edification of the besieged.
The defenders responded in kind, though more imaginatively. They captured a soldier and brought him within the city walls. The next day he was released and sent back to the Bishop by way of the St. Mauritz Church ruins, jouncing along on an old mare with his hands tied behind his back, wearing a motley costume of Bishop’s regalia and with obscene slogans dangling from his neck. Trumpets from the city walls announced his chagrined progress, along with the jeers and catcalls of hundreds of watchers, to the Pope’s “slaves and idol-worshippers.” When the Bishop’s soldiers ran to help their hapless comrade, the defenders let loose a flight of arrows and shot that sent them scurrying for cover. On another occasion they allowed a horse pulling a cart with a wine cask on it to be intercepted by the enemy. The thirsty, boasting soldiers crowded around the cask with their outstretched cups and opened the spigot. What poured forth in an unstoppable torrent—the spigot had been fixed to remain locked in the open position—was not good red wine but liquid manure. And what about the impetuous and disres
pectful soldier who had bared his bottom? He did it one time too many in the same location and was blown to pieces by a coordinated burst of cannon fire.
Further keeping the soldiers off balance, the Anabaptists sent them frequent assurances, tied to arrows and spears, that they bore them no ill will; we want, they said, no more than “brotherly love in Christ with all people,” including you soldiers who now attack us. We know that if you allow yourselves to repent and to join us, you will be happy, for “God knows that we wish nothing more for ourselves and for all others than the Kingdom of God!”
Inside the walls, Jan set about within days after the death of Jan Matthias to establish his own control. On April 9, Jan’s father-in-law and chief aide, Bernard Knipperdolling, appeared in the Market Square to declare that he had received a vision in which the Lord had commanded him to act on this essential truth: “All that is high shall be made low, and all that is low shall be high.” What this meant, among other things, was that the church towers that filled the sky over Münster were to be demolished, for they were the most visible and obnoxious symbols of the Pope’s tyranny, and of the Bishop’s as well. The merchant who had spent his entire life in a city so beautiful that it was called the Jewel of Westphalia commanded three architects to lead squads of masons and carpenters on a horrendous mission of destruction. Even the magnificent Overwater Church tower was reduced to a stump. A few towers, including St. Lambert’s, were retained as cannon mounts.
So much dust was raised by the steeples crashing onto the roofs below that the besiegers thought the city had been split in two. One tower on the Church of St. Martin resisted destruction, leaning eastward but not falling. After days of hard but fruitless efforts to pull it down, the engineers of deconstruction sent up a carpenter named Trutelink. He fashioned a set of spurs to let him climb the thin and slippery copper roof toward the cross at the pinnacle, where he intended to tie the coil of rope he carried around his neck. He was not quite halfway to his goal when the tower collapsed beneath him; those who watched Trutelink’s fall were of two opinions as to why he died—either he was fulfilling the will of God or he was violating it.
The Bishop held at bay, and the city physically altered as he had ordered, Jan now turned to the destruction of what remained of its civil government. First, though, another performance was required. As the sun rose one morning about a week after the last church spire had been hauled away to the foundry, to be melted into spearheads and bullets, Jan appeared in the Market Square, his slender body entirely naked. “Listen to me, you Israelites,” he cried to the curious gathering crowd. “You who inhabit the holy city of Jerusalem should fear your heavenly Father and repent of your earlier lives! The trumpet of the Lord will soon issue its frightful sound and send thousands of angels down to us!” The handsome young man raced naked through the streets until he collapsed, mute and gasping, before Knipperdolling’s house. Gripped under the shoulders to be carried inside, he motioned that he could not speak and was given a piece of paper on which to write a message. “By the order of the Father,” he wrote, “I have been struck dumb for three days so that I might properly receive God’s vision” of what lay ahead for Münster.
For three days the city did nothing but wait and talk about the vision that Jan would describe to them when he awoke. He was not yet the appointed successor to the fallen leader, Jan Matthias, but he had succeeded in making himself the only candidate. His vision, it would turn out, was a full one indeed. Earlier, Jan Matthias had replaced the old city council and packed it with his own men, making it a rubber stamp but retaining the formal structure of local government. Now it had been revealed to him, Jan said, that the old city constitution itself, a mere human contrivance, was in violation of God’s law. Mayors and council members were superfluous. Instead, following the custom of ancient Israel, the New Zion would be ruled by twelve Elders, under the direction of Jan himself. These would include some of the deposed members of the council, including a grateful Herman Tilbeck. Forgiven completely now for having protested the death of Herbert Rusher, Tilbeck tearfully begged God for the strength and wisdom to govern properly, “as I am not worthy of such high office.” Joining him were powerful guild representatives, such as the master smith Mollenheck; a member of the hereditary aristocracy; and a number of the new immigrants.
Pastor Bernard Rothmann, who had said little since the arrival of the two Jans, now preached a powerful sermon as Jan van Leyden watched, declaring that God Himself was the author of the new constitution. The Elders were summoned by name and told to kneel before the preacher, who handed each man a naked sword. “Receive with this sword,” Rothmann said, “the right of life or death, which the Father has ordered me to confer upon you, and use the sword in conformity with the will of God.” The ceremony concluded with the singing of “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” in German.
Bernard Knipperdolling, who had been the co-mayor, was not one of the Elders. Instead, he was assigned a special title, that of Schwertführer, or chief enforcer and executioner. With his own bodyguard, the former cloth merchant now had the right and the duty to strike the head from the shoulders of any who lived in the New Zion and questioned its justice. He would have much to do, for the Elders were soon to announce a new table of commandments. “Mercy and peace to all who fear God!” began the announcement: “We have gathered together for you what you must and must not do.”
Among the crimes now punishable by death were blasphemy, attempts to flee, impurity, avarice, theft, fraud, lying and slander, idle conversation, disputes, anger, envy, and disobedience to the commands of the Elders (women were also warned not to disobey their husbands). Inasmuch as nobody could pass a day without committing at least one of these offenses, everyone’s life was now forfeit—only the mercy of Jan and the cloth merchant kept them alive at all. Two two-hour court sessions were held daily, at seven in the morning and at two o’clock in the afternoon in the Market Square, at which time the Elders would pass judgment on violators of any of these laws. Knipperdolling alone would later admit to executing personally “eleven or twelve people” during the reign of terror that now began in Münster.
Following the list of possible offenses was another, longer, list of more than thirty items, covering such practical matters as animal husbandry, nail manufacture, and fishing restrictions, as well as procedures for gathering tin, lead, copper, and oil, and for organizing community vegetable gardens. Many of these rules were sensible and reveal a secure sense of community and of organization, independent of theology. For example: “One man, to be selected, will be responsible for sugar and spices”; and “The Elders themselves will be responsible for beer and bread, in order to avoid any possible quarrels.” Other rules follow logically from their adherents’ central ideas: the people were to dress modestly, but not in rags. Because no private property remained, there was no need for money, though coins were struck for symbolic purposes and for necessary trade with outsiders. Any who had previously been paid in cash for their goods or services now contributed these to the common whole; in return they received the food, clothing, and tools they needed from city storehouses. Thus one needed to own very little. When “a Christian” died, “either killed by the enemy or from other causes, his possessions and his weapons” were brought to Bernard Knipperdolling, who then decided, with the Elders, if they had been promised to anyone and sent them to the storehouses if they had not been.
Every aspect of individual life was now subsumed in the group identity and mission of the Company of Christ. Children were encouraged to confront and reproach those who dressed ostentatiously. Homes were to be left unlocked, doors ajar so that anyone might enter at will. Every meal, not just those eaten by guards on watch, was taken in common; all brothers and sisters ate at separate tables without complaint whatever was placed before them, keeping silence so that they might listen more closely to the Old Testament as it was read to them by the Elders. Any reports of misbehavior by friends or family members were to be taken to the Elders, who then
judged them for their infractions.
As Jan’s grip on the city tightened, the Bishop’s army prepared for its first assault. In March his military engineers had recommended draining the outer moat to allow the storming of the outer wall by the Judefelder Gate and the taking of the “roundel,” or tower, that supported it. Von Waldeck wanted to begin the digging immediately, but had to assign several hundred men to defend his powder magazine in Wolbeck: a recent rebel assault on the village suggested that the storehouse there was in danger, and its loss would leave him without the means to continue the siege. Digging finally did commence on April 29, with a company of Saxon miners directing the efforts of three hundred farmers every night for a week.
The moat before the Judefelder Gate had been selected because the city, despite appearances, was not perfectly flat; the elevation there was about eight feet higher than elsewhere, meaning the moat, fed by the river Aa, was shallow enough to allow a drainage ditch to divert the flow temporarily and expose the bottom. This was a major engineering effort; moreover, it had to be done under the guns of the defenders, which meant work was limited to the cover of night. After a week it was apparent that more men were needed; the Bishop requested help from his neighbors, and two thousand additional farmers were forced to leave their spring planting to dig the Bishop’s drainage ditch.
Jan’s men struck back on May 16 in a surprise attack that destroyed sixteen cannons and decimated a supply convoy sent by the Archbishop of Cologne. Thirty soldiers were killed, and the wagons were destroyed along with a quantity of gunpowder. This setback forced the Bishop to delay his planned artillery barrage for three days, during which his commanders made a final written demand to the Anabaptists for their surrender. On May 20 came the first of two replies, which sounded surprisingly receptive: “We, the Elders of the Company of Christ in Miinster, have received your message and given it our consideration. You say that you would like a sincere exchange of views, so that the world will be able to recognize the truth and this matter may be concluded in the peace of God.” They were sure, the Elders said, that a solution could be reached once the princes realized whom they were fighting and why. The questions now were where they should meet—how far from the city gates?—and what solutions were to be suggested. The commanders’ written response was requested, and they were enjoined to “fear God and honor Him.” There is no record of a response. A second message, sent directly to the Bishop, closed the door on further talks: “Because the truth can never be known on earth, we are content to let God who dwells in heaven be our judge.”
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