The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “There’s no point in struggling,” the hangman’s wife said to Valentin, who was still gasping and making incomprehensible sounds. “God has passed his judgment. The moment you came to me with the wish to kill, your fate was sealed.”

  Something whimpered, and Barbara took a moment to realize that it was neither she nor Valentin, but Sophia. Walburga carried her in a scarf tied around her large chest. Sophia looked at Barbara with round, curious eyes. Walburga stroked the little girl’s head lovingly.

  “Take a good look at your niece, Barbara,” Walburga said in a gentle voice. “Your sister conceived this child. She has a clubfoot, but Magdalena loves her more than anything. And you don’t want your child just because its father is a shifty good-for-nothing and long gone?” She shook her head. “You should have thought about that before.”

  She turned away and continued to pull the cart through the lanes and alleyways. She spoke half to herself.

  “Your poor child was always going to die. If it wasn’t me, you’d have asked someone else to abort it, or killed it yourself after birth. I’ve seen it too many times. It’s better I do it myself—in the name of God, as always. I’m sure the little one won’t have to suffer in purgatory for long, no child does. Unlike you two. Murder is a deadly sin. I’m really sorry, Barbara, I like your family. But this punishment comes from God. God pronounces the sentence, I’m merely His executioner.”

  Now they could hear the soft murmur of water somewhere ahead. Barbara thought they were nearing a stream. The lane widened, and in the distance Barbara could see the tower of Old Peter, where she and Valentin had spent such happy moments only hours ago. The houses retreated from her field of vision, and she thought they must have reached some kind of square.

  Suddenly Barbara knew where they were.

  A few more steps, then the cart stopped. The rushing of water was now very loud.

  “I think this is a good place for your execution,” Walburga said calmly. “Countless sentences have been carried out here. When bakers bake poor bread, they’re held under water here. Back in the old days, child murderesses were drowned here in a sack. I also chose this place for that arrogant little patrician.” She nodded, happy with her decision. “This way, I know the whole city is going to talk about it. Perhaps some people will finally start to think—although I doubt it, not after such a long time. I must set an example. And that’s why I thought of something special for you.”

  Walburga leaned over Barbara and Valentin and pulled off the thin blanket. Barbara noticed that their feet were wrapped in something—a large sack, which Walburga now started to pull over both of them.

  “You’re going to be drowned together,” the hangman’s wife said. “Man and woman. The women are the murderers, but the men are at fault. It’s always the men’s fault.”

  With those words, Walburga pulled the sack over Barbara’s and Valentin’s heads and tied it up. Then she pulled the cart the last few yards to the Rossschwemme. One of the last images in Barbara’s mind, as she writhed in the foul-smelling sack, was of sitting at Katzenweiher Pond in Schongau not two weeks ago, thinking about taking her own life. Now someone was trying to drown her, and she would fight to the last.

  She wanted to live.

  “Two selfish lovers, united in death,” Walburga muttered.

  Then the hangman’s wife tilted the cart and the sack slid out, dropping into the water with a splash.

  And Sophia started to scream.

  The devil wore shaggy black fur, he was as large as the whole room, and his eyes gleamed red like hellfire. Caustic acid dripped from the trident in his claws. He roared loudly as he hurled the weapon at Simon.

  With a shout of fear, Simon rolled to the side, and the trident shot straight through the floor next to him. It vanished in a puff of smoke, just like the devil himself. Now a hunchbacked, snickering witch stared at Simon, first turning into Walburga, then into a huge black bird, and finally into a hissing adder. Simon tossed and turned, closing his eyes, and when he opened them again, the room had suddenly become tiny, as tiny as the smallest crate, and he had no space to move. His throat tightened and he struggled for breath.

  “This . . . isn’t . . . real,” he gasped. “Not . . . real.”

  In the farthest corner of his brain, Simon knew all those mythical creatures and visions must be hallucinations. He’d been unconscious for a short while, but he remembered very well that Walburga had put poison in his coffee. What was it she said when she left?

  Next time I’ll use more devil’s trumpet . . .

  Simon knew devil’s trumpet was one of the ingredients in witches’ flying ointment, a mythical potion witches supposedly applied to their brooms to make them fly. He doubted the ointment could actually make brooms fly—but it definitely had the power to send a person on a trip. He’d read that the plant evoked terrible nightmares that seemed like reality, making a person believe they were flying through the air, accompanied by demons. He’d also heard of cases where youths drank a decoction of devil’s trumpet in the woods on a dare, or to experience heaven and hell on earth.

  Definitely hell, he thought while the room around him grew into infinity and filled with an inky black.

  Simon’s thoughts raced; ideas flashed through his mind like colorful lightning bolts. The one saving grace was that he hadn’t finished the cup of coffee in his rush to get to Nymphenburg Palace. He remembered that Walburga had offered him a second cup, too. If he’d drunk it all, he’d be dead now, or insane for good.

  Like Walburga . . .

  He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again repeatedly, trying to banish the visions. Through a blurry haze, he saw he was in a chamber whose walls appeared to tremble slightly, like the skin of a large animal. Black cats brushed around his legs. Were they real? He wasn’t sure. Simon guessed he was somewhere in the executioner’s house. Perhaps Walburga had dragged him into the cellar in case of unexpected visitors. Or to the attic? This house was so damned big, he could be anywhere.

  Several of his ribs ached as if they were broken. He felt sick, but at least he could think halfway straight again.

  With exhaustive effort, Simon clambered to his feet. The ground beneath him was as soft as a swamp, and he fell repeatedly. Cats meowed. Simon held on to the wall and felt his way along, searching for an exit. Maybe Walburga had left the house. If he made it to the street, he could call for help.

  He stumbled on until he felt a cold, metallic bolt under his hand. Was this a way out? A door appeared in front of his eyes, growing smaller and larger by turns. He took a deep breath and pulled on the bolt. The door creaked open. Ice-cold air blew in his face. It was pitch black behind the door, and smelled musty and a little sweet.

  The cold store, he realized. This must be the cold store.

  Simon had seen Walburga bring up cold beer from the basement several times in the last few days. Many houses had a cellar like this, deep in the ground, where perishable goods were kept. Such cellars remained cold even in the middle of summer. At least he knew that he was in the basement. Now he only needed to find the stairs.

  He was about to turn away when the drugs played another trick on him. He heard a ghostly moaning from the darkness of the cold store, then the shadows grew lighter and he saw a naked young woman lying on the ground between the crates and kegs of beer.

  Simon knew some kinds of drugs could cause sexual hallucinations. Well, at least it was better than the hairy black devil from earlier. The girl was pretty to look at, with long blonde hair and firm breasts, even though they were pale and blue from the cold.

  Blue from the cold?

  Simon blinked. Could this girl be real, not a vision at all? He looked again. The outlines became blurry, the body throbbed like a huge heart, but the naked young woman looked strangely familiar.

  Eva!

  Walburga must have locked her up naked down here so she’d slowly freeze to death—another one of her cruel execution methods. Eva appeared to be still unconscious, or
perhaps the crazy woman had drugged her. Either way, one thing was certain: if she stayed down here much longer, Eva would die.

  Another wave of nausea gripped Simon. He fought it down and staggered into the cold store. If he fell unconscious now, he and Eva would both be finished.

  “Eva?” he whispered, bending down to the girl. “Eva, can you hear me? We must get out of here, or we’ll freeze.”

  Suddenly Eva’s face turned into that of an old woman. Her mouth twisted into a grin full of black stumps. The old woman giggled nastily, and bugs crawled out of her nose.

  “Not . . . real,” Simon kept telling himself. “Not . . . real . . .”

  He grabbed Eva and dragged her out of the frigid room. Her skin felt as cold as dead meat.

  “We must get you warm,” Simon panted. “Up into the living room.”

  He looked around. The walls came closer and retreated again, but for a brief moment, Simon had seen the stairs in a twitching gap. The path to freedom. He stumbled toward it while the gap appeared to close again. Then he remembered Eva. He couldn’t leave her down here. She needed warmth as soon as possible.

  He turned back around and grabbed her under the arms. She was as heavy as a lead weight, and continuously seemed to flow through his fingers like a liquid.

  When Simon looked back, the stairs were still there; they gleamed like a swift black stream.

  He pulled Eva up the stairs, step by step. The door upstairs was only leaned shut. For a moment, everything spun around him, then he was in the hallway. Three more steps, two, one . . . The door to the living room. Its edges glowed like a ring of fire.

  He pushed it open and stumbled into the room with Eva. Pulsing, life-giving warmth enveloped them.

  Simon collapsed with Eva in his arms in front of the tiled stove. He didn’t know whether he’d survive or whether the drug would take his life. He had no idea whether Walburga would come back any moment and cut him to pieces, as she’d done with Master Hans. But he no longer cared.

  He was consoled by the fact that the naked girl in his arms felt just like his Magdalena.

  “I . . . love . . . you,” he whispered. “Magdalena . . .”

  With this last soothing thought, he fell asleep with the naked girl and three purring cats by his side.

  Barbara fell into the water and the world became chaos.

  Next to her, Valentin pulled at his fetters. They were so close, as if they were one creature with four arms and four legs. The water flowed in through the sack, the cold pricked like needles. Barbara pressed her mouth shut as well as she could with the gag and tugged and floundered like an animal.

  This is how they kill cats, she thought. Cats and child murderesses. Am I a murderess?

  Suddenly she was filled with a deep sense of calmness, and she stopped struggling. Perhaps it was for the best. This life had battered and bruised her so many times, why should she fight for it now? Still, Barbara felt sad. She had only just found the man she loved, and now it was all over. Would they stay together in heaven? At least she’d see her beloved mother again soon.

  Valentin, on the other hand, didn’t seem to accept his fate so easily. He kept tugging at the ropes. The sack had reached the bottom, where it sank into the mud. The cold numbed Barbara’s limbs. She was so tired, so awfully tired. Not much longer now . . .

  Suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. Valentin! He had actually managed to free himself. And now he was trying to undo her ties. But they had become impossibly tight in the water; it was hopeless. Yet Valentin persisted, pulling and fumbling on the strings. The urge to breathe was getting stronger.

  Open the sack and swim up, Barbara wanted to tell him. You can’t save me—save yourself.

  But Valentin wasn’t giving up, though his movements became slower and weaker. Barbara couldn’t see anything in the dark, but she saw his face in her mind’s eye.

  Valentin. My dear Valentin.

  Barbara’s senses gave up. Blackness flooded her soul.

  Valentin . . .

  At that moment, when she almost didn’t feel anymore, someone grabbed her by the collar and lifted her like a puppy. The water drained away, and she breathed delicious fresh air. Had they gone to heaven? Was dying this easy? But then she heard Sophia scream and realized someone must have pulled the sack out of the water just in time. She landed hard on the ground beside the Rossschwemme. The fabric ripped open and a cold winter breeze brushed her face. The stars sparkled above.

  Next to her, Barbara heard Valentin breathe heavily. He’d freed his hands completely by now and was just about to take off her gag.

  “Take your hands off my daughter. I’d rather do that myself.”

  A big hand tore Barbara’s gag off, and a knife cut through her bonds.

  Her father stood above her.

  Gasping for breath, Barbara held out her arms to him like she used to do as a small child when she wanted him to pick her up. His hair and beard were dripping wet; his clothes clung to his body and outlined his rough-hewn muscles. Her father looked very, very angry.

  And yet his eyes shone with a love she had never seen in him before.

  “Thought you could just leave me like that, little girl,” Jakob Kuisl growled. His voice sounded strangely broken, creaking like old wood. “But I won’t let you go that easy.” He pointed at Valentin. “You can explain him later.”

  Trembling, Barbara came to her feet. In the light of the moon, she saw Georg and Michael Deibler at the edge of the Rossschwemme stream. The Munich hangman was holding a huge executioner’s sword in his hands. For a brief moment, Barbara thought he was raising it against Georg, but Deibler was approaching Walburga, who was standing with her back against the bridge railing. She was holding the crying Sophia to her chest.

  “It’s over, Burgi,” Michael Deibler said in a calm, steady voice. “No matter what you’ve been doing, it’s over now.”

  “It’s never over!” screamed Walburga. “Never! The killing of innocent children is going to go on forever. Someone had to do something. I . . . I . . .” She broke off, her lips trembling.

  “I should have known.” Michael Deibler spoke softly, almost to himself. “All those years, decades . . . When did it start, Burgi? Before the asylum? I should have taken you sooner. But I thought I could do it by myself.” He shook his head and lowered his sword. “My God, I’m so sorry. Sorry for you, but especially for all those poor girls . . .”

  “Moni,” Walburga whispered. She looked at her husband with big eyes and squeezed the crying child tightly. “Our beloved Moni . . . The Lord took her from us and didn’t grant us any more children. But I wanted one more than anything.” Her gaze turned cold. “And then . . . then that hussy comes and asks me to get rid of her child. I complied, as always. But only a few weeks later, I saw her dancing with the boys at the Jakobi Fair. And she didn’t even look at her little sister. She had killed her unborn child just to climb in bed with the next man.” Walburga’s voice had become shrill. Barbara couldn’t believe this was the same Walburga who had baked fragrant cookies and gingerbread for her nephews only the day before.

  “Someone needed to punish the whore. So I drugged her with poppy juice and walled her in. A just punishment for a child murderess. And all the others received their just punishments, too.”

  “Pregnancy outside of wedlock is illegal,” said Georg, standing next to Deibler. “And abortion, too. You only needed to hand those girls over to the guards. Why did you kill them?”

  Walburga stared at him as if she’d only just realized there were other people present beside her husband. Suddenly she laughed out loud.

  “Don’t you understand? They’ll always do it, even if it’s forbidden. Someone’s always willing, there are countless herbs and remedies. If I don’t do it, they do it themselves or they find a midwife. It’s been the way since the beginning of time. Someone had to make a stand. Sometimes it takes a bang for everyone to hear.”

  “Damn it, Burgi!” shouted Michael Deibler. “Shut up, p
lease, shut up.” He walked toward his wife with his sword raised. “I can’t listen to your crazy talk any longer. Those girls were no murderesses. They were desperate young women who didn’t know what else to do. It’s the men’s fault. That’s what you’ve been saying a lot lately. And you’re right. But they are never held accountable, and the women are left alone in their misery. That’s the real problem.” He turned to Jakob Kuisl, who had wrapped his warm coat around the shivering Barbara. Valentin had managed to stand up, too, and he watched the unlikely couple—the short, stocky Deibler and his tall wife.

  “Believe me, Jakob,” Deibler said. “I’ve had a feeling, for days now. But I didn’t know for certain until I saw Loibl earlier. A young man had been to see him, apparently Elfi’s secret boyfriend. He hadn’t shown up sooner because he was afraid he’d be accused of her murder.”

  “I think I’ve seen him before,” Kuisl said thoughtfully. “At the cemetery, someone ran away from me. He must have also been the one who decorated Elfi’s grave.”

  “Anyway, the fellow told Loibl that Elfi had gone to see my wife for an abortion. She didn’t know whether the child was from one of her clients or her boyfriend. And the two of them hadn’t saved enough money to get married yet. After Elfi left to see Walburga, he never saw her again. That’s when I knew for sure.”

  “She sinned gravely!” screamed Walburga. “That’s why she had to be punished severely. Her boyfriend wanted to keep the child, even if it wasn’t his. But Elfriede was selfish, so I impaled her. The deserved punishment for a murderess.”

  “Just like you executed Master Hans as a traitor, right?” Kuisl said. “Each one received their own special punishment.”

  “That swine,” Walburga hissed. “Some bastard on the rack in Weilheim told him about me. Probably a boyfriend of one of those hussies. Reckoned he’d save his pathetic little life with that bit of information. Hans strung him up and started to sniff around here in Munich. He wanted to hand me in so he could become the new Munich executioner. Most of the time, killing was a sad duty for me, but in his case . . .” She smiled. “I cut off his limbs first, so it took a long time. And he could watch until the end.”