The Hangman's Daughter by Oliver Pötzsch
They went through the living room, which smelled of fresh-baked bread, across to the little workroom. The hangman, as always, had to stoop to get through the low doorway. Behind him Simon entered the holy of holies. Once again he looked reverently at the massive cabinet, which reached up to the ceiling. A treasure chest, thought Simon. Full of the medical knowledge of centuries…
Immediately the young physician was overcome with the urge to open the cabinet so as to browse through the books and folios. As he moved toward it he almost stumbled over a small chest standing in the middle of the chamber. It was made of polished cherrywood, with silver fittings and a solid-looking lock, with the key still in it.
“Open it,” said the hangman. “It belongs to you.”
“But…” Simon interjected.
“Consider it as payment for all your trouble,” he said. “You helped me to rescue my daughter and also save the woman who brought my children into the world.”
Simon knelt and opened the chest. The lid sprang open with a little click.
Inside there were books. At least a dozen.
They were all new editions. Scultetus’s Wundarzneylisches Zeughaus, or Surgical Armory, the book of midwifery by the Swiss Jakob Ruf, the complete works of Ambroise Paré in a German translation, Georg Bartisch’s Augendienst, Paracelsus’s Grosse Wundarzney, bound in leather with illustrations in color…
Simon rummaged through them, turning pages. A treasure lay before him, much greater than the one they had found in the tunnels.
“Kuisl,” he stammered. “How can I ever thank you? It’s too much! That…it must have cost a fortune!”
The hangman shrugged.
“A few golden coins more or less. Old Augustin didn’t notice it.”
Simon sat up, shocked.
“You mean, you—?”
“I believe that Ferdinand Schreevogl would have wanted it like that,” said Jakob Kuisl. “What use would so much money be to the church or the old moneybags on the council? It would have taken on dust just as it did down below in that hole. Now off you go and start reading, before I regret it.”
Simon gathered the books together, shut the chest, and grinned.
“Now you can borrow a few books from me when you want to. If in return, Magdalena and I…”
“You rascal, be off with you!” The hangman gave him a gentle slap on the back of the head so that Simon almost tripped over the threshold with the chest. He ran outside and along the banks of the Lech through the tanners’ quarter, into town, over the cobblestones of the Münzstrasse, and into the narrow stinking alleys, until he arrived panting at his house.
He would have a lot of reading to do today.
A KIND OF POSTSCRIPT
I DON’T KNOW WHEN I HEARD OF THE KUISLS FOR the first time. I must have been about five or six years old when, for the first time, my grandmother gave me a questioning look. It was the same thoughtful look she has to this day when she is busy classifying her entire family, by now consisting of more than twenty descendants, into Kuisls and non-Kuisls. At the time I wasn’t quite sure whether or not Kuisl was something good or bad. It sounded like a quality, an unusual hair color, or an adjective that I did not yet understand.
Extrinsic characteristics such as an arched nose, strong dark eyebrows, an athletic body, or abundant growth of hair have been regarded for a long time as Kuisl-like in our family, as have our musical and artistic talents and a sensitive, almost nervous disposition. The latter includes an introverted nature, a tendency toward alcoholism, and a certain dark melancholy. In the Kuisl description left to us by my grandmother’s cousin, a passionate amateur genealogist, we can read among other observations: “Bent fingernails (claws)” and “tear-jerking sentimentality and sometimes brutality.” Altogether not exactly a sympathetic picture, but then you can’t choose your family…
It was this same cousin who introduced me, much later, to the subject of what an executioner actually did. I was in my early twenties when one day I found a pile of yellowing papers on the table in our house—tattered pages, covered with typewritten text, in which Fritz Kuisl had collected everything about our ancestors. Along with them were black-and-white photos of instruments of torture and the Kuisl executioner’s sword (stolen in the 1970s from the Schongau town museum and never recovered), a two-hundred-year-old master craftman’s diploma belonging to my ancestor Johann Michael Kuisl, the last of Schongau’s hangmen, typed copies of newspaper articles, and a handwritten family tree several feet long. I heard about Jörg Abriel, a remote ancestor, and his grimoires, or books of spells, which are still supposed to be kept in the Bavarian State Library, and learned that the Kuisl executioner dynasty had been one of the most famous of such dynasties in Bavaria. Supposedly more than sixty executions were carried out by my bloodstained ancestor during the Schongau witch trials of 1589 alone.
Since then the history of my family has never ceased to intrigue me. When Fritz Kuisl died some years ago, his wife, Rita, allowed me to enter his holy of holies, a small study filled to the ceiling with dusty files and old books about what an executioner is and does. In the tiny room were piles of chests full of family trees and copies of church registers, some from the sixteenth century. On the walls hung faded photographs and paintings of long-dead ancestors. Fritz Kuisl had recorded them on thousands of index cards—names, professions, dates of birth and death…
On one of those index cards my name was written, on another that of my son, who had been born just one year previously. Rita Kuisl had written in the name after the death of her husband.
The end of the line.
A shudder came over me at seeing these things, but also a feeling of belonging, as if a large community had taken me under its wing. In the past few years, genealogical research has become increasingly popular. Perhaps one of the reasons for this is that we are trying, in a world of increasing complexity, to create a simpler and more understandable place for ourselves. No longer do we grow up in large families. We feel increasingly estranged, replaceable, and ephemeral. Genealogy gives us a feeling of immortality. The individual dies; the family lives on.
In the meantime I tell my seven-year-old son about his remarkable forefathers. I leave out the bloody details. (For him these people are like knights, which sounds better than hangmen or executioners.) In his bedroom hangs a collage made up of photos of long-dead family members—great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, their aunts, their uncles, their nephews and nieces…
Sometimes at night he wants to hear stories about these people, and I tell him what I know about them. Happy stories, sad stories, frightening stories. For him the family is a safe refuge, a link binding him to many people whom he loves and who love him. I once heard that everyone on this earth is at least distantly related to everyone else. Somehow this is a comforting idea.
This book is a novel and not a scholarly thesis. I have attempted to stick to the facts as much as possible. Nevertheless for dramaturgical reasons I have often had to simplify. Even in those cruel times, torturing of a prisoner would have required a few more official documents, and the town of Schongau would probably not have tolerated such a dominating court clerk as Johann Lechner. In municipal matters it was the aldermen and the burgomaster who actually ruled, and not the Elector’s representative.
So-called dwarf’s holes or troll’s tunnels (Schrazellöcher in German, like the ones where the children had their hiding place) are not found in the Schongau area, although there are many elsewhere in Bavaria. The purpose of such tunnels has not been established.
The figure of Johann Jakob Kuisl, unlike that of the physician Simon Fronwieser, is historical—as is that of Kuisl’s wife, Anna Maria, and their children, Magdalena, Georg, and Barbara. Many Kuisls were considered to be well-read, and their reputation as healers extended beyond the borders of the town. It was probably for this reason that doctors with medical training always tried to interfere and reported them to the authorities. One of my ancestors complained bitterly in a letter
Everything in this book about the work of a hangman is factual, according to the latest scholarly findings. I venture to express my doubts as to whether my ancestor actually came to the aid of a midwife whom he had tortured, but I can in any case imagine it to be possible. After all, he was my great-great-grandfather, and as we know, we never want to doubt our families.
Many people have contributed to the preparation of this book. I would like to especially thank the curator of the Schongau local historian’s circle, Helmut Schmidbauer, who supplied me with necessary details; Franz Grundner of the Schongau Museum; Frau Professor Christa Habrich of the German Museum of Medical History; Rita Kuisl, who graciously allowed me access to her husband’s archives; my brother Marian as initial editor, friend, and supporter; my father as adviser for medical matters and Latin; and last but not least my wife, Katrin, who bravely struggled through the pages in the evening—and earned the money we needed so that I could during this time fulfill the dream of my youth.
OLIVER PÖTZSCH, MAY 2007
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Oliver Pötzsch, born in 1970, has worked for years as a scriptwriter for Bavarian Public Television. He is himself a descendant of the Kuisls, one of Bavaria’s leading dynasties of executioners. Oliver Pötzsch and his family live in Munich.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Lee Chadeayne is a former classical musician, college professor, and owner of a language translation company in Massachusetts. He was one of the charter members of the American Literary Translators Association and has been an active member of the American Translators Association since 1970.
His translated works to date are primarily in the areas of music, art, language, history, and general literature. Most recently this includes The Settlers of Catan by Rebecca Gablé, a historical novel about the Vikings and their search for a new world (2005), and The Copper Sign by Katja Fox, a medieval adventure in twelfth-century England and France (2009), as well as numerous short stories. He presently serves as an editor for the American Arthritis Association newsletter and editor-in-chief of the ALTA News of the American Literary Translators Association.
As a scholar and student of both history and languages, especially Middle High German, he was especially drawn to the work of Oliver Pötzsch, author of the best-selling novel die Henkerstochter (The Hangman’s Daughter), a compelling and colorful description of seventeenth-century customs and life—including love, murder, superstitions, witchery, and political intrigue—in a small Bavarian city.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
EPILOGUE
A KIND OF POSTSCRIPT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Oliver Pötzsch, The Hangman's Daughter