Oliver Potzsch - The Hangman’s Daughter

Simon shook his head wildly. Even if he had wanted to, he didn’t know. He had an idea that the hangman had found the treasure. In the course of the day Kuisl had given out one or two hints. But he wasn’t sure about it.

Georg Augustin interpreted his shake of the head as a refusal. Disappointed, he stood up and went back to the fireplace.

“It’s a pity,” he said. Then we’ll have to take it out on your fine doublet. Who is your tailor, quack? Not anyone from Schongau, surely.”

The young patrician held the poker in the fire and waited until it was red-hot again. Meanwhile Simon heard music and laughter from outside. The festival was only a few steps away, but the only thing observant burghers might see from outside would be a brightly lit window and a man sitting on a chair with his back to it. It seemed certain that Georg Augustin would not be disturbed. The man-and maidservants were all down in the market place and had presumably been given permission to stay out until morning. It would probably be after midnight before anyone entered the patrician’s house again.

Behind Simon, old Augustin squirmed on the floor, groaning quietly. The pain seemed to be diminishing. But he was in no position to intervene. Simon prayed that the old man would not pass out. Matthias Augustin was the only hope he had. Perhaps he might succeed in bringing his crazy son to his senses. Simon had already established that Georg was not quite normal.

“My father has always considered me to be a ne’er-do-well,” said the young patrician, turning the poker round in the fire. His eyes looked almost dreamily into the fire. “He’s never believed in me. Sent me away to Munich…But that was my idea with the building site. I hired the soldiers in Semer’s inn. I gave the burgomaster a lot of money to keep quiet about it. He let me in through the back door, the old fool. He thought I needed the soldiers to destroy the leper house because it was bad for business. As if I cared a damn about trade!”

He laughed aloud. Then he came toward Simon with the red-hot iron.

“And now my father will realize that I’m not as useless as he’s always thought me to be. When I’ve finished with you, your little hangman’s bitch won’t recognize you anymore. Perhaps I’ll have a go at her myself, the little tart.”

“Georg…be careful…”

Old Augustin had managed to heave himself upright. He propped himself up, panting, on the table and appeared to be wanting to say something. But pain overcame him, and he collapsed again.

“You have nothing more to say to me, Father,” whispered Georg Augustin as he moved nearer to Simon. “It’ll all be over in a couple of weeks. Then I shall be sitting here and managing the business. You’ll be rotting in your grave, but our house and our name will continue to exist. I shall buy a few new wagons with the money and some strong horses, and then we’ll put those Augsburgers in their place!”

Desperately, the old man gesticulated toward the door behind his son.

“Georg, behind you…”

The young patrician, at first surprised and then obviously shocked, looked at his father, who was pointing his spindly fingers at the entrance. When he finally turned around, it was too late.

The hangman flew at him like an avenging fury, and with one single blow knocked Georg Augustin to the floor. The glowing poker flew into a corner of the chamber, landing with a clatter. Dazed, Georg Augustin looked up at the big man above him, who now bent down and pulled him up with both hands.

“You leave torture to me, you fop,” said the hangman. Then he gave the patrician such a head butt with his hard skull that he sank lifeless into the chair. Blood ran from his nose. He keeled over forward, fell, and lay unconscious on the floor.

The hangman paid no further attention to Georg Augustin and hurried to Simon, who was rocking back and forth on his chair and quickly pulled the gag from his mouth.

“Kuisl!” panted the physician. “Heaven has sent you. How did you know?”

“I was at the feast to cool my Magdalena down a bit,” the hangman interrupted him, growling. “Thought I’d catch the two of you flirting. Instead I heard you’d had a tiff. You’re lucky she still likes you and saw you going into Augustin’s place. She told me where you were. When you didn’t come out, I went after you.”

The hangman pointed to the tear in Simon’s hose, under which burned skin, red-black, was showing.

“What’s that all about?”

Simon looked down. When he saw the wound again the pain returned.

“The swine got me with the poker. He was going to burn me alive.”

“Now at least you know what’ll happen to the Stechlin woman,” Kuisl growled. “What’s the matter with him down there?” He pointed to old Augustin, who had meanwhile recovered and sat in his chair, his eyes full of hate.

“He’s the mastermind we’ve been looking for so long,” said Simon, while he bound up his wound with a strip of cloth as best he could. At the same time he told the hangman what had happened.

“The honorable Matthias Augustin,” Jakob Kuisl finally growled when Simon had finished his story, looking at the old man. “You can’t have enough of executions at the stake. Didn’t my grandfather do enough of them for you? Haven’t you heard enough women screaming?”

“As God is my witness, I wanted no such thing,” said Matthias Augustin. “All I wanted was the money.”

“Your damned money,” said the hangman. “It’s blood money. I want none of it. Take it-you can eat it as far as I’m concerned!”

He reached under his coat and drew out a small dirty linen bag. With disgust he threw it onto the table, where it burst open. Gold and silver coins poured over the tabletop and rolled jingling to the floor.

The old man looked on, his mouth wide open. Then he leaned over the table and grabbed the coins.

“My treasure! My money!” he panted. “I shall die with dignity. My house will live on!” He began to count the coins.

“A pity, really, all that money for a moneybags like you,” grunted Jakob Kuisl. “I’m wondering if I should take it away from you again.”

Fearfully Matthias Augustin looked across at him. He stopped counting, his fingers trembled.

“You wouldn’t dare, hangman,” he hissed.

“And why not?” said Kuisl. “Nobody would notice anything. Or are you going to tell the council that I took Ferdinand Schreevogl’s treasure away from you? Money that actually belongs to the church and you have unlawfully embezzled?”

Matthias Augustin looked at him with suspicion.

“What do you want, hangman?” he asked. “You’re not interested in the money. What then?”

Jakob Kuisl lunged over the table with his massive body until his face was directly in front of the old man’s toothless mouth.

“Can’t you guess?” he mumbled. “I want you to persuade the council and the Landgrave that there is no witch. That it was all a children’s game with elderberry juice and magic rhymes. So that the midwife will be freed and this persecution will be over. Help me do this, and you can have your goddamned money.”

Matthias Augustin shook his head and laughed.

“Even if I wanted to do that, who would believe me? There were deaths, the Stadel burned down, the soldiers at the building site…”

“The destruction at the building site was an act of vandalism by some burghers who didn’t want a leper house there. A trifle…” Simon interjected, when he had understood what the hangman was leading up to. “The Augsburgers started the Stadel fire,” he hastened to add. “But so as not to upset neighborly relations, there will be no further consequences. And the dead children…”

“Peter Grimmer fell into the river, an accident, as the physician here can confirm,” he continued in measured tones. “And the others? Well now, the war hasn’t been over all that long. The region is swarming with robbers and highwaymen. In any case, who’s going to bother with a couple of orphans when he can save the town with a lie?”