Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

“Oh, God,” Barbara gasped, chewing on her fingernails, “it’s. . it’s so horrible!”

While the men in the Kuisl family went about their usual business and the two boys spent the day with Katharina and her goodies in the kitchen, Magdalena and her younger sister were attending the matinee performance in the wedding house. Ever since yesterday, when the theater director, Sir Malcolm, had invited them, Barbara had been beside herself with excitement-and Magdalena, too, had been eagerly looking forward to the performance. For almost three hours they’d been immersed in a world the two young women had never imagined.

Along with Doctor Faustus and the devil, they had traveled to Rome, where the devil played tricks on the pope, and they had witnessed the notorious sorcery at the court of the Habsburg emperor-how people were suddenly made to grow antlers on their heads and angels from heaven actually came swooping down to earth. When finally the beautiful Helen of Troy from Greek mythology appeared in person and Doctor Faustus promptly fell in love with her, Magdalena and Barbara were overwhelmed. The two women watched helplessly as the scholar, who had wandered off the straight and narrow path, could not be saved even by the love of the beautiful Helen, and was dragged mercilessly down to hell, condemned to eternal damnation.

Magdalena knew, of course, that Doctor Faustus was in fact the playwright Markus Salter, and that the devil with the horns on his head and the black-and-golden robe was none other than Sir Malcolm. Still, she broke out in goose bumps and her heart beat faster as demons dressed in scarlet robes and wooden masks tugged at the doctor’s clothes until all they held in their hands were bloody shreds.

It’s magic, Magdalena thought, and yet it isn’t. Is it a miracle. .?

Finally, Faustus had disappeared completely into the ground, and while the devil laughed and danced through the mist, the curtain squeaked as it was pulled closed.

For a moment the crowd just stood quietly in the great hall, then scattered cheers went up and soon turned into thunderous applause. Beer mugs and hats flew into the air, while toward the back of the room, windows had been opened and women leaned out, fanning themselves. The curtain rose again, and the performers came forward to take a bow. Some drinking cups flew in the direction of Sir Malcolm, whom many in the audience evidently still regarded as the devil; the producer dodged the mugs with a smile, apparently proud of the confusion between him and the character he had played.

Not until the curtain had fallen for the third time did the people slowly make their way down the steps and out of the building, where it was already late afternoon. Magdalena realized she had completely lost track of time. She looked up at the stage, which now, without the costumed actors, music, and loudly declaimed verses, looked cold and lifeless. The magic had vanished. In one corner of the room, an old man was sweeping up broken beer mugs while a dog lapped up the sweet-smelling puddles.

“Let’s go backstage to visit the actors, shall we?” Magdalena suggested.

By now Barbara had recovered, but her nose was still a bit red, and she hadn’t quite regained her voice yet. “That. . that sounds wonderful.”

Magdalena smiled. “You said before you thought it was horrible, so which is it, horrible or wonderful?”

“Both at the same time.”

The two sisters had long forgotten their little quarrel of the day before. With a nod, Barbara headed for the front of the room, where a wooden staircase on the left led up to the stage and behind a curtain. Magdalena followed and was startled when Sir Malcolm suddenly appeared between the folds of the curtain. Sweat had rolled down over his white makeup, smearing it and giving him an almost diabolical appearance, combined with his black-and-gold costume and the plaster horns on his forehead.

“I hope you enjoyed the performance,” he said with a slight bow.

“You were splendid,” Barbara replied. “The people were practically bewitched.”

“Oh, just don’t let your bishop hear that.” It was the voice of Markus Salter, who had changed his clothes and was approaching the two young women. “According to the rumors going around, quite a few people believe a werewolf is afoot in the city. It would be a shame if His Excellency thought it was connected with our group of actors.”

“Oh, they’ll figure that all out, just wait and see.” Sir Malcolm smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “We can easily explain our little tricks.” He pointed at a hole in the stage floor with white dust around the edges. “Doctor Faustus disappears in this heap of flour, our angels fly on ordinary ropes, and our thunder, too, is homemade.” He laughed as he pounded on a thin metal plate leaning against a wardrobe closet. Barbara was startled and put her hands to her ears.

“Anyway, it isn’t the worst thing in the world for us if people come here to be entertained because of all the dreadful things going on out there,” Sir Malcolm continued as the thunder gradually died away. “Tomorrow we’re performing a comedy called Vincentius Ladislaus , and then people will have something to laugh about. I will be playing the part of the brave Vincentius, Markus will be the duke, and Matheo the beautiful Rosina. Believe me, Matheo is the most beautiful girl from here to the Far East. Isn’t that so, lad?”

As if on cue, the suntanned Matheo jumped out from behind the curtains. He had taken off the dress of the beautiful Helen but still had some makeup on his face, making him even more attractive, Magdalena thought.

At least to a fifteen-year-old girl, for whom men are still nothing more than crude, beer-guzzling ogres, she thought as she glanced secretively at her younger sister. Barbara let out a soft sigh and gripped the curtain tightly.

“I stepped on the hem of the dress a few times,” Matheo said with a laugh. “One more step and the beautiful Helen suddenly would have been standing there naked.”

“Oh, I know a few people who wouldn’t have minded seeing that,” Magdalena replied with a slight smirk. She suppressed a cry of pain as Barbara stepped on her foot. Matheo grinned and returned the compliment with an affected curtsy, then turned to Barbara.

“Are you coming tomorrow, as well?” he inquired with genuine interest. “At the next performance I will need someone to throw balls to me to juggle. Would you perhaps like to do that?”

“You mean. . me?” Barbara squeaked. “Oh, certainly, if-”

“If time permits,” Magdalena interrupted. “We have to help get ready for a wedding this week.”

Matheo put on a disappointed face and turned back to Barbara. “Oh, your own, perhaps? Best wishes.”

“Oh, no!” Magdalena replied with a laugh for Barbara, who was at a loss for words. “Our uncle is getting married. Incidentally, right here in the wedding house. . but oh, God,” she continued, slapping her forehead, “with everything going on here, I almost forgot. My aunt had some things she wanted me to ask the innkeeper. I suppose he’s over in the tavern.”

“You can spare yourself the trip.” Sir Malcolm pointed at a huge man who had just entered and was walking toward them. “He’s right here.”

The man approaching them with wide-opened arms was extremely fat. It looked almost as if a mountain of flesh was making its way through the room. He had a huge mane of red hair and snorted and wiped the sweat from his brow with a large cloth.

“Damn, Malcolm,” the fat man panted. “These steps will be the death of me yet. I should have set you up over in the tavern. Don’t forget, I’m no longer as slim and trim as I used to be.”

“Well, you couldn’t have accommodated anywhere near as many people over there,” the director replied with a smile, “nor sold as much beer, either.”