stayed at home, washed the pain down with an Ave Maria and a glass of brandy, and then hoped that, with God’s help, his shoulder would heal by itself. But now it was too late.
All sorts of tools lay on the table in front of him, and he couldn’t say if they were intended as instruments of torture or medical devices: long pincers, presumably for prying out teeth; sharp, brightly polished knives in all sizes and shapes; and a small handsaw with a few rust-colored spots-spots of dried blood, no doubt, Peter Baumgartner thought.
What terrified Baumgartner most, however, was the gigantic figure of the Schongau hangman standing directly before him. His huge hands were immersed in a pot of white, greasy paste, which he was smearing slowly and methodically over him.
“Is that…human fat?” the mason gasped. Even though Baumgartner tried hard to hide his fear, he couldn’t prevent his voice from trembling slightly. He knew that the Schongau executioner neatly flayed the corpses of the people he executed and scratched the fat off their skin. From that he made a paste that was supposed to work wonders. Baumgartner wanted very much to believe in miracles, but the thought of being rubbed down with the slimy remains of a criminal made him nauseous.
“You stupid bastard, do you think I’d waste my good human fat on somebody like you?” Kuisl grumbled, without looking up. “This is bear fat mixed with arnica, chamomile, and a few herbs you’ve never heard of. And now come here, it’s going to hurt a bit.”
“Kuisl, stop…I think I’d rather go to old Fronwieser…” the mason mumbled when he saw two huge dinner- plate sized hands in front of him dripping with fat.
“And let him charge you two guilders so that you’ll never be able to move your arm again. Don’t put up such a fuss, just come here.”
Baumgartner sighed. He had fallen from the scaffolding in the St. Lawrence Church a week ago, and since then his shoulder had been discolored with bruises. The pain throbbed all the way down to his right hand so that he could no longer even hold a spoon. He had hesitated for a long time before going to the hangman, but in the meantime, he worried that he might never be able to use his right arm again. So he had scraped together some money he had saved and set out at noon for Schongau. Jakob Kuisl was famous far and wide as a healer. Like all executioners, Kuisl earned his money less through executions and tortures, of which there were just a handful at most during the year, than through healing and the sale of salves, pills, and ointments. He would also sell you a piece of the hangman’s rope or a thief’s thumb. A mummified finger in your money pouch was supposed to protect you from thieves, but naturally only when you sprinkled the purse with holy water every day and firmly believed in it. Jakob Kuisl didn’t believe in it, but he earned good money from it anyway.
Like many other patients before him in the hangman’s house, Peter Baumgartner was torn between fear and hope. It was generally known that most people left Kuisl’s house no worse off than before, at least, and in many cases even better-something you couldn’t always say of doctors with university training. On the other hand, Jakob Kuisl was the Schongau hangman. A mere glance from him brought misfortune, and speaking with him was a sin. If Baumgartner confessed to this visit the next time he went to church, he would surely have to say a hundred Lord’s Prayers as penance.
“Come here, damn it, or I’ll dislocate your other shoulder, too.”
Jakob Kuisl, his hands smeared with fat, was still standing in front of the burly mason. Baumgartner nodded in resignation, made the sign of the cross, and then stepped forward. The hangman turned him around, carefully palpated the swollen shoulder, then suddenly seized Baumgartner’s right arm and yanked it back and down. There was a loud cracking sound.
The scream could be heard all the way up in the marketplace.
Baumgartner collapsed onto the stool by the table and nearly passed out. He was about to throw up and let out a stream of curses when he cast a glance down at his right hand.
He could move it again!
The pain in his shoulder seemed better, too. Jakob Kuisl handed him a wooden box.
“Tell your wife to massage your shoulder with this three times a day for a week. In two weeks you’ll be able to go back to work again. You owe me a guilder.”
Baumgartner’s joy at being relieved of his pain was short-lived.
“A guilder?” he gasped. “Damn, not even old Fronwieser asks that much. And he has studied at the university.”
“No, he’ll bleed you, send you home, and three weeks later, saw off your whole arm for three guilders. That’s what he studied.”
Baumgartner wrung his hands, thinking it over. He really did seem cured. Just the same, he began to haggle.
“A guilder, eh? That’s more than a miller earns in a whole day. How about half and we’ll call it a deal?”
“Let’s say a whole one, and I won’t dislocate your other shoulder.”
Baumgartner gave up with a sigh. He rummaged about in his purse and counted out the coins neatly on the table. The hangman picked up half of them and pushed the other half back across the table to Baumgartner. “I’ve given it some more thought,” he said. “Half a guilder if you can tell me something in return.”
Baumgartner looked at him in astonishment but then hurriedly put the coins back in his purse.
“What do you want to know?”
“You’re the mason up the Saint Lawrence Church, aren’t you?”
“Indeed,” Baumgartner replied. “That’s where I took a fall from that damned scaffolding.”
Jakob Kuisl pulled out his tobacco pouch and began slowly and carefully to fill his pipe.
“What are they building up there?” he asked.
“Well…Actually, they aren’t building anything,” Baumgartner said with hesitation. He watched the hangman with fascination as he filled his pipe. Pipe-smoking was a completely new fashion. The mason had never met anyone except Kuisl who did anything like it. To be on the safe side, the Schongau priest had declared it a vice in one of his last homilies.
“We’re just renovating the church,” Baumgartner continued finally. “Both on the outside and on the inside-the whole balcony. It was close to collapsing. The church is said to be a good five hundred years old.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary during your renovations?” Kuisl asked. “Drawings? Figures? Old paintings?”
The mason’s face brightened. “Yes, there was something unusual! Up in the balcony, the wall was full of bright-red crosses. The whole left-hand wall was covered with them!”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, different from the cross of Our Savior. They were rather…May I?” Baumgartner pointed to one of the sharp knives on the table. When the hangman nodded, Baumgartner carved a cross into the wood. The arms were of equal length and became narrower toward the center. The mason nodded with satisfaction. “They looked something like that.”
“And what did you do with the crosses?” Kuisl continued.
“It was strange. The priest told us to paint them over. That was shortly after he got so upset about the cellar.”
“The cellar?” The hangman frowned.
“Well, on New Year’s Day, while moving the slabs, Johannes Steiner noticed that under one grave marker there was a hollow space. We then moved the cover aside. We needed three men to do that-it was a huge thing- and from there, steps led down below.”
Jakob Kuisl nodded, lighting his filled pipe with a glowing wood chip. Baumgartner looked at him with growing enthusiasm.
“Did you go down into the cellar, too?” Kuisl asked, puffing on his pipe.
“No…Only the priest went down, and soon he came back all excited. The next day he told us to paint over the crosses, and we did.”
The hangman nodded slowly. “Are you sure none of you went down?” he asked again.
“I swear by the Virgin Mary, no!” Baumgartner cried. “But why is that so important?”
Jakob Kuisl stood up and walked to the door. “Forget it. You can go now.”
Peter Baumgartner straightened up, relieved. He didn’t know why Kuisl was asking all these questions, but at least it had saved him half a guilder. Besides that, he was happy he could leave the executioner’s house. He was
