The Hangman's Daughter

“It’s me, your father! Open the door; we’ve got to talk.”

Simon sighed. Once his father had set his mind on something, it was difficult to stop him.

“Just a moment!” he shouted. He sat up on the edge of the bed, brushed the strands of hair from his face, and tried to gather his thoughts.

After yesterday’s riot he had walked home with Jakob Schreevogl. The young alderman had needed someone to comfort him and listen to him. Well into the wee hours he’d been telling Simon about Clara, about her kind, affectionate nature, and how she was so attentive and eager to learn, much more so than her often lazy foster siblings. Simon had almost gotten the impression that Jakob Schreevogl was fonder of his ward Clara than of his own biological children.

Maria Schreevogl had been given a strong sleeping potion and a large dose of brandy by the young physician, and she had soon gone to bed. Simon had assured her that Clara was certain to return soon.

The rest of the brandy had found its way into the throats of Simon and Jakob Schreevogl. In the end, the alderman had told him everything about himself, about his worries over his wife, who was often silent and bitter, and about his fear that he wouldn’t be able to profitably continue the business of his father, who had recently died. Old Schreevogl had been known as an odd bird but also as a thrifty and shrewd man who had had his men well in line. It was never easy to step into the shoes of such a father, especially when one was barely thirty years old. Old Schreevogl had worked his way up from rags to riches. The other members of the stovemakers’ guild had always envied him for his rapid success. Now they were closely watching his son. One mistake, and they’d swoop down on him like vultures.

Just before the old man’s sudden death—he had died of a fever—Jakob had had a falling-out with his father. It had been over a trifle, a cartload of tiles that had been burned, but the quarrel had been so intense that Ferdinand Schreevogl had changed his will and given his property on the Hohenfurch Road, where Schreevogl junior had already planned to build a second kiln, to the church. On his deathbed, the old man had wanted to whisper something into his ear. But the mumbling had turned into a final cough. A cough or a laugh.

Jakob Schreevogl still wasn’t sure what his father’s final words were to this world.

Memories of the previous night were circling in Simon’s head, which was painfully throbbing from the alcohol. He was going to need a cup of coffee, and soon. The question was, would his father give him time for that?

Right now he was knocking again.

“Coming!” shouted Simon, slipping into his hose and buttoning his doublet. Hurrying to the door he stumbled over the full chamber pot, spilling its contents over the floorboards. Swearing and with soaked toes, he pulled back the latch. The door flew open and hit him on the head.

“At last! Why on earth did you lock the door?” his father said, rushing into Simon’s room. His gaze fell on the books on the desk.

“Where did you get these?”

Simon held his aching head. Then he sat down on the bed to put on his boots. “You don’t really want to know,” he muttered.

He knew that in his father’s eyes all those works that he borrowed from the hangman were considered to be the work of the devil. It didn’t help at all that the author of the book lying open on top of the stack was a Jesuit. Athanasius Kirchner was as unknown to Bonifaz Fronwieser as were Sanctorius and Ambroise Paré. Even here in Schongau the old man remained a field surgeon whose knowledge was based only upon his experience with those injured in the war. Simon remembered how his father used to pour boiling oil into gunshot wounds and administered a bottle of brandy to relieve the pain. The screams of the soldiers had followed him through his entire childhood—the screams and the rigid bodies that Simon Fronwieser dragged from the tent the next day and covered with lime for burial.

Without paying further attention to his father, Simon hastened downstairs to the kitchen. Hastily he reached for the pot by the fireplace, which still held some cold coffee from the previous day. The first sip revived him. Simon couldn’t imagine how he used to cope without coffee. A glorious brew, a true devil’s nectar, he thought. Bitter and invigorating. He had heard from travelers that across the Alps, in Venice and in elegant Paris, certain inns already served coffee. Simon sighed. It would take centuries for Schongau to get that far.

His father stomped down the stairs.

“We have to talk,” he exclaimed. “Lechner was here yesterday.”

“The clerk?”

Simon set down the clay beaker and looked at his father with interest. “Whatever did he want?”

“He has noticed that you’re meeting with the young Schreevogl. And that you dig up things that are none of your business. He says stay away from that. It won’t do any good.”

“You don’t say.” Simon sipped his coffee.

His father wouldn’t let up.