The Witch of Cologne

With trembling hands Ruth covers herself up, her face rigid in an attempt to remain dignified. Her gravity transforms the laughter into an embarrassed silence.

‘I have learnt that perception is very much in the eye of the beholder, Monsignor Solitario. A man will see what he desires. You see a witch where others simply see a very good midwife.’

At another signal the guard whacks her across the face. Ruth barely feels the blow. She has retreated deeper into herself while yet keeping her mind coherent, a scheme of survival she has perfected over the years.

The distance in her eyes infuriates Carlos; he recognises the detachment as a trait of her mother’s. Passion burns at his vitals and he is infused with the desire to finally break the will of the Navarro women.

‘I assume this is a philosophy of the heretic of whom you were a disciple, the Jew, Benedict Spinoza, a man who has been excommunicated by his own people.’

‘I am one

of his followers, this I cannot deny.’

‘This man is evil personified, he does not believe in sin. He does not believe in the notion of Heaven and Hell nor even that a man has a soul. He is godless, señorita, like yourself.’

‘Liar! I am not godless, and neither is Spinoza. He believes that to understand the knowledge of nature is to know the works of God. And to know the works of God within the creation is to understand God himself, for God dwells in every visible work! Even you, Monsignor.’

‘I know what I am.’

But Detlef notices that the inquisitor hesitates as if, like the canon, he is surprised by the young woman’s flawless high German and her urbane articulation of these revolutionary ideas. Concepts Detlef himself has secretly studied in the illegal imported pamphlets Maximilian Heinrich confiscates regularly, heretical treatises by the English Quakers, the Dutch Mennonites, the Tremblers and the Seekers. All pouring across the border from Amsterdam like light radiating out from a submerged city below a dark horizon. The ecstasy he has experienced on reading these writings is tantamount to eroticism. The notions of pantheism, of the marriage of scientia nova with religion, the idea that man may shape his destiny through rational conduct, deeply excite the young canon. For the first time in his life he has found himself doubting the indisputable right of the aristocrat—a hierarchy he was born into and has profited by. On occasion he has even feared for his soul.

And now here before him is a creature—a woman, no less—who has studied and had discourse with those revolutionaries of the Enlightenment who challenge not only a faith but a whole world view. What is she—witch or philosopher?

The inquisitor, refusing to be distracted, holds up a birthing tool. The instrument, a strange curved spoon designed to force open the cervix, glints demonically in the candlelight.

‘The human body and all that lies within it is one of the great sacred mysteries,’ he says. ‘It is a sin to defile and carve up the embodiment of God.’

‘I am not an anatomist, Monsignor, nor do I pretend to be, but like my master Spinoza I believe that knowledge is a knowledge of the Divine, for are our minds and our natural curiosity not a manifestation of God also?’

‘Benedict Spinoza has no understanding of the true God. He has repudiated the divinity of the Bible and, most blasphemous of all, has denied the existence of the soul. He is also a supporter of de Witt’s Republic.’

‘You are wrong; he believes that the soul is a self-aware being, but that the mind is incapable of imagination or recollection without the existence of the physical body. And that no amount of penance can buy us sanctuary after our death.’

‘Enough! I refuse to be polluted any further by the ideas of this heretic and anti-royalist.’ Carlos reaches into his robe and pulls out a small stone. Carefully he holds it before Ruth. ‘Do you recognise this?’

She peers at it: the stone is rusty with bloodstains but beneath she can make out King David’s Shield, the kabbalistic symbol for protection and strength. It is the amulet Rosa gave her in the mikvah.

‘This was found sewn into the hem of your gown, Señorita Navarro. Do you deny that it is a spell or some such devilry?’

Ruth looks wildly around the prison, trying to formulate a reply which will not incriminate her further, but her mind has clouded over.

‘It is Hebrew.’

‘I know that.’

‘Is it not true that Christians wear an image of Saint Christopher to ensure safety on their travels?’

‘It has been known,’ Detlef interjects, encouraging her.

‘Hebrews have similar talismen—this one is for protection.’

‘You lie. This is a mystical number from the kabbala. Only witches and sorcerers carry such a thing upon their bodies.’

Carlos turns to the guard who hands him an object wrapped in an oiled cloth. Ceremoniously the inquisitor unrolls the bundle to reveal a sharp metal object with a long pin-like nose and a curious dial at the top inscribed with Latin.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘No.’ But recognising the tool as the torturer’s instrument Ruth is suddenly nauseous with fear.