The Witch of Cologne

Reaching up Birgit pulls Detlef’s mouth hungrily against her own. Weeks of repressed desire surges uncontrollably through his body, an aeon of sexual abstinence heightened by the curious pleasure he felt during his self-flagellation, the hungry mouth of lust that throbbed at the edge of each supplication despite his pleas, the succubi of his dreams that, regardless of his prayers, filled his nights with their twisting naked bodies, many painted with the face of Birgit. He wants her now. He wants nothing but blind release, to purify his body through erotic fury.

‘If that is what you desire.’

With that he takes her roughly by the hand. She turns to her servant. ‘Ahmed, take the carriage home. Tell them I am at confession and will return by nightfall.’

The small boy, green satin turban bobbing, climbs up beside the coachman, while Detlef ushers Birgit towards The Hunter’s Sheath, the one tavern where he knows no questions will be asked.

The room is little more than a closet, still pungent with the aroma of sex. Detlef turns Birgit so her back faces him. She steadies herself by placing her gloved hands flat against the thin partition. On the other side they can hear the cries of a harlot and her Johnnie’s quickening gasps and grunts. Without a word Detlef lifts Birgit’s skirts over her hips: the full orbs of her arse are perfect pale fruit above the silk tops of her black stockings. Kneeling, he spreads them wide apart. Birgit gasps as he reveals her most private opening.

Running his fingers below and to her front he caresses her as he buries his face between her cheeks, moistening her nether hole with his tongue. Birgit immediately grows wet despite her mounting qualms about the unmentionable blasphemy of his intention. Detlef stands, pulling his hard organ free, then roughly pushes her down so she is bent away from him. Birgit, red from cheek to breast, is doubly humiliated by her own intense excitement. Detlef grabs each cheek of her buttocks firmly, pulling them apart with angry haste, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. For a second he rests his cock against her opening, teases gently before easing himself in. Birgit screams out loudly; to silence her Detlef thrusts his fingers, still fragrant, into her mouth as over and over he plunges. As the pain becomes a growing ecstasy Birgit reaches down and pleasures herself. Until she feels his seed begin to tremble down the length of him and they both come shouting.

In the moment after, Birgit’s ecstasy becomes discomfort. Pulling away from him she tries to steady her trembling legs.

‘This could have us both executed,’ Detlef mutters into her hair as a huge wave of guilt and remorse sweeps over him. ‘I am deeply regretful I have subjected you to this.’ Ashamed, he covers himself.

Throwing down her skirts Birgit turns, her hair a wild blonde cloud, her cheeks flushed.

‘Do you still hold me in respect?’

‘Always,’ he replies, then leans over to kiss her forehead. ‘But please understand, we can no longer be lovers, only good companions…in time.’

He takes her arm formally. ‘Let me escort you home.’

Suddenly nauseated by his patronising tone she pulls away.

‘Do you realise how easy it would be to sour the friendship between yourself and Meister Ter Lahn von Lennep? He was most displeased when his good friend Voss was executed. The merchants are watching you and the archbishop very closely. A charge of immoral conduct would be more than useful to their cause.’

‘Birgit, please, I cannot deceive you or myself. Let us be friends.’

‘We were never friends.’

Unable to contain her fury any longer, she hurries out of the room.

The loaf of golden challah is held above the candles. The gentle voice of the rabbi fills the room.

‘Baruch atar adonai eloheinu melech ha’olum chamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.’

Elazar finishes his blessing, breaks a hunk off the crusty bread and passes it to Tuvia, who in turn hands it over the laden table to Ruth. It is the sabbat and the table is covered with offerings to celebrate the week’s end. In the centre is a bowl of sauerkraut made with poppyseeds and flavoured with sugar, a plate of broiled salted beef, pickled cucumbers. The old rabbi, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, cannot believe that at last his beloved daughter is sitting right here at the family table.

It has taken weeks to persuade the elders of the community that it is safe to allow her amongst them again. Many still hold her responsible for drawing Cologne’s attention back onto the small settlement. Ruth’s arrest has given rise to old fears. W

hat if she causes more trouble? Is she really a Jew now they know she has been baptised? Even the women are prepared to forfeit the midwife’s skills to avoid the calamity of a pogrom. It was only when Elazar appealed to Isaac Schlam, Deutz’s doctor, and asked him and the community spokesperson Hirz Überrhein to address a public gathering at the synagogue to reassure them that Ruth had denounced the baptism, that she would not be practising her craft and that she would leave within the year with her betrothed husband Rabbi Tuvia for the Holy Land, that the people had been appeased.

Does Ruth realise she is living on borrowed time, the rabbi wonders.

‘Ruth, will you not pour Tuvia his wine? He is in need of the grace of a woman.’ The old man smiles; the silver of the candlesticks and the best knives and forks kept for the high holidays glisten in the candlelight, reflecting back in his shining eyes.

Reluctantly Ruth stands and leans over the assistant to fill the ceremonial goblet embossed with depictions of the Passover story before him. Tuvia, achingly conscious of her proximity, closes his eyes for a second as he breathes in her scent. Noticing, Ruth feels a flash of sympathy, but fearing that she might accidentally encourage him steps back. Making sure she remains as far away as possible, she takes her place again at the table.

Elazar seizes her hand. ‘Daughter, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for my hesitancy in accepting you back into this household. I was wrong and I know it now,’ the old rabbi announces solemnly, wiping away tears with his sleeve.

‘I am here now, abba. That is all that’s important.’ Ruth squeezes her father’s dry and wrinkled hand.

‘This is true and it gives me immense joy to have you safely under this roof where you belong. Come back, Ruth. You know Tuvia will marry you, and with all that has been revealed it is a generous offer. Make me happy.’

‘Abba, we agreed not to discuss this.’

Rosa bustles out from the kitchen to serve the vegetables, a delicious Sephardic dish she always prepares for Friday night: large aromatic onions stuffed with rice, ground beef and flavoured with tomato sauce, cinnamon, pomegranate juice and spice, pepper and salt—her favourite dish which always take her back to her days in Zaragoza as a young serving maid with the Navarros.