11

The ancient cathedral, with its towering twin steeples, loomed ominously over the market town, casting a double-pronged shadow over the buildings and river below.

Magdeburg is not pleasing to the eye, thought Heinrich Bunting. Or the nose! As he strode purposefully across the cobblestones of the teeming market square, the stench of unwashed humanity almost overwhelmed him. It only got worse as he squeezed through a crowd gathered around a chicken seller and made his way towards the river and the imposing church.

The Pope and Duke’s departure the day before had left him in an agonising quandary. What was his responsibility in this matter? He could hardly deny his involvement. He had written the Treatise that had apparently helped the Pope in his time of crisis. But why should he be obliged to accept this quest? He accepted that the Pope was sincere, but did he accept the Pope’s premise that ‘The Words’ must not be revealed? That was the key. He mentally went over the arguments again.

To reveal ‘The Words’ would undoubtedly lead to bloodshed. Whether Catholic or Protestant, people would certainly use ‘The Words’ for their own ends and abuse their power. Churches would be ransacked and clergy would be massacred. Civil war would most likely ensue, with states destroying themselves from the inside.

However, to hide the true Words of God, would continue to deny people the opportunity for eternal salvation. The fact that many would die in the revelation was true, but the final outcome would bring all closer to God’s Kingdom on earth. It was an impossible situation for him. Who was he to have to make this momentous decision and to have this responsibility thrust upon him?

As he sat on the banks of the Elbe and pondered, he watched the river workers going about their business. The Elbe, the pulsating artery of Germany, flowed inexorably towards the sea, hundreds of miles to the west. Bunting was reminded of the scriptures – of Jesus walking on water and Moses parting the Red Sea, parting the waters for the Children of Israel to escape Pharaoh’s pursuing army, or more accurately, Moses obeying God, who had instructed him to lift up his rod and outstretch his arm over the sea. Of course, it was God who imparted the miracle, not Moses; Moses with his speech impediment, the reluctant leader who pleaded with God not to choose him, had obeyed God once again. Bunting pondered that idea and then he thought he understood.

It had not been the Pope’s decision to hide ‘The Words’; it had been God’s decision. The Pope was God’s instrument. And, if that were true, who was he, a provincial priest, to question the rights or wrongs of hiding ‘The Words’? Surely his duty was to carry out God’s instructions as delivered to him through the Pope.

He gave a deep sigh of acceptance. The burden of the quest was his and his alone.

It may only have been a short walk from his church to the Cathedral of Saint Catherine, but the comparison in grandeur was striking enough to always make the young priest nervous.

Archbishop Frederick, a jovial man with wild grey hair and red blotchy skin, had been surprised that Bunting wished to undertake a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He overcame his initial hesitancy by reasoning that on matters of faith he could hardly refuse such a spiritual and noble request. For his part, Bunting felt a little guilty at a small deception. He had never actually mentioned Jerusalem or pilgrimage to the Archbishop in his discussions. He had used the words ‘personal quests’, ‘travelling great distances’ and ‘benefitting Christians’. The Archbishop had assumed he was talking about the Holy Land and the matter had been arranged satisfactorily, with the Archbishop promising a special church service on his return. For his part, Bunting agreed to bring back some holy sand from his travels.

He then headed south, away from the river to the Mariendorf district on the outer town boundary, passing through the grounds of Marienkapelle Church; an unusually plain building for a Christian place of worship. Many of the buildings in Mariendorf had seen better days. Once fine two-storey buildings now lay in disrepair, their thatched roofs long caved in and gardens gone to weed. Stray animals sniffed through the vacant lots, giving the whole neighbourhood an air of neglect.

One house, although old and weathered, was different. The frontage was in good repair and its tidy gardens exhibited a range of late summer vegetables. A small pen at the side of the main building held a few goats and chickens. Close by, in a separate enclosure, stood a lonely-looking old mule.

Bunting could hear female voices on the breeze from the open windows in front of which billowing sheets on a makeshift clothes-line dried in the weak afternoon sun. As he approached the front door, the chattering ceased.

A small wooden container attached to the top right lintel of the doorframe so caught Bunting’s attention that he failed to notice a man approach him from behind.

‘It is called a mezuzah, Herr Pastor,’ the man said, startling Bunting, who turned towards him.

‘Good afternoon, Herr de Jode,’ said Bunting. ‘And what is the purpose of the mezuzah?’ he asked, pointing at the container. Jakob de Jode, a stocky, bearded man of about forty years of age, hesitated for a few seconds before explaining, ‘Inside, inscribed on parchment is the Hebrew verse: Shema Yisrael Adonai elohainu Adonai echad which translates as, Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.’

‘So it’s a Jewish custom?’ Bunting asked.

Jakob put his hand to his mouth and then raised his fingers to touch the mezuzah. ‘Yes, Pastor, one of our many traditions. Please come in. You are welcome in my home. We don’t often have visitors and certainly not priests!’

Bunting found himself in a warm and bright kitchen, where a woman about Jakob’s age, a teenage boy and two young girls stood stiffly, awaiting the unexpected visitor.

‘Pastor, this is my wife Esther, my son Cornelis and my daughters Sarah and Leah.’

The two girls, both with curly brown hair, gave awkward curtseys, giggled and hurried away. The young man, tall and grave-looking, offered only a condescending, shallow bow and sauntered from the room.

‘Forgive my son, Pastor,’ Jakob said. ‘He is young and has not yet learnt his place in society. Please take a seat and tell me why I have been honoured with a visit from such an important man as yourself.’

Bunting sensed some irony in the statement but said nothing. Jakob bade Bunting sit at the oak table where his wife had placed two tankards of water.

‘I have an unusual proposition for you Herr de Jode,’ Bunting began formally. ‘I need a man of your talents to come with me on a journey.’

‘But …’ Jakob started to say, but Bunting raised a hand. ‘I realise you will be absent from your duties in Magdeburg for many months if you do as I request. Therefore I will give you, in advance, a sum of three times your annual income. That should well reward your family for your absence.’

Jakob stared at the priest. ‘Herr Pastor,’ he said forcefully, ‘I have no doubts that my talents could be of use to you. We Jews have fulfilled an important but complicated role in Christian society for generations; our talent for survival is perhaps our greatest achievement. Is this the talent you speak of? Or perhaps it is our talent for doing certain work that good Christian men do not want to do, or are forbidden from doing? Or, then again, is it our talent for smelling an ill-wind blowing, grab a few necessities and move on? What exactly are you talking about, Pastor?’

Bunting was taken aback by the Jakob’s unusually abrupt tone. He continued, carefully choosing his words. ‘I have known you for a number of years, Herr de Jode. Let us say that I have … observed … your practicality in the handling of certain … sensitive matters and that you are obviously intelligent. Plus you have proven yourself trustworthy.’

Jakob drank slowly from his tankard, never taking his eyes off the priest. ‘Pastor,’ he replied at length. ‘On your way here you walked past Marienkapelle Church and through the grounds of a building that my great grandfather Rabbi Mendel de Jode built nearly one hundred years ago. It was our synagogue, you see. In fact, this neighbourhood was home to over two thousand Jews. It was called Judendorf then. My father Isaac, may he rest in peace, told me of the great yeshiva in the heart of Judendorf, where Jewish scholars from all over Lower Saxony would come to study. They had prospered under the protection of a number of archbishops and had built fine homes that attracted wealthy gentiles into the neighbourhood. However, when Archbishop Von Sachsen took up his post, the protection from the Church was removed and in an instant the position of the Jews became precarious. Our friendly neighbours became less so and we were at the mercy of any prince whose coffers needed filling, or any superstitious peasant who believed that whenever the river dropped, so that the rock appeared, it was going to be a bad harvest and that the Jews had obviously cursed his wheat. Overnight, debts to Jews were cancelled and, finally, the Jews were banished from this fine town.’

Bunting said softly, ‘The Jews’ history in Magdeburg is a sad one, Jakob, but what is the point you are making?’

‘So, Pastor, although you are correct to say I have a talent in relation to sensitive matters, I am also a person with no rights. I have no redress by the law. I am not listed with any guild or registered in the town census. Surviving under these conditions is difficult. It is a very practical matter.’ Lowering his eyes, Jakob continued, ‘If intelligence can be measured by collecting taxes promptly for the Archbishop and reconciling his ledger, then so be it. However, would the unintelligent man do it any differently? Especially knowing that one mistake could lead to the executioner’s block?’ And as for trustworthiness, what man would behave in a contrary fashion with the Archbishop’s monies? This is not a matter of trust, I can assure you.’

‘Herr de Jode,’ Bunting said contritely. ‘I feel I have offended you. Nothing was further from my intentions. Nevertheless, I will take my leave and the matter need not be spoken of again if that is your wish.’ Bunting moved to rise.

‘You are wrong to think I am offended. Your proposal is of interest to me. But I cannot help feeling there must be more reasons as to why you would choose a Jew as a travelling companion. My race alone could bring trouble to your purpose.’

Bunting sighed and sat in contemplative silence for a few seconds. ‘Herr de Jode,’ he began eventually, ‘I accept that having you as a travelling companion may bring trouble to my quest. However, I know that you Jews are, how can I say, “connected” to other Jews throughout Europe, indeed the known world. Being a simple priest with little experience of the world apart from a few Germanic states, it is my belief that these connections will help me on my journey. I do not know who else to approach. So there you have it!’

Jakob seemed to consider the young priest’s offer. Slowly his grim face broke into a smile beneath his beard and then burst into outright laughter. ‘Ahh!’ he cried. ‘There you have it indeed! And now it makes sense! Herr Bunting, if I decide to travel with you I will only require one thing of you.’

‘And what might that be?’ Bunting asked, expecting some compensatory demand beyond what he had already offered.

But Jakob surprised him. ‘That throughout our travels, you will be completely open and honest with me at all times.’