When the painter arrives to create an altarpiece for the church Martin knows that he will leave with him at the end of winter. He will leave with him and not look back.
The villagers have been talking about the painter for a long time. Now he is here and wants to go into the church, but the key has disappeared. Henning, Seidel and Sattler – the three most influential men in the village – are on their hands and knees, scouring the rose hip bushes near the church door. The wind puffs up their shirts and trousers. Their hair is blown about their heads. They rattle at the door, again and again, taking turns, because one of them might not be doing the right kind of rattling. And each time they are baffled that it remains locked.
The painter stands next to them with his tattered belongings, watching with an amused grin. They had probably pictured him differently, but painters don’t grow on trees around here. Especially during wartime.
Martin perches on the edge of the well, a mere ten paces away from the church door. He is eleven now. Very tall and thin. He lives off what he earns, but on Sundays there’s nothing to be earned, so he has to fast. And yet he continues to grow. Will any of his clothes ever fit him? His trousers are always too big, and the next moment they are too small.
He has lovely eyes. It’s the first thing people notice. Dark and patient. Everything about him seems calm and thoughtful. And that is what makes the villagers uncomfortable. They don’t like it when someone is too spirited or too calm. They understand coarseness, deviousness too. But they don’t like this thoughtfulness in the face of an eleven-year-old.
And then, of course, there is the rooster. The boy is never without it. Perched on his shoulder. Or sitting on his lap. Hidden beneath his shirt. When the creature sleeps, it looks like an old man and everyone in the village says it’s the devil.
The key remains lost, but the painter is here now. So, somehow, the man must be shown the church. Henning talks in circles until he suddenly lights upon Franzi. She has the key. No one knows what prompts this notion. Still, they call for her. Martin perks up. He likes Franzi.
Franzi appears quickly. It’s not far from the inn where she works. She is fourteen. She pulls her shawl around her shoulders. The wind blows her hair into her eyes. Her beauty is undeniable, prompting a dangerous desire within the men.
It turns out that Franzi has absolutely nothing to do with the key. This is annoying.
They have wasted enough time looking for it, and need to find another solution. Meanwhile, the painter has sat down next to Martin on the edge of the well. The rooster flutters off the boy’s shoulder, stalks over to the painter’s spattered bundles and starts pecking at them.
The three men debate whether it is acceptable to kick in a church door. Can you use force to open a house of God? Or smash a window? Which is the greater sacrilege? The door or the window? They agree that force is not good, because the only way to reach God is through faith and the Word, not through a determined kick.
‘Or through death,’ Franzi interjects.
How bold she is, Martin thinks. That in itself is reason enough to protect her for the rest of her life, to watch her be bold.
The painter laughs. He likes it here. He winks at Franzi. But she is not that sort of girl and doesn’t wink back.
They should ask the priest, but there’s only the visiting priest from the neighbouring village. They buried their own priest last year, and since then they haven’t had a new one. Nor is it clear where they are supposed to get one from, because until now there has always been one, and who knows where it all started, whether the village was there first or the priest with the church. So they have been borrowing the neighbouring priest ever since. But he is no spring chicken and needs quite some time to negotiate the distance between the two villages, and so the Sunday service does not begin until past midday.
In any case, they must find out from the visiting priest how to gain entry to the church. But who should go and ask? Yellow clouds are building up in the sky, and they would have to cross the field, where there is no protection. Up here, lightning strikes every few seconds. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! It might last all night. Henning, Seidel and Sattler are too important to the village community to be risking their lives.
‘I can go,’ Martin suggests. He is not afraid.
‘At least in his case it wouldn’t really matter,’ Seidel whispers. The others hesitate. They know Martin is clever enough. He can convey the question. He will surely also manage to remember the reply. They each wrestle with their consciences and whisper among themselves. Finally, they say: ‘Right then, off you go.’
‘Why doesn’t one of you go, in this filthy weather?’ the painter asks.
‘He’s got the devil with him,’ Henning replies. ‘Nothing can touch him.’