“Oh, how you murder me!”

Another botched execution. This one occurred to poor Jan Jans Brant in 1559 in Geervliet in South Holland. Brant is one of the few men I have seen in the Martyrs Mirror who was sentenced to die by drowning, rather than at the stake. In fact, burning seems to be less and less popular. I’m seeing more beheading as well.

Anyway, Brant’s friends managed to keep him from being killed two weeks after his apprehension and inquisition, so, instead, he languished in prison for a month before finally being dragged out to his death.

The executioner tied him into a sack, and cast them from the high Hofbrugh [bridge]. The sack bursting open, the executioner struck him with a stick on his body, so that he called from the water, “Oh, how you murder me!” Many were moved to pity, that he had to die so miserably.

None too bright

I’m not sure whose hands should be considered stained with Joris Wippe’s blood, but it’s tempting to blame him.

Wippe, according to the Martyrs Mirror, was the mayor of a place called Meenen in Flanders when he became an Anabaptist and was, understandably, compelled to flee his post. He moves to the city of Dortrecht in Holland and sets up as a cloth dyer with a few well-to-do clients.

Well, it doesn’t take long before the local Catholic religious establishment start to suspect his Anabaptist sympathies. They summon him to appear for questioning. Wippe panics and asks his influential customers what he should do. They, naively, tell him to answer the summons, believing that he’ll be questioned and released.

Now, let’s stop right here. Wippe was a former government official, and he already took the liberty to flee certain death at the hands of the church once. He knows the score. At least he should. He should have turned tail and fled.

And the Mirror even implies that the lords of Dortrecht believe he’ll make a quick estimation of the situation and skip town. After all, Wippe would have left his property in the hands of the government, making the lords a quick buck without much fuss.

But, instead, the dumb bastard shows up on April 28, 1558, just as ordered.

When he came there, and the lords saw him, they were filled with consternation, and would have preferred that he had taken their summons as a warning to secretly make his escape, since they did not thirst much for innocent blood…

So Wippe is arrested. The lords didn’t want to have to execute him, so they tried to export him to the higher court in Gravenhange. But that court stuck to its jurisdictional guns and sent Wippe back. The Dortrecht executioner refused to kill him, since Wippe had often fed the executioner’s wife and kids. So, the city got a beat cop to drown poor Wippe in a wine cask filled with water.

An old family yarn Pt. 1

Now THAT's meta.

My mother’s cousin … who I guess is my first cousin once removed? Anyway, she has just published a book, Harry’s Journey, chronicling the life of my mother’s grandfather (my great-grandfather, pretty sure about that). I would love to link the publication for you, but, well, I can’t.

The book is published by Pathway Publishers, an Amish imprint operating in LaGrange, Ind. and Aylmer, Ontario. No web site. No Amazon store. There are apparently a few things in this world that are still beyond the reach of the all-seeing eye of Sauron Google. The book has a very DIY feel to it, featuring a font that looks like a san-serif version of Courier New.

This cousin, Joana S. Stauffer, lives out in Missouri, where much of the Stauffer Mennonite church has migrated over the decades. Hers is the second book I’ve read that deals with the Stauffer Church’s expansion to Southern Maryland. The first was my uncle’s book, Shunned, which I’ve mentioned before. Both books actually cover the same time period. My maternal great grandfather and my paternal grandfather were contemporaries, both coming to Southern Maryland with their families at about the same time.

I’m not too far into the book, but there are already some points of interest. First, both this book and Shunned are written in a historical fiction fashion, filling in details for the sake of telling a good story, rather than staying to the straight-and-narrow of nonfiction detachment. This is a quality that I’ve also seen in the Martyr’s Mirror, hearkening back to a time when history telling was more of a literary art than a strict science. Joana Stauffer readily confesses to taking poetic license in her book’s introduction and admits that some people may dispute the exact facts of the tale. She said her book splits the difference between the different stories she has heard and also changes the names of secondary characters. Uncle Willis’s book did the same thing.

The other thing that I was shocked to discover was that my great-grandfather was an orphan, whose father abandoned him and his siblings after the death of his mother. Harry was shuffled from home to home in both Harrisburg, Pa. and in the Mennonite enclave in Snyder County.

I’ll post some more once I finish the book.

Horror on the Amsterdam ice

The Martyrs Mirror begins this story with an account of an early schism. Apparently, in the mid-15th Century, the Anabaptists of Amsterdam got into one of their usual snits with each other (the Mirror does not say what the issue was this time). A group led by someone named Gillus of Aix-la-Chappelle broke off from the rest of the churches, leaving his flock dangerously exposed to the prowling authorities. They solved this problem by living out on the water in boats, away from the constables.

Well, not completely away. In 1555, six members of this group were snatched off their boat, sentenced to death and strangled at the stake … but not burned. It was the beginning of winter and a bit to cold in those parts to get a roaring fire going.

There was freezing weather for thirteen weeks from this time on, and, what is remarkable, during all these thirteen weeks a light like a candle stood over each stake to which the bodies of the six brethren were fastened, and burned all night. After the expiration of the thirteen weeks, a violent storm and rain arose, and, consequently, a great thaw ensued so that the water rose very high, and the ice was rent asunder by the wind. Around the body of one of the six brethren the water stood so high, that the stake, through the force of the ice pressing against it, was broken in two, and fell down upon the ice. His body drifted hither and thither on the ice, with the tide, between Sparendam and Volewijk.

Two young members of the church spotted this wandering body, who was known in life as Jaapje Maet. They tried to get help to recover it, but no other church members would come out. So the two went back out to find Maet’s body, guided by the eerie will o’ the wisp above him.

In the meantime, said light came drifting on the ice. They rowed up to it and saw that it stood on Jaapje Maet. They took him into their boat, and brought him to the other brethren who also kept themselves in a boat in the field. These took the body into their own boat. But as soon as they touched it … the dried up and frozen body, which had stood at the stake for thirteen weeks waiting to be burned, burst, so that the blood flowed copiously into two or three baskets which were at the bottom of the boat.

Bleh.

Rats … ew.

Try as I might, I have never been able to get freaked out by rats. They don’t strike me as disgusting. They’re small and fuzzy. I can excuse the ugly tail. Even Steven Spielberg’s best efforts in “Indian Jones and the Last Crusade” couldn’t make the little critters turn my stomach.

But after reading the lengthy and horrific ordeal of poor Hans Brael, I’m beginning to develop a severe distaste.

Old Brael was the victim of what you might call the 16th Century version of “stop ‘n’ frisk.” While riding down the road in the Alpine area of Pusterthal in 1557, Brael was stopped and questioned by a judge. The judge questioned Brael about who he was and whether he was an Anabaptist. Brael, being too honest, foolish or dumb to answer otherwise, confessed that he was an Anabaptist. For this confession, the judge bound Brael and made him walk the rest of the way to the nearest castle.

At the castle, Brael was examined repeatedly, racked and suspended by his limbs by the authorities, who wanted the names of his fellow church members. Brael reportedly remained steadfast, so he was locked in the tower to rot:

…They put him into a deep, dark and filthy tower, where he could see neither sun nor moon, nor daylight, so that he did not know whether it was day or night, only he perceived now and then that it was night, when it was a little colder in the tower than at other times. It was also so moist and damp in the tower, that his clothes rotted on his body, so that he became almost naked, and was without a single garment for a long time, only he had a coarse blanket that had been given him, which he wrapped around his body and thus sat in misery and darkness. The shirt on his body had so rotted, that he had not a shred left of it, except the collar, which he hung on the wall.

At one time when these children of Pilate had him brought out to try him whether he would not apostatize, the light so hurt his eyes, that he was glad when they let him down again into the dark tower. There also proceeded such a fetid stench from the filth that was in this dark hole, that no one could stay in his presence; when they brought him in, they instantly had to go away from him again; yea, the councilors said themselves, that they had never smelled such a horrible stench. Thus he lay in this filthy tower, in which were also many vermin and loathesome reptiles, so that at first he for a long time protected his head, with an old hat, which had been thrown to him out of pity. The tower, for a long time had not had an occupant; hence the vermin were very numerous, and they caused him much terror, until he got used to it. The vermin sometimes also ate his food, so that when they let down his food, he had to eat it all up, before he set down the dish; otherwise the vermin so covered it, that he could not well eat it. When he got a dish of soup, and set it down but once, they ate it up in a moment in short. He could keep neither bread nor anything else; for as soon as the vermin smelled it, instantly they were at it. However, this was his least care, inasmuch as he was so tormented with hunger, no great abundance being given him so that he could easily eat it up, if he was only well. The vermin sometimes got also in his drink, and drowned therein, until he finally obtained a large stone, which he placed on top of his pitcher.

And so it went all summer until they moved him to another prison and put him in stocks. Apparently, after enough suffering, Brael gained the power to strike men dead. He summoned the judge who had captured him to the prison and cursed him.

The brother said, “The sole reason is; that I cannot forbear showing you, that, as you well know, that you are the chief cause of my imprisonment and miserable sufferings, though I have never in all my life done you an injury.”

The actuary sat there frightened and dumb, saying not a word, save that he had to do it.

The brother said, “Yes, the judgment of God impelled you to it; because you were so bloodthirsty against the pious, it also fell to your lot to fulfill your judgment thereby. You have incurred a heavy judgment; God will certainly find you for this, require it at your hands, and punish you for your sins.”

The actuary was dumbfounded and could not utter a word; so frightened was he; and thus he went away. About a fortnight afterwards he died very suddenly in the night, being both well and dead within a quarter of an hour. God had smitten him with great fear, so that he cried and moaned terribly, and lamented that he had done wrong and sinned.

Brael was seized with “a great joy” upon hearing of the judge’s death (not very Christian-like), and he continued to resist calls for him to confess and obtain release. Finally, the regional authorities at Innsbruck ordered for Brael to be impressed into the navy. He was handed over to a servant, who was to escort him to the sea. Well, the servant was a drunk who got plastered one night in Niederdorf, allowing Brael to escape after two years of harsh imprisonment.

Nun on the run

On P. 546 of the Martyrs Mirror, I found a three-column yarn that has just about everything – an unhappy nun, two fugitives, three daring escapes, a drunken drummer, a retarded would-be rapist, divine intervention and two flavors of execution. The story is written in a stream-of-consciousness style that was common before writers learned the proper care and feeding of an audience. Therefore, it veers wildly through the timeline with flashbacks and sidebars wherever the author fancied them. I’ll try to recount it with a bit more sanity.

We’ll start with Hadewijk, a pragmatic woman who was married to a drummer employed by the city of Leeuwarden in 1549 in what is the northern end of the modern day Netherlands. One of this drummer’s friends was accused of being an Anabaptist by the Catholic authorities and ordered to be burned. The drummer and his company were ordered to surround the place of execution and manage the rabble. The drummer was not happy to see his friend burned alive, so he, understandably, got piss drunk. Then, as drunks are wont to do, he began telling the crowd that his friend was a pious and virtuous man and that the clergy who condemned him were “wicked men, whoremongers, adulterers, unrighteous and such like.” Once he sobered up, the drummer realized that he would probably be the next to the stake, so he split town, leaving Hadewijk when she refused to go with him.

Whether it was out of fear or loneliness, the Mirror doesn’t say, but Hadewijk eventually fell in with the Anabaptists, which is how she came to meet Elizabeth. According to the Mirror, Elizabeth was a noblewoman who had been sent to a convent in Tieng (no reason given, but this was a common fate for women who got knocked up before marriage). Elizabeth did not want to be in the convent, so she convinced the milk maid to switch clothes with her, and she escaped, just like in the movies. Elizabeth also found some friendly Anabaptists, and they put her up with the now-single Hadewijk.

Eventually, the authorities caught up with Elizabeth, arresting her and Hadewijk and throwing them in jail. Elizabeth was later drown in the river by the authorities, but Hadewijk was rescued, by God. Praying in her cell one night, Hadewijk heard a voice call, “Hadewijk!, I tell thee, come out!” She looked up to see that the door of her jail cell was open. So she waltzed on out.

The city launched a manhunt for Hadewijk, promising a reward for anyone who turned her in and a fine for those who wouldn’t. She sought shelter at her former master’s house, but was turned away. So she went to the house of “a certain half-witted fellow,” who gave her quarter.

…But in the night he came to here and made indecent advances to her. Here the embarrassment was greater than ever; she had to deal with one who was strong of body and passions with whom reasoning had no influence.

Hadewijk managed to fight off her attacker with, get this, the threat of hellfire waiting for adulterers. The frustrated perv muttered, “The jade is too wise in the scriptures; I have no chance with her.” But he redeemed himself by letting her brother-in-law know that he was hiding her. Her brother-in-law then rescued her by boat and took her out of town to freedom. The end.

A spark of decency

I’m up to the year 1551 in the Martyrs Mirror, and I’ve come across the first accounts of popular and judicial opposition to the Catholic Church’s campaign of terror against the Anabaptists. The first account is thin on detail, listing the martyr only as “a smith at Komen.” The Smith was given a choice – recant and die by the sword or otherwise die by fire.

…But seeing the multitude and fearing trouble, the authorities kept the brother in prison. Hence, some climbed to the top of the prison and broke through the roof to see what was being done with the doomed man.

The tale ends anticlimactically with someone knocking on the prison door, being allowed in and returning outside with the smith’s blood on his hands, showing that he had, indeed, been killed. The body was brought out on a ladder, head between his legs, and propped against the churchyard wall. The priest claimed that the man had recanted.

But it was firmly believed that the priest slandered the dead man…

Whether the smith recanted or the story is even remotely true, we will never know. However, a new meme seems to be emerging in the Mirror’s accounts, that of the sneaky authorities executing Anabaptists secretly, rather than in public as they had before. This theme spills over to the judiciary in the story of Willem the Cabinetmaker of Cleves. The story maintains that one of the seven judges, Claes Meselear, played sick rather than join the other six in condemning the man. So, his six peers, along with the “Burgomaster,” visited him to try to get his consent.

He said he did not want to condemn so pious a man. Thereupon, the Burgomaster said, “By this you will incur the great displeasure of our gracious prince and lord.” Claes replied, “I will rather incur the displeasure of Duke William than of the Most High.”

Claes’ dissent did not prevent the execution. And, in a two-memes-for-the-price-of-one deal, the Mirror includes a line about the Burgomaster being tormented by lice and struck dumb. As reward for his principled stand, Old Claes “resigned” and then lost his head as well.

Your parents’ place or mine?

I posted a picture on Facebook a few months ago of Amish brand beer, joking that it was the brew of my people. One of my co-workers joked that Amish don’t drink beer; they go to bars and drink milk. This I knew to be, of course, bull. But I had to prove it. In the process of this search (which revealed that alcohol consumption rules change from community to community) I discovered something quite startling.

Bundling.

I’d never heard of this before. Apparently, there was and, some say, still is a courtship tradition among the Pennsylvania Dutch in which young men sleep in the same bed as their betrothed at their future in-laws’ house. It’s a tradition dating at least from the colonial days, rooted in the Old Country. Of course, the young buck does not have unfettered access to his woman. The couple is expected to remain clothed, and they are divided by a lengthwise board, or the woman is sealed into a bundling bag, a sort of chastity sack. Oh, and the parents are generally sleeping in the same room. If you want the full details, there are articles here, here and here.

Now, the humorous part. My wife and I rented an apartment together before we were married, much to the dismay of her mother, who thought we should be at least engaged. Our bed had seen better days, and its concave mattress stressed my back pretty badly. My solution to this problem was to place a pillow, lengthwise, in the middle of the bed to balance out the crater. Once, when my mother-in-law bemoaned our living in sin, my wife said, “Oh, don’t worry. We have the Platonic Pillow between us every night.”

There is much debate over how much hanky panky the divider boards, heavy blankets or chastity sacks really prevented once the rents nodded off. My guess is that they worked about as well as the Platonic Pillow.

A little bit of history repeating

Today’s edition of The Daily Beast featured a quote roundup of anti-immigrant rhetoric from across American history, including this gem:

“Why should Pennsylvania, founded by the English, become a Colony of Aliens, who will shortly be so numerous as to Germanize us instead of our Anglifying them, and will never adopt our Languages or Customs, any more than they can acquire our Complexion.”

Benjamin Franklin, “Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind,” 1751

Martyred by the Catholics: Richst Heynes of Ilst

“I’ll kick your ass so hard your kids will feel it.”

It’s a pretty lame attempt at threat humor, but that old playground phrase immediately came to mind when I read the tale of Richst Heynes of Ilst in Friesland. According to the Martyrs Mirror, Heynes was picked up by the local authorities in 1547 while eight months pregnant, taken from her crying children and manhandled into prison in Leeuwaerden.

…After three weeks imprisonment, she gave birth to a son. The child, to the great astonishment of all who beheld it, very plainly showed on his arms the marks which his mother had received from the cruel fetters.

After Heynes gave birth, the authorities promptly proceeded with the usual torture rigamoroll, abusing her “so cruelly, that she could not lay her hands upon her head.” But, when Heynes wouldn’t rat out her fellow church members, “she was sentenced at said place, thrust into a bag, like an irrational brute, and cast into the water and drowned.”