1636 The Devil's Opera: Chapter Seven

    Hans led the way farther into the rough quarter of Old Magdeburg. Simon was familiar with every street in the quarter. He ran them all at different times. But Hans soon led him into streets that Simon didn’t like to travel at night. They passed by people slumped in doorways. Others staggered down the street, taking swigs from coarse pottery bottles. Simon edged closer to Hans.

    After one more turn into another dark street, Hans stopped in front of a door. “This is The Chain. Have you heard of it?”

    Simon nodded, stomach sinking. The Chain was perhaps the worst tavern in the city. Fights were a frequent occurrence, and more than one dead body had been removed from the premises. It was said that the city watchmen, even the new Polizei, would only enter the place in groups of three or four. Simon had never been inside.

    “Ah, it’s a rough place, right enough. But you’ll be safe with me.” Hans pushed the door open and waved Simon in. Steps led down into a basement. At the bottom, Simon stepped into the bar room, afraid but hiding it from his new friend.

    The room was dimly lit from a smoldering fire in a fireplace on the opposite side and a few guttering tallow candles on sconces around walls. The air was smoky from the fire and candles and foul from the smell of too many unwashed bodies in a small space.

    Simon coughed from the reek, then stumbled as he was pushed from behind. Hans stepped up beside him and scanned the room. “Barnabas!” he shouted. A man across the room waved his hand. Hans faced him and held up two fingers, to which Barnabas responded with an upraised thumb. Hans clapped his hand on Simon’s shoulder again. “Come on, lad. Barnabas has got seats for us, let us get some drink.” Hans pushed his way through the seated crowd. Simon followed on his heels, as there was no way he could have made his own way through that mass of rough-spun covered backs.

    Hans came to a thick board laid across a couple of barrels with a lamp at one end. “Hello, Veit, you old scoundrel.”

    “Hans, you lump of walking swine’s flesh. I have not seen you in must be, oh, eight days now. What made you drag your stinking carcass in tonight?

    Simon stepped away when the tavern keeper so freely insulted Hans. He wasn’t sure how the big man would respond, but when Hans laughed he relaxed.

    “Oh, I need a purgative, so I figured I’d come by and drink some of your swill. That ought to have me puking by midnight.” Both men laughed at that.

    “So what’s your poison tonight?” Veit asked after they settled down.

    “Genever. The good stuff,” Hans added as the tavern keeper turned back to the high table behind him. A moment later a blue ceramic bottle was set before Hans, stopper and neck wrapped in wax. Veit held his hand out. Simon watched as Hans pulled some coins out of his pocket, and counted them into the tavern keeper’s palm. They both knew the cost of the bottle of spirits, because Veit was counting right along with Hans.

    Hans counted out the final coin and reached for the bottle, only to find Veit’s hand on it holding it down. “What’s wrong?”

    “Take back that Halle pfennig,” Veit said.

    Hans cursed. “You gave it to me, so you ought to take it back.”

    “I’m not saying I did or didn’t,” Veit replied. “But if you were in here drunk enough to take it, then you deserve it. Now give me dollars or honest silver or do your drinking somewhere else.”

    Simon was glad he couldn’t understand what Hans muttered under his breath as he took back a blackish coin from the tavern keeper and gave him a different one in exchange. Veit removed his hand and Hans picked up his bottle. Then he looked over at Simon. “Thought I had forgotten you, eh? Veit, this is . . . what is your name, boy?”

    “Simon, sir.”

    “Sir!” Hans and Veit roared with laughter. “I’m no sir, boy. I’m just Hans, and that is good enough for me.”

    “Taking up with boys now, Hans?”

    Simon stepped back as Hans’ face went hard and cold all in a moment. He didn’t want to be in the way if things got rough here. He’d already seen Hans in action once tonight.

    Veit’s laughter choked in his throat as Hans’ hand flashed across the counter to grasp his jacket and lift him up on his toes. “You’ll not say that again, Veit,” Hans hissed through tight lips.

    Veit’s eyes were wide and his face was pale behind his scraggly beard. Simon knew his own eyes were just as wide and just as white around the edges.

    “Sorry, Hans. I meant nothing by it. Bad joke.

    The tableau stretched on for a long moment, then Hans relaxed his fist and let the cloth slide through his fingers. Veit settled back onto his feet.

    “We will let it go at that,” Hans said in a hard voice, “but you watch your mouth, Veit. A man can get hurt by saying the wrong thing.” After a moment, he turned to Simon and said in a normal tone, “Now, boy, what do you want to drink? I’m buying.”

    Simon hesitated, then stammered, “Sm-small beer.”

    Hans frowned, but Veit held up his hand. “I keep some here for some of the doxies that come round in the mornings. He can have some of that, and I won’t charge for it.” The tavern keeper found a small mug on the back table and filled it from a small keg sitting on the end of the table. “Here you are, lad.”

    Simon took the mug from the counter and looked up at Hans.

    “Right. This way.”

    Again Simon followed close behind the bulk of the larger man through the press of bodies that seemed in the dim light to be clad in shades of gray. Hans pushed his way through without seeming to give a thought to those he was jostling. Simon heard mutters as he went by the men following in Hans’ wake, but no one’s voice was loud enough to catch Hans’ attention. After what he had just seen at the counter, Simon was not surprised. People here apparently knew Hans — knew enough to keep on his good side, anyway.

    Hans arrived at a table and kicked a bench out from underneath it. “Come on, boy, sit down.” Hans himself dropped to the bench and carefully set his bottle on the table. “Barnabas, everyone, this is Simon. He is a small lad with a big name, and he is my luck. Stopped me from getting set upon by a couple of bully boys from over west of the Big Ditch. I recognized them.”

    Barnabas, a thin man with a narrow face, looked horrified. “Why, that . . . that is unheard of. They are supposed to keep to their side of the moat, and we keep to ours. That’s the way it has always been . . . or at least since the sack.”

    Hans was busy scraping the wax from around the stopper and neck of his bottle of spirits. He didn’t look up as he responded. “Maybe so, but just maybe someone over there is just a bit upset that I beat their man in the fights last week. Ah!” He got the stopper out and immediately took a big swig of the gin. He smacked his lips, smiled, and looked over at Simon. “Drink up, boy, even if it is small beer.”

    Simon took a sip from his mug. It was as bad as he expected from this place, but he swallowed it anyway. It was wet, and he was thirsty.

    “Hans,” Barnabas spoke up. “This is my cousin Karl, from Hannover.” He pointed to a man who would make two of Barnabas. “I think I have told you about him before.”

    Simon studied Karl. From what he could tell, even in the dim light, the Hannoverian didn’t really fit in here in The Chain. His beard was a neatly trimmed goatee with prominent mustaches. He wore a fine hat. His clothes, what Simon could see of them, were clean. No, not at all the appearance of the normal patron of this tavern.

    “Sure,” Hans said. “I remember you mentioning him. Good to meet you, Karl.” He held his hand out across the table. Karl took it with a toothy grin. Simon could see their hands tense on each other. Karl’s grin disappeared and his jaw set. There was a long moment of silence, then the clinch broke.

    “So you are the famous Hans Metzger.” Barnabas’ cousin’s speech was accented. His voice was nasal and harsh. It made Simon want to hunch his shoulders up around his ears.

    Hans set the blue bottle back on the table with a clack. “There might be a few people have heard my name, aye, but I would not say I was famous.”

    “Oh, but to hear Barnabas say it, you are one of the most renowned men in all Magdeburg.”

    “Friend Karl, if you know your cousin at all, you know that he is liable to say most anything once he has had a mug or two of ale.” A bit of the hard note had crept back into Hans’ voice. Simon hunched down a little. He wasn’t sure what was going on here and now, but he was pretty sure he didn’t like it.

    “Barnabas would have it that you are a very Samson.” Karl’s tone was more than a bit pugnacious by this point. Simon didn’t understand why. “That you are renowned for your strength.”

    Hans took another gulp from his bottle. “Barnabas drinks too much. And I didn’t know that he’d been to church enough to even know who Samson was.” The men around the table laughed.

    “But are you that man?” Karl’s head was thrust forward, and he stared at Hans with intent.

    Hans sighed. “What do you want? Are you looking for a contest with me on a night when all I wanted was a peaceful drink with my friends?”

    Karl said nothing, just continued to stare at Hans.

    Another sigh. “Fine. Here and now. Arm wrestling. But you will have to make it worth my while.”

    Karl sat back and blinked. Simon blinked along with him.

    “Make it worth your while . . . What do you mean?”

    Hans pulled two purses out of his coat pocket. They were small and worn, and from the way they lay flat on the table they didn’t have many coins in them. Simon thought they were the purses he took from the men who had attacked him earlier in the evening.

    “A wager. If I win, you pay me twice the value what’s in these purses. If I lose, you get the purses.” Karl opened his mouth to object, and Hans held up a finger. “You get the purses, and the knowledge that you beat Hans Metzger, the Samson of Magdeburg.”

    Karl sat back for a moment, then nodded his head. “Agreed.”

    With that, chairs and stools all around them scraped on the floor. The other men in the room had obviously been listening, and now they moved to where they could see what was going on. In a moment, their table was surrounded by a circle of observers. There was a murmuring sound, as side discussions happened and bets were made.

    “You will have to move, boy.” Hans stood and took off his coat. Karl did the same while Hans handed his bottle to Simon. “Hold on to that for me.” Simon took it, but was forced to leave his mug on the table. “Nay, take your mug, too.”

    “I can’t.” Simon felt like ash was in his mouth. “I only have one hand.”

    “Hummph!” Hans looked at him for a moment, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well, we can talk about that later. Meantime, you are still my luck, so stand over there where you can see everything and where I can see you.”

    Before he sat down, Hans turned his head toward the counter and bellowed, “Veit!”

    The tavern keeper pushed his way through the circle. “What do you want?”

    “Hold these.” He handed Veit the purses and Simon’s mug, then grinned at Simon and put his hat on the boy’s head.

    Hans took his seat across the table from Karl. The Hannover man plopped his elbow down on the table top and held his forearm up. There was an eager light in his eye. Hans took his time, rolling his shirt sleeve up with slow deliberation, revealing a hairy forearm corded with muscle.

    “Otto,” Hans called out as he laid his elbow on the table. “Call the count.”

    A man stepped out of the circle to stand by the table. As the two wrestlers joined hands he laid his atop theirs. “Begin when I count three. One . . . Two . . . THREE!” With that, Otto dropped his hand and jumped back. The contest was on.

    The muscles in Hans’ arm sprang to hard definition. To Simon it almost appeared like there were sticks under the skin, the cords were so strong.

    Karl snarled and grimaced, ducking his head as if he was clenching every muscle in his upper body. The joined hands began to move his way, his forearm forcing Hans’ back and down. It was a slow movement, but steady, until the hands were maybe halfway toward the table. Then the motion stopped.

    The hands stayed there for a long moment. Nothing Karl did moved Hans. No snarl or grunt affected him, no additional push moved him, no glare from fevered eyes touched him. Hans was rock steady.

    Simon was so excited he was almost jumping up and down. He’d seen boys and young men arm wrestle before, but nothing like this contest. Here were two grown and very strong men pouring their all into the conflict, and the excitement filled the air around them. Simon found himself chanting, “Come on Hans, come on Hans,” while the men around him were all shouting and shaking their fists in the air. The roar in the tavern was almost deafening.

    The boy almost missed it when it happened. He saw Hans’ eyes narrow a little, then his hand turned a bit, forcing Karl’s hand to twist on its wrist just the slightest amount.

    The joined hands began to move again, only this time Hans’ hand was moving upward and Karl’s hand was moving back. Time and again the man from Hannover would grunt or snarl and try to stop the movement, only to fail. Hans made no noise but the breath whistling in and out of his nostrils. His hand made its slow and steady movement until it passed the vertical and started pushing Karl’s hand toward the table.

    The shouting redoubled, until Simon wondered if the building would collapse from the noise. He wished he had two empty hands, so he could cover his ears. At the same time, he continued to chant, “Come on, Hans!”

    Back and back and back went Karl’s hand. Hans showed no sign of elation or triumph; he continued pushing as if he were closing a door.

    The end came suddenly. There was a snap sound, and Karl’s hand smashed into the table.

    “Aaaah!” Hans released his grip at Karl’s scream and sat back, while the other man’s face paled to what looked like a corpsely green in the dim light of the tavern and he grabbed his right arm above the elbow. Simon watched as the Hannoverian tried to move his arm and his face contorted with pain. “You son of a sow!” he shouted at Hans. “You’ve broken my arm.”

    Hans shrugged. “It was a fair contest. I did nothing to force that to happen. Everyone here will witness to that.” Voices all around them were raised in agreement.

    Barnabas was at his cousin’s side, pulling on his sound arm and muttering something about a doctor. Hans held his hand up, stopping Karl in mid-rise.

    “You lost,” Hans stared into Karl’s eyes. “You owe me. Veit, empty the purses on the table.”

    Simon had been right; the purses were almost flat. There were few coins in either of them. Two coins fell out of one; three out of the other. But the coins that fell out, now that caused eyes to widen all around the room. There on the table top lay three Groschen and two pfennigs. Simon sucked in his breath. He counted in his mind, twelve plus twelve plus twelve plus two — thirty-eight pfennigs worth. He’d never seen that much at one time.

    Other minds had been doing their own counting. “Six Groschen you owe me, plus four pfennigs,” Hans declared. “Pay up.”

    “I will do no such . . .” Karl began, only to be interrupted by a growl from the crowd. He looked around. Simon thought he turned even paler. The Hannoverian said nothing more, but reached under his jacket and dug out a purse with his left hand. He handed it to Barnabas and made a violent gesture toward Hans. Barnabas took the purse almost timidly, opened the drawstrings and rooted through the contents until he had counted out the bounty that Hans had won.

    Hans looked over his winnings, smiled and nodded. Karl lurched to his feet and shouldered his way through the crowd, followed by Barnabas. Hans waited until the door crashed closed behind them, then stood. He pulled his coat back on, plucked his hat off of Simon’s head and crammed it back on his own, then scraped all the coins together and poured them back into one of the purses.

    “Well, lads,” Hans bounced the purse in his hand, “not a bad night’s work, eh?”

    Some men in the crowd were grousing as they had to pay off on the poor bets they made, but most of them laughed. Simon heard a mutter sounding from all around him. “Stark Hans. Stark Hans.”

    Hard Hans indeed, he thought to himself. The hardest man he had known in his short life. The nickname sounded even harder because it was pronounced in the truncated form so often found in Amideutsch. In most German dialects the phrase would have been “Starker Hans.”

    “Veit,” Hans called out. The tavern keeper looked his way. Hans held up a Groschen for all to see, then flipped it to him. “Ale all around.”

    There was a loud cheer from the crowd as it made a mass movement toward the serving counter. In a moment, Simon and Hans were standing by themselves amid a scattering of tables, chairs and benches.

    “Well, Simon my lad,” Hans said. “You’ve been my luck twice tonight. Here.” He reached over, took the blue bottle from the boy, and tucked it in a side pocket of his coat, then handed Simon a pfennig. “Let’s go home.” He placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder and they went out the door together.