Whumpee-Care

In the engine room, the days and nights melted more and more into a single gray mass. Maurice had become so accustomed to the obtrusive smell on the coal deck that he no longer even noticed it. Menu no. 5 had long since lost its horror: whatever he ate, it all tasted the same - like nothing. He simply spooned up what was in front of him and swallowed it, because somewhere deep down he knew it was necessary to stay alive. Afterwards, he staggered to his bunk and sank into a deathlike sleep - until the next morning, when one of the stokers shook him awake and pushed him to the sink, where a few handfuls of ice-cold water woke him up enough to find his way to the breakfast table. A few cups of tasteless broth, which the other stokers called “'devilish strong coffee”, got him up enough to get back to work. One: a shovel full of coal, two: into the heater, one: coal on the shovel, two...

Maurice only listened to the time and the singing of the others as he shoveled the coals into his ravenous, red-hot mouth. His head and body were also glowing and he was too tired to sing along. He silently moved his lips to the lyrics, thinking only that he mustn't lose his timing and that he mustn't fall asleep. One (up) - two (in) - one (up) - two (in) - one (up)... Pain raced in his hand: a small greeting from reality. A few moments later he was far away - pleasantly surrounded by a strangely gentle exhaustion. Maurice straightened his back and forced himself back. Don't get weak - don't go limp! One (up) - two (in) - one (up)... The furnace opening with the red, glowing coals flickered before his eyes. - two (in) - one (up)... His hands failed. The shovel clattered to the ground. He swayed - his legs buckled powerlessly under him without him being able to do anything about it. No, he thought, no - no way he was going to get weak... He searched for something to hold on to and pull himself up again, but his hands were grasping at nothing. He could barely feel his body hitting the hard ground...

Far down the corridor, a door slammed shut. Peter raised his head. Hard footsteps came closer and closer. Two figures stopped in front of his door. "Reilly, Peter!" one of them barked. Peter stood up and took a deep breath. "Yes." A bunch of keys rattled against the door. The two figures entered the cramped cell, one of them yanking Peter's arms behind his back. Sharp metal cut into his wrists. He pressed his lips tightly together so as not to make a sound. "Come with me!" They dragged him out of the cell, down the gloomy corridor. "Mr. Reilly!" The little old lady with the mop bucket cried out as he was led past her. He turned to face her. "'Bye ma'am - it was nice knowing you." "Shut up!" A rough shove in the back made him stumble, only the hard grip that held his arm saved him from falling. He was dragged along, up stairs, along iron corridors… …An area had been cleared in the large hold, part of which was blocked off with a grating, in the middle of which was one of the iron girders supporting the ceiling. Peter took a look around and realized that apparently everyone available had been brought on board as an audience. He took a deep breath. An example was about to be made here - on him. He closed his eyes for a moment. For a tiny moment, the thought flashed through his mind that he could spare himself all this. All he had to do was say… No! Peter pressed his lips tightly together. He opened his eyes again, his eyes fell on Max and Pavel, who were standing close behind the barrier. Pavel was just skin and bones; whatever was about to happen here, he wouldn't make it out alive. He didn't get a chance to think any further. The handcuffs were removed, but his guards remained close beside him. "Peter Reilly!" "Yes." "You're sentenced to forty strokes for stealing food. Take off your shirt!" Only now did Peter notice the sailor standing next to the pillar, sliding a belt through his hand with a malicious grin. He gritted his teeth, unbuttoned his shirt and carefully hung it on a hook on the pillar. The next moment his arms were yanked upwards and secured to the pillar with handcuffs. A wide leather strap was placed around his neck and pulled tight - tight, but still loose enough for him to breathe. A second strap was placed around his waist and he felt the buckle being fastened. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it. A loud bang, like a gunshot, cut through the silence and at the same moment a hot pain seared across his shoulder. Peter pressed his lips together and buried his face against his upper arm. 'It will pass…' he told himself as the next pain burned across his upper body, 'It will pass, just like it always has… Just keep breathing…' Peter breathed. As the pain seared his bare skin again and again, he breathed in and out deeply, trying to breathe the pain away. He looked up once and saw his two friends - Pavel had his face buried on Max's shoulder, Max was stroking his back reassuringly… Peter closed his eyes again, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He felt sick and strangely dizzy. Darkness came upon him in waves, slowly at first, then more and more, a strange numbness flooding over him. 'Everything will be all right,' thought Peter, 'Everything will be all right now - it's over in a moment…' The darkness fell over him and pulled him deeper and deeper. Only from very far away did he hear a rough, indifferent voice: "He's had enough!" And then darkness fell around him.

...Something heavy was dumped on the pile next to Jens, something warm and damp dripped down on his cheek. He struggled to fight the scream that choked his throat. Paralyzing horror gripped him, pulled him into the depths, into a black pit, he fell, fell so deep…

It was getting on towards evening when all the sentences were carried out and Georg and Baart began to throw the headless bodies into the pit that had been dug for them. Georg was tired and felt sick. He reached for the next body, the ship's boy - almost at the same moment his stomach seemed to freeze. The narrow shoulders, the skinny arms tied behind the back - they were still warm. He bent over the boy and shivered. The small chest rose and fell, only slightly, very slightly, but nevertheless… Georg raised his head. "The boy is still breathing!" Executioner Rosenfeldt turned around and came towards him. His voice sounded tired. "I know." The executioner took off the cloak he had already draped around his shoulders and stretched out his arms towards the boy: "Give him to me!" Georg hesitated. Baart, who had just thrown up for the third time, now came too. "Please…" his voice trembled. Rosenfeldt made an inviting gesture with his hand. "Give him to me!" he repeated. His tone didn't allow any other protest. Georg swallowed hard and obeyed. Godefray Rosenfeldt wordlessly pulled a knife from his belt and with a quick jerk cut the ropes that were knotted around the boy's wrists. He carefully crossed the little arms on the boy's chest, then he wrapped the motionless little body in his cloak and picked him up. "Please!" Baart's voice wavered suspiciously, "Don't make it hurt! Don't cause him pain! Please!" "Go back to work!" the executioner simply replied, "And then come to me, to fetch what you deserve for your work!" He turned around and carried the boy from the place of execution.

Godefray Rosenfeldt trudged along the rain-soaked path, carrying this light-weighted bundle, feeling a little head under the cloak leaning at his arm. His way led to the secluded house he had been assigned to live in. It was a large house, built for an executioner's family and a family - his family - had lived there until a few years ago. Then the fever had come and emptied the house: first his two little daughters, then his three sons, then his wife… A sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts, it was one of the city guards: "What are you carrying, executioner?" Rosenfeldt nodded, silently hoping that the boy had not yet come back to consciousness and was listening in. "Only what I was allowed to take: I'll need some new poor sinner's lard.* Next time you have rheumatism, you'll thank me for it!" The guard laughed as he turned to move on. "That’s all right then - I'll see you when it's that time again, hangman!" Godefray Rosenfeldt did not reply and walked on hastily. The raindrops fell thicker and thicker and he was glad when he reached his large, dead-silent house and closed the door behind him. Outside, the rain pattered as Rosenfeldt carried the little bundle into the kitchen and slowly placed it on the large table. He folded back the woolen fabric of the cloak and looked silently at what he saw ahead of him: A small, skinny boy's body, in dirt-streaked rags, a tiny, pale face, muddy and bloodstained, wet hair, caked with dirt... His stomach seemed to knot up all at once. He took off his hood, went over to the cupboard, took out the bottle of schnapps and poured himself a generous swig. The brandy ran fiery down his throat, warming him, washing away sickness and discomfort and leaving him with a feeling of relief. Rosenfeldt went to the stove, built a fire and put on a kettle of water. When he came back to the table, he saw that the boy had opened his eyes. Godefray Rosenfeldt took a deep breath and looked the boy up and down again. There were tears in the boy's eyes now. Rosenfeldt shook his head tired and sorrowfully.

Hamburg, Germany, October 1402: Klaus Störtebeker, known as a pirate, and all his crew were sentenced to dead by beheading - from the captain down to eleven year old cabin-boy Jens. Executioner Godefray Rosenfeldt has to carry out the sentence - his two helpers Georg and Baart have to pile up the bodies of the decapitated men and bury them later… (For the pre-story feel free to check out my blog...)

... what would you think about a beginning like this: 20th of october 1401, Hamburg, Northern-Germany Executioner Godefray Rosenfeldt and his both helpers Georg and Baart have to do a Job this day: Pirate-Captain Klaus Störtebeker and his whole crew are sentenced to dead by beheading. None of the three does this job because he wants: An executioner's son in this time had no other choice than becoming an executioner on himself - if he wanted or not. Georg escaped from serfdom - living in a free town for one year and one day would set him free forever, and in the first he had been relieved that Rosenfeldt hid him and gave him work and bread. And his colleague Baart from Holland had been in a similar situation, when he joined his job as a hangman's helper.

... Georg took a deep breath while he pulled the headless body to the side - to the heap that was already lying there. His job here wasn't the worst: Baart - the bony, quiet Dutchman - and he didn't have to kill at least. They just had to clean up the remains afterwards...

Loud screaming tore him from his thoughts - the guards were bringing the next pirate. Only a few moments later, the desperate cries fell silent. Something bumped lightly against his foot - the condemned man's head. The silence that followed was almost eerie. Georg heard a deep breathe from Rosenfeldt and a low, trembling "Godsvadoorie!" from Baart. He didn't even have to look to know that it was now the ship's boy's turn. Georg gritted his teeth. He didn't want to look - and all the same he did. In front of the executioner stood a small, skinny boy in rags, with a bruised, deathly pale face and naked fear burnt in his dark blue, wide-open eyes. Georg struggled to suppress the sickness that rose up in him. He glanced at Baart, who was visibly struggling to keep himself under control. Poor guy - he was married and had a son of his own, something like this always got to him!

"Get on your knees now!"

Master Rosenfeldt's voice under the hood sounded calm. The boy didn't move, he seemed frozen in horror. Baart now approached him and helped him to his knees in an almost fatherly manner.

"Do you know a prayer?" he asked the boy.

He received no answer. Georg glanced briefly at the executioner, who now raised his sword, ready to deliver the fatal blow, and then turned his head to the side so as not to have to see anything. The pirate boy was so small - his neck so far down... Georg prayed fervently that the executioner would get it right first time. The next moment he heard disappointed shouts from the crowd - but no other sound, no cry of pain, nothing... He turned around again. The boy was lying on the ground at the executioner's feet - unharmed, but motionless. Baart now bent over him, then looked up, looked at the executioner and shook his head silently.

"What is it?!" One of the aldermen, watching the execution from a stand, jumped up impatiently, "Do your duty, executioner!"

Master Rosenfeld paid no attention to the alderman. He turned to Baart.

"Put him with the others!" he ordered in a loud voice, "I have not sharpened my sword for the dead!"

(to be continued...)

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Blaze

... "Heh! Boy! How are you?"

Maurice blinked exhaustedly, his teeth clashing.

"... So cold ..." he mumbled.

Sebba stood up and took a knitted jumper out of his locker. Already a bit aged, but soft and warm - above all warm, that was the most important thing now! He carefully helped Maurice into the jumper and slipped a second pair of woollen socks over his feet.

"It'll be better in a minute!"

The machinist tucked the young man in tightly and spread a second woollen blanket over him.