Blood water in Weißensee E-Book

Andreas Schramm

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 203

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"The Middle Ages have not passed away. They lie somewhere in Thuringia. Anyone can end up in them and become the dust of history." Hobby historian Ernst Steinhöfer disappears without a trace from the tranquil town of Weißensee in Thuringia. The investigations of the experienced Erfurt police officers falter until their intern realizes: this is not the first mysterious disappearance. The case seems to echo a crime that the town's inhabitants committed together in the distant past. But is that possible? Is the terrible deed repeating itself because the same people are living with the same greed within the same walls as hundreds of years ago?

Leseprobe

Any inconsistencies in the text are due to the fact that it was translated using computer-aided technology for a company-wide study.

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blood water in Weißensee

Where is the Middle Ages?

Just as a layer of earth millions of years old, which lies beneath geologically younger sections, sometimes breaks through the surface and comes to light, a layer of foundations and remains of walls in which people lived hundreds of years ago is hidden beneath our feet. In one place in Thuringia, it seems as if this layer has broken through the new earth and come to light. Houses, streets, and the whole town date from this time.

Rebuilt many times over the centuries, the houses may be ancient but they are not decorative. Their historical value is controversial. Should they be listed as historical monuments or would this hinder normal urban development? After all, such houses are not necessarily pleasant to live in. Having to keep them as they are would give young people another reason to leave their homeland.

But sometimes treasure hunters or even ordinary homeowners find something valuable from ancient times. The 'Nebra Sky Disk' and the 'Erfurt Treasure' are the best-known cases, the stars among the finds. But who does it actually belong to? Doesn't it belong to those who live here now, who own the houses? Ultimately, they have to pay for it if something threatens to collapse. They bear the burden of having to live in the old shacks. They inherited the houses and if something more valuable than dirt comes to light during the renovation, then of course they inherited it too!

It is so easy, almost imperceptible, to cross the line and you begin to become a criminal, because from now onthings develop according to their own fateful logic. Will the horrors of the Middle Ages repeat themselves, because the same people as hundreds of years ago, with the same greed as hundreds of years ago, are living within the same walls?

It is the people themselves who, through their actions, continually bring back the Dark Ages, but who are also always able to overcome them. The Middle Ages are not over. It is somewhere in Thuringia and anyone can get caught up in it and become the dust of history.

Weißensee, 12 years earlier

The steering wheel suddenly shook and the old Daimler rocked back and forth. In a split second he was highly concentrated, ready to regain control by braking and counter-steering. His pulse shot up. Instinctively his foot landed on the brake and briefly triggered the ABS.

But there was no dangerous situation at all, no puncture, no oil slick. What had just happened? After all, he wasn't driving on a snowy country road, but at 55 km/h in a small town in Thuringia. OK, after the braking maneuver, it was only 25 km/h. Some residents had noticed the braking and looked at him. One shook his head.

He had simply underestimated the condition of the road, whose asphalt surface had suddenly been replaced by ancient cobblestones. Now he was annoyed. A few meters earlier he had seen that strange traffic sign, the swerving car with the sign 'Surface change'. But instead of paying more attention to the condition of the road, he had just wondered what the sign was all about. As his pulse gradually calmed down, he cursed loudly to himself.

It should have said 'Road End'!

As was often the case, he was alone in the car. He didn't need witnesses for his business. His line of business was on the edge of legality, just on the other side. So it was, as the saying goes: almost legal. But no one was harmed by his actions, no one was taken away from anyone. He wouldn't have wanted that, otherwise he wouldn't have done it. He was a decent person and didn't rip anyone off. That's probably why he never achieved any real wealth. He was a trader, a specialized trader, an expert in his field, and he was happy with himself. But recently he realized that his good nature had also caused him to miss out on a lot of money. Money that he would miss when he could no longer do this job due to his age. After all, he couldn't pay pension contributions from his additional income. At some point he could no longer afford the luxury of always being honest with his customers. At some point he had to face reality and, like most of his colleagues, take advantage of their ignorance. The thought made him feel uncomfortable, but there was no other option.

There were still many small treasures here in the East. News of such a find was passed on by word of mouth and only spread among a small clientele of treasure hunters and traders like him. It finally reached him in his home region of the Ruhr and led him to this place.

Despite the moment of shock caused by the pavement, his attention was no longer focused on the road. Rather, it was the surroundings that captivated him. When the asphalt surface ended, a place began whose houses and streets seemed to have come straight out of the Middle Ages. Here you could see how it really was: crooked and plain, sometimes grey and dirty, not brightly painted like some half-timbered towns make it seem, just like the lives ofpeople back then. No, not 'change of surface', but 'leap in time' should have been written on the road sign.

Runneburg, 11 years ago

“Click, click, click, click, click…” The locking of the pawl, a sound that had not been heard in Weissensee for hundreds of years, was accompanied by the groans of the ten men who had not expected such an effort. At the beginning it was a loud “whack-a-boo” that more or less everyone joined in with, but it was soon noticed that a steady turn was better than jerky movements, and in addition, everyone had different reserves of strength, which was now noticeable in the different rhythm. And no one had the breath to shout “whack-a-boo” anymore. It would take much longer than initially thought. Ten minutes had already passed and what was pure fun had turned into a strength and endurance exercise that exposed every muscle training session in the gym as a gimmick. At least you could see the progress in the height of the box. You could even feel it. The whole apparatus was made of wood and the stored energy made the beams tense unrealistically. The closer they got to the magic point, the less strength the men had and the more tension grew for everyone involved. The TÜV employee in particular seemed less sure of himself. What a crazy idea, to build the thing faithfully based on medieval plans! As if they had safety factors and tested materials back then. The device looked completely harmless on the plans. That's why his boss had immediately agreed to oversee the design and construction. After all, it's good advertising for the TÜV. But now you could see the real size of the frame and you could practically feel the beams deforming under the load. The thing seemed like an oversized mousetrap thatcould snap shut at any moment. What if something goes wrong now? He tried to hide his unease.

The only one who, as usual, radiated confidence and self-assurance was Ernst Steinhöfer, the initiator of the project, a busy man who always felt a special connection to his home town. The castle association was happy about this stroke of luck. The project had not only generated a lot of attention, but it had also inspired young people, so that the association was no longer made up of only pensioners, but many young people had joined. The next generation and continued existence were ensured. Only Ernst Steinhöfer knew the truth: it was exactly the other way around. The idea of how to make the association more interesting had led him to this idea.

As a designer, Ernst knew the weak points and imponderables of the machine better than the representative from the TÜV, whose intervention only served as a legal alibi. With a loud "Halt!" Ernst finally released the 10 young men, who immediately collapsed like marathon runners behind the finish line. After a brief inspection, he finally gave his okay. The honor of being the Bliedenmeister fell to the main sponsor, Rainer Lambrecht. He too approached the machine with a reverence that immediately turned to fear and flight when he loosened the anchorage. Now no one had any influence on what happened. The 40 kilogram boulder first raced through the wooden channel that prevented it from breaking out sideways. The slingshot then hurled itself along a circular path, guided by ropes, until it finally left the leather bag at a great height and, with an unreal howl, was hurled 300 metres through the air before finally landing quite unspectacularly on the meadow in front of the castle. This sight and the sound audibly astonished the large audience and was followed by thunderous applause. This made up for the years of effort that had gone into planning and building the slingshot. Although they had hit nothing but the meadow in front of the castle, thisshot was a direct hit for the club, whose donation box rang like never before that day, and also for Ernst Steinhöfer's commitment to the town and his club. Today he had convinced his numerous critics. Weißensee now had a new draw, something that young and old could get excited about, something that was not found everywhere. A spectacular attraction that also connected the residents with the history of their own ancient town.

Weißensee, 12 years earlier

It was already afternoon when the doorbell suddenly rang. Dressed in his typical overalls from head to toe and with a veil of dust interrupted by a few drops of sweat, Karsten Lehmann opened the front door.

"Good day," he heard a friendly voice. Lehmann's gaze from the raised door went over the man's head and caught sight of an ochre-brown Daimler from the 1980s on the opposite side of the street.

“You are the man who is interested in my find?”

A short burst of laughter followed by a “Yes, can you see that?” showed Lehmann that he was right.

“Come with me!” came the even, monotonous voice.

Only now did he let in the man, who usually kept his name secret and who seemed like a colorful bird in a gray environment. Lehmann immediately disliked the merchant. In fact, he had already disliked him before he had met him. A merchant can't do anything with his hands. He makes a living by ripping people off. And a Westie at that! After they had walked through a run-down hallway, a worn stone staircase led to the vaulted cellar. As they descended the centuries-old stone staircase, they were hit by a strange smell, just a hint but still distinctive. Once downstairs, the visitor realized what dusty work the man had toiled away at. Theceiling was too low for someone of Lehmann's stature. That's why he had started to remove the old sandstone from the floor and deepen the base by 40 centimeters. Apart from an old chest of drawers in the furthest corner and numerous tools, the room was empty. Lehmann headed toward the chest of drawers and took something out. While he was staring meaningfully into the eyes of his counterpart, he suddenly held out a large old silver coin between his thumb and index finger. "Oh dear!" The surprise had obviously worked. Using a watchmaker's loupe that he always carried in his briefcase, the dealer immediately got to work. He turned towards the dim light and turned the coin over and over again.

"I polished them a bit. There are 52 of them!"

Lehmann's voice suddenly sounded eager and excited. He had actually found a treasure! Finally, this old chest with its rotten beams and narrow cellar that he had inherited had brought him luck. 52 huge silver coins had been found under one of the sandstone blocks. But he couldn't estimate what they were worth. Coin dealers were required to report treasure hunters. He had got hold of a catalogue, but this type of coin was not listed. In any case, the prices went up to a thousand euros. A new car? Maybe even a new house? What was in it for him?

The dealer was still staring at the coin through the magnifying glass, which Lehmann took as a good sign. He had no idea that the dealer had already recognized what he was holding in his hand and was only considering how high his bid should be. He abruptly put the magnifying glass down.

“I’ll give you 12 euros per coin.”

Lehmann stared at him in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious!”

His expression suddenly darkened. With a brief wave of his hand he indicated that he wanted the coin back. He simply put it in his jacket pocket.Shaking his head, he reached for his tools and simply went back to his work, which consisted of splitting an exceptionally large sandstone slab on the floor before it was transported away. He no longer looked at the man opposite him. He would find the way out on his own. The notches on the sides of the slab showed that he had actually worked his way from the outside to the inside, piece by piece, with a chisel. But now he worked on the slab by simply hitting the middle with a pickaxe without any plan. The blows became increasingly intense. The pickaxe repeatedly hit the vaulted ceiling as he swung it, sparking. The deafening noise echoed off the walls. It got louder and louder. Lehmann struck with uncontrolled anger. It was seething inside him, but the businessman did not let up. "The coins... I can't... not..." He couldn't understand any more, it was just too loud. Finally he took a wad of banknotes out of his briefcase and held it out imploringly, as if he were trying to lure a dog with dog biscuits. "I have... money... I want it now." In his estimation, the deal was close to being concluded, but in truth he had completely misjudged the situation. He was getting closer and closer to the path of the pickaxe, which, driven by anger and frenzy, was becoming more and more unpredictable. Standing with his feet on the upper end of the plate, he felt the impulse of the blows through the stone. Anyone would have instinctively stepped back, but he was in his element. He was a trader and he was about to make a deal. "I... ...bid 15 euros." He took another step towards Lehmann, who now seemed to have completely lost control of himself and his tool. After the pickaxe had hit the ceiling with its wide part, it moved downwards, point first. It missed the businessman's arm by just a few centimeters, continued to rush downwards towards his foot and finally hit the sandstone slab with full force, which immediately shattered in the middle and fell somewhere without the slightest delay - with it the businessman, who had just managed to hold on to the edge. Lehmann instinctively took a step back, but now he understood the danger the other man was in. While more and more stones gave way and disappeared into the hole, he had the presence of mind to lie down and grab the screaming man by the collar of his jacket. But more and more earth slipped in. The stones that the businessman was desperately clinging to also began to slide. Slowly, with his arms stretched upwards, screaming loudly, he disappeared further and further into the hole. Lehmann pulled as hard as he could. He actually managed to lift the weight up, but the further he pulled it out, the lighter the man seemed to become. Eventually the weight became very light and all that came up was the man's jacket. His screams became more distant and were now completely drowned out by the roar of the falling rubble, while Lehmann pulled away from the hole with his other hand so as not to fall headfirst himself.

When the avalanche of rubble had come to a halt, a round hole appeared. The sudden silence had an eerie effect. Helplessly, Lehmann called out "Hello?" into the hole, not believing that there would be an answer. He put a ladder over it and crawled far enough down until he could look in from above. An eerie darkness stared back at him from below. Nothing moved. He quickly connected his old construction lamp to the extension and slowly lowered it down the cable. The lamp consisted of only a straight shade with a light bulb underneath. The light was enough to illuminate a round brick edge around the lamp. Everything below remained black. To Lehmann's amazement, the hole was much deeper than he expected. Only when the cable drum had almost been unrolled did the surface of the water unexpectedly appear. It was completely black; he almost dipped the light bulb into the water. The water was only recognizable by the circular waves and the distinctive thud of a small stone that had come loose from the top and fallen in.

After he had pulled the lamp back up, he had to sit down to one side and take a deep breath. What had just happened? The dealer was definitely dead! Whatever he did now, whoever he informed, nothing would help the dead man. But it would harm him. They would ask what this man was doing in the basement and sooner or later they would come across his treasure, and all he could do was report him. Lehmann looked in the briefcase. In an open envelope he discovered several banknotes. There were more envelopes. The car keys were in the dealer's jacket.

April 2014, Friedenstein Castle in Gotha

In very rare cases, historians manage to reconstruct events from past times from ancient writings and thus shed light on stories and rumors that are hundreds of years old. This is how events that had been collectively forgotten because they were unpleasant for the residents come to light - and people had therefore stopped talking about them. Gerd Schimming, a historian in the research library of Friedenstein Castle, was sure that he had discovered such a case. Now he wanted to pass on the knowledge so that it would not disappear into the mists of history again. Sometimes it would result in an article in the newspaper, but it was not that interesting. At best, a few interested people from the region would be found and perhaps the episode would find its way into the local chronicle. It basically always depended on whether there was someone with enough enthusiasm to follow it up. In this case, he was recommended a man who was a town chronicler as a hobby and who apparently carried out this task with extraordinary passion. At least that iswhat the mayor of Ditfurt told him. It sounded a little exaggerated, almost as if the mayor wanted to warn him about the zeal of this person at the same time.

Schimming was happy with it. If you weren't enthusiastic about these stories, then working in the archives was dull and boring. He looked for a moment at a colleague who was the best example of this, when there was a short but firm knock on the door. A wiry man in his prime came in.

“Mr. Schimming? Hello!”

“Hello!” came the questioning reply.

“Are you the town chronicler from Weißensee?”

His counterpart waves vigorously.

"I do this purely on a voluntary basis. I've been retired since last year, you have to have a hobby and the city is such a valuable piece of history. The houses have only been preserved in their original state because in the GDR era there was no material to tear anything down and build something new. Now it's a stroke of luck, but people don't really know how valuable it is."

He realized that he had just come through the front door again.

“Oh yes, Steinhöfer, my name is Ernst Steinhöfer. What did you find?”

“Come with me, I’ll show you right away. Very interesting!”

Steinhöfer followed Schimming into another room of the sprawling castle. An old handwritten chronicle lay on a very modern desk. While Schimming put on gloves, he asked his counterpart a few questions.

“Do you know the story of the epidemic of 1478?”

Steinhöfer knew what he was talking about. "The death register records 83 deaths, although there was no plague epidemic in the empire at the time. For a long time, there was a rumor that the whole city had sinned."

Schimming was impressed by his counterpart. He tapped his finger on the table.

"You don't believe it yet, but there may be some truth in it. Look here! The chronicle of Bishop Adalbert."

Although Ernst Steinhöfer had often read old writings in Kurrent, he was unable to decipher this script. Schimming began reading from a point where there was damage that could no longer be reconstructed:

"... two Beguines came to the city. They asked for overnight accommodation in an inn. Citizens of the city who were drinking there committed shameful rape on the offenders. Fearing the bishop's punishment, they finally murdered the women. To hide their ungodly deed, they threw the corpses and their belongings into the well there and citizens of the city came and helped to close the well. But the Lord's punishment soon followed. Death came to the city and after a short time many of the people were struck down by fever."

Steinhöfer was electrified. "They probably contaminated the groundwater. Deep beneath the city there is a rich water reservoir that connects the individual wells. That's a story that needs to be investigated."

"Don't make yourself unpopular. Somehow that casts a dubious light on the ancestors of the residents of your town." Steinhöfer let out a short laugh.

"Oh, I've been unpopular for a long time. If you do too much to protect historical monuments, people get angry because they have to comply with a few regulations."

Weißensee, large hall of the inn "Zur Krone"

The “Zur Krone” inn, once the centre of social life as the “Kaiserhof”, was one of the buildings that had survived four decades of the GDR, but whose future was now more than uncertain. After years of legal disputes over ownership, a tenant was finally foundwith a new concept. It could not survive as a pure restaurant; after the fall of the Berlin Wall, pubs and restaurants were deserted. Nobody spent their money there. The large hall was to be a kind of multifunctional room that could be redesigned for special occasions. In everyday life, it was to appeal to a younger audience. A bowling alley was planned as the centrepiece, alongside pool tables, slot machines and an attractive bar, very much in keeping with the trend of the time. But then someone brought the preservation of historical monuments into play. A renovation was not approved. This decision brought with it great mistrust. It further alienated people from the institutions, and they suddenly saw themselves in the old role again. Here the common people, there the big and small rulers who decide everything. Because the city council was now considering building a new community center, of course with a large hall, the prospects for the building were questionable. Of all things, the monument protection would probably mean the death of the building. The officials had their regulations...

It was not yet time, and the venerable hall continued to serve as a meeting place with catering. That evening, the air was filled with smoke and there was a pub atmosphere. The lectern was given to Ernst Steinhöfer, who was the only one in the hall wearing a suit with a tightly tied tie, but this did not hinder his flow of speech. He had just quoted the passage from the bishop's chronicle, which unfortunately did not generate the hoped-for interest among the audience. Instinctively, he raised his voice so that it sounded imploring:

"This is not mentioned in the city chronicle. The well is probably still closed or was later used as a garbage pit. We should find it and open it. There are probably still objects or even mortal remains of the Beguines preserved. These can be recovered and exhibited. That will be an attraction for the city's anniversary next year!"

His energetic voice had brought calm to the hall, which continued into an expectant silence because the lecture had ended unexpectedly and abruptly. This silence was interrupted by a heckler from the hall: