“But 1411 came. The plague returned to Silesia and blame had to be urgently apportioned, but not to the Jews, for they had lost their appeal as culprits. Variety was needed. And my mother’s luck deserted her. Her neighbours and fellows learned fast. During the previous witch-hunts it had come to light that denunciating was profitable; there were notable benefits. The authorities looked favourably upon it. And there was no better way to shift suspicion away from oneself.

“And more than anything there was Konrad, the first-born son of the Duke of Oleśnica. Konrad, who unerringly sensed where the true power lay, gave up ruling the duchy he had inherited and chose a career as a clergyman. In 1411, he was a provost in the Wrocław Cathedral Chapter and wanted very, very much to become a bishop. But to do so he had to distinguish himself, make a name for himself. The best way was as a defender of the faith, the scourge of heretics, apostates and sorcerers.

“And it turned out from the informers that despite his pious efforts, the Beghardian plague had survived in Świdnica, that Cathars and Waldensians still endured, that the Brethren of the Free Spirit still functioned. And again, the Dominican–Franciscan tribunal got down to work. The tribunal was zealously aided by the Świdnica torturer Jorg Schmiede, who worked eagerly and fervently. And thanks are owed to him that the vile Beguine and heretic, Małgorzata Roth, confessed to everything she was accused of. Such as praying for Lucifer’s Second Coming. Carrying out abortions and doing prenatal examinations. Copulating with the Devil and a rabbi, at the same time, just imagine. And from that coupling giving birth to a bastard. That is: me. Poisoning wells and, by so doing, spreading the plague. Digging up and desecrating human remains in a cemetery. And finally, the most terrible crime: that in church, during the Elevation, she looked not at the Host but at the wall.

“To conclude: my mother was burned at the stake on the common behind the Church of Saint Nicholas and the plague cemetery. She showed remorse before her death, so they showed mercy to her. Twice over. Before the burning she was strangled and her bastard’s life was spared. Instead of being drowned as the judges demanded, I was handed over to a monastery. But first of all, I was made to watch as my mother’s body sizzled, blistered and finally became charred at the stake. I was nine years old. I did not weep. Since that day I have never wept. Never. Not during the two years in the monastery, where I was starved, beaten, insulted. I shed tears for the first time on All Souls’ Day in 1414. On hearing that the torturer Jorg Schmiede had died, of a chill. I wept from rage that he had escaped me, that I couldn’t do to him what I had devised and planned in detail during sleepless nights.