Wrocław was an island in an ocean of war, an oasis in a wilderness of charred ruins and ashes. The region south of Wrocław became a fire-ravaged wilderness. Now, almost thirty thousand people were seeking sanctuary within Wrocław’s walls, a city with a population of fifteen thousand in times of peace. Wrocław was crowded—not to say overcrowded. Existing in a mood of uncertainty and menace. In an aura of paralysing fear. Denunciations were commonplace.

Everybody was to blame: the bishop, the prelates, the Inquisition, the city fathers, the Patriciate, the knighthood, the merchants. Everybody. The men who cared about the safety of the city. Men who saw a Hussite spy at every doorstep and recalled the year before in horror: the gates of Frankenstein and Rychbach opened by treachery; the stronghold at Ślęża seized by trickery; the plots in Świdnica; the sabotage in Kłodzko. Men who hoped that a witch-hunt for spies would flush out the actual, real ones. And men who didn’t believe in any spies, but who were very much in favour of hysterical fear. All of them encouraged informing, helping to intensify the fear and dread, which returned in the form of hatred and persecution.

After all, Hussites, traitors and witches might be lurking anywhere, in every doorway, on every corner, in any disguise. Everybody was suspicious: your neighbour, because she wouldn’t lend you a sieve; the stallholder, because he gave you your change in trimmed skojeces; the carpenter, because he said nasty things about the parish priest; the parish priest, because he drank; the shoemaker, because he didn’t. The cathedral lector, Schilder, should undoubtedly be informed on, because he was loitering around near a bombard on the city walls. Councillor Scheuerlein was, beyond reasonable doubt, worthy of a denunciation, because he farted terribly in the church during Sunday Mass. The city scribe, young Sir Albrecht Strubicz, was suspicious, because he had recovered after falling ill. Hans Plichta, the city guard, was suspicious, because it was enough to look at his face to guess he was a sot, a womaniser, a bribe-taker and a traitor.

The juggler-joculator was suspicious, because he played amusing tricks; the carpenter Kozuber was suspicious, because he laughed at those tricks. Young Jadwiga Bancz was suspicious, because she curled her hair and wore red slippers. Master Güntherode, because he took the Lord’s name in vain. The tanner aroused suspicions, because he stank. As did the beggar, because he stank even worse. And the Jew, for being a Jew. And all evil, of course, is caused by the Jews.

Denunciations and delations were on the rise, the situation fuelling itself, growing like a snowball rolling down a hill. Soon, the people no one had informed on became the most suspicious. So, knowing that, some people started informing on each other. And on their closest relatives.

It would have been odd had Reynevan not been included in that deluge of denunciations.

And he was. More than once.