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traveling preacher who called himself Brother Volkmar stood on a corner near the Old Town Square preaching in plain German, instead of the stupid old Latin the priests used, which nobody understood. Erika put down her basket and rested her arms.
                The preacher earnestly berated the passersby. He said the correct reading of Scripture showed that Jesus stood with the powerless against the oppressive lords, the rack-renters who loaded poor peasants and bondsmen with bridge tolls, highway tolls, tithes, clerk’s fees, city taxes, imperial taxes, war taxes—in return for what?
                His hair was long and dark, his speech fiery and passionate. Don’t believe what the Papists say about the Jews, either, he said. Every Easter they remind us how the fiendish Jews killed our Savior, to keep us angry and afraid, to keep us divided, so we won’t join with the Jews against our common oppressor, the Roman Church. We must reach out and enlist the Jews in our battle. Dr. Martin Luther said that Christ Himself was born a Jew, so we must deal kindly with them and instruct them in Scripture. (He was beginning to sound like her mistress.)
                Of course the Jews refuse to embrace a Church wallowing in the filth and stink of corruption, from the selling of offices and indulgences, to the slanderous blood libels against the Jews, and the arrogance and obstinacy of its clergy, when any common Bohemian peasant woman knows her Bible better than the most pompous Papist priest.
                He spoke with such conviction that Erika almost forgot how evil the Jews were, but she had to lift up her heavy basket and trudge back to work before she got another scolding. Which is how she happened to be walking past the Geistgasse when the screaming started.

    CHAPTER 5
                THE MUNICIPAL GUARDS PRESSED the unruly crowd back, and none of them were happy about it. Sheriff Vratislav Zizka ordered one of the guards to light a lantern as he stooped to enter the gloomy shop. Once inside, he straightened up. He was a tall Slav with a broad forehead and prominent nose passed down through generations of Hussite warriors. The flickering oil flame chased the shadows from the splayed-out corpse in the middle of the floor. The city guard who should have been standing watch over the victim was fumbling with something behind the counter.
                “Got something to report, Kromy?” said Zizka.
                “I thought I might have to impound the cash box as evidence, sir,” said Kromy.
                “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
                “Yes, sir.”
                “It’s empty anyway,” said Julie. She got a sharp stare from her father Jacob.
                “Is that so? Where’s the money?” asked Zizka.
                I watched the family closely. They were accused criminals now, and it was best for them to say as little as possible under the circumstances.
                “We just opened up,” said Freyde. “I didn’t sell anything yet.”
                “Do you always open so early?”
                “She was pounding on the door—”
                “Besides, it’s a mitsveh to get up early on Friday to get ready for Shabbes,” said Julie.
                “What the hell is that? Some kind of Jewish magic?” said Zizka.
                “No, it’s a good deed,” said Jacob.
                “Black magic is a good deed?”
                “No, no, no. It’s not black magic—”
                “They’ve been making contradictory statements like that all morning, sir,” said Kromy.
                “She means that it’s a religious obligation to serve God on the Sabbath,” I said.
                “Well, what do you know? I thought you were made of