The daylight that barely penetrates through a small window shines on Luther’s sweaty face. Clad in his sleepwear, he sits on his bed, taking labored breaths. It has been days since the last time he could leave the bedroom. He has never been quite a healthy person, but since Thomas’s death, the symptoms have become more severe as well as more frequent.
Lucky for him, he has a loving wife taking care of him in these difficult times. Nursing Luther day and night would be her 3rd full-time job, after being a mother to his children and a manager to the many small businesses that she runs in Black Cloister.
Stirring a spoon in a cup, Katharina prepares Luther’s usual medicine according to the physician’s prescription. She holds the cup before him. Shooting the cup a suspicious look, however, Luther does not make a move, leaving her hand hanging in the air. Leaning forward, she tries to feed him the medicine. Luther turns his face away after taking only a small sip. She insistently follows his mouth with the cup. Luther slaps it away, growling.
Katharina jumps back, the fright in her face gradually mixing with hurt.
The content of the cup that is thrown on the floor is spilling all over. Taking her gaze off the cup, Katharina looks straight ahead; she seems humiliated. Why wouldn’t she? when her embarrassing private life is being studied by uninvited guests. She runs out as she is trying to swallow her sobbing.
Luther also with much difficulty slowly moves his head and looks straight ahead. Pfaffinger, the uninvited guest, has been standing there, watching the whole scene. His look says it all.
Luther lets his head drop again shortly after his gaze meets Pfaffinger’s. Although he is now too sick to converse, he hears in his ears the voice of his writings.
“Our peasants, however, want to make the goods of other men common and keep their own for themselves. Fine Christians, they are! I think there is not a devil left in hell; they have all gone into the peasants. Their raving has gone beyond all measure. Therefore, let everyone who can smite, slay, and stab, secretly or openly, remembering that nothing can be more poisonous, hurtful, or devilish than a rebel…”
Luther’s body shakes when his own voice reads the words ‘smite’, ‘slay’, and ‘stab’.
As his head is tilted down, Luther looks up. He has the look of a merciless killer. His ruthless look gradually mixes with a pitiful sorrow when Luther hears a baby CRYING.
It is March of 1527. Elizabeth, Luther’s three-month-old baby lies motionless in his hands. The light rain joins the mourners in Elizabeth’s funeral. Although she is dead, Luther can still hear her cry! The sound of the baby crying fades into the howling of Luther’s 2-year-old son, Hans, who stands near Katharina.
Still in shock, Luther puts his dead baby into the casket. Although Luther is not crying, the tears have found their way out onto his face. Why does an innocent baby have to die? Luther wonders. Why she? Why me? I don’t deserve this, he thinks. Or do I? What did I ever do?
Luther takes a last look at his baby. Katharina throws herself on Elizabeth when he tries to close the casket.
“No, no, no,” she screams.
Luther turns his head toward his wailing wife. He extends his right hand to caress her but stops, his brow gradually knitting. Near Katharina’s head, his hand hangs in the air for a few moments. What did I ever do? he reviews the question. Turning his hand, he takes a good look at his palm and the old ink stains on it. He then slowly retracts his hand, hiding it under his arm. What have I done? he thinks.
Luther turns back as he bursts out crying—he finishes turning though before anybody could see the cry. With fragile steps, he gets farther away from Katharina, leaving the funeral.
From the above, Luther seems lonely, separated from all the mourners. Weak and vulnerable, a silenced voice in his ears gets a chance to speak up. Luther covers his ears, but the unstoppable voice gets louder and louder as if it is filling up the skies. “I, Martin Luther, have during the rebellion slain all the peasants, for it was I who ordered them to be struck dead.”
Luther collapses while walking away.
None of the mourners come to his aid!
Katharina turns and notices her husband lying on the ground. She also ignores it and turns back to her baby’s corpse. After a few moments, she turns her head toward Hans when he pulls her dress. Hans is watching his dad with worrying eyes.
Fighting doubts, Katharina stares at the innocent eyes of her and Luther’s son. She finally turns back and runs toward Luther. There is still no reaction from the others.
Where is my Luther? Katharina asks herself, watching the look of hatred in the blood-red eyes of the man of her dreams. Half-conscious and wrapped in a blanket, Luther sits in his rocking chair in a way that looks like he might slide off at any second. He glares straight ahead.
A Jewish physician examines Luther, looking into his mouth, ears, and eyes. The physician notices Luther’s hateful look when taking his pulse. Eyes narrowed, he stares back. Luther maintains the same level of spite in his gaze.
Katharina is about to intervene when the physician drops out of the staring contest, turning his face down. Repositioning his thumb on Luther’s wrist, he takes the pulse again.
“Do you get dizzy spells often?” the physician asks while his eyes are down on Luther’s palm. A few seconds pass by with no response from Luther. The physician eventually looks up. Luther is still staring at him with the same spiteful look. Brows knitting together, the physician’s eyes now reflect the hostility in Luther’s gaze.
Her wandering eyes switching between the two men in the staring duel, Katharina is concerned about the escalating situation. Neither Luther gives a response nor the physician withdraws his insisting gaze. “Once in a while,” she snaps, breaking the awkward silence. “He also has a ringing in his ears after each attack,” she says with pain in her voice.
The physician turns to Katharina, his face still carrying the frustration he had with Luther. “What was the last time he had a successful bowel movement?” he directly asks her this time.
Tears clogging her throat, Katharina shakes her head. “His constipation is worse than ever,” she says, fighting tears. “He’s in constant pain.”
“That’s what I thought,” the physician says, snapping his fingers. Without saying another word, he packs his instruments.
Katharina anxiously waits for the physician to offer a solution. A few moments pass by. No response yet. Tolerating the cruelty of silence, she meekly watches the physician pack at a leisurely pace.
Having his bag finally packed, the physician takes his yellow, cone-shaped, pointed hat off the table and stands up. “I am prescribing the same medicine. Stir it well in the water before drinking,” he says and without missing a moment puts his hat on and turns to leave the room.
Luther follows him with the same menacing glare. The physician is near the door when Luther growls: “You think Jesus was a bastard?!”
The physician stops. His face in shock, he slowly turns back to Luther.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Well, if you don’t believe he is the son of God, and we do know the Virgin Mary was never married, so you must think…” A look of disgust swiftly takes over Luther’s face. “How dare you call the Virgin Mary a whore?!” he rages at the physician.
The Jewish physician gulps in fear. “How?… What…,” he sputters before getting interrupted by Luther’s painful coughs. Watching his patient’s misery, his rage seems to be settling. “Never mind,” he says. “Delirious. That’s what you are.”
“Good day, Mrs. Luther,” he says politely, the arrogance in his attitude gone. As he is walking away, he says with a dismissive tone: “I am just a physician Martin, my job is to cure people—”
“Then why is my baby dead!?” Luther spits.
His bag dropped on the floor, the physician stops, again.
Katharina swallows her cry after the painful reminder about her baby.
There is a moment of silence. The physician is standing still, facing the door. His shoulder moving up and down indicates his heavy breathing.
“Why didn’t you do your job there?” Luther continues with an interrogative tone.
The physician quickly turns around, his face flushed and his eyebrows pulled together. “All we can do is our best,” he shouts at Luther and turns to Katharina. “You have to believe me,” he pleads. “There was nothing else we could—”
“Yeah!” Luther barks out “Then how come your best is making me worse every day?! This… this…” He picks up a medicine cup from the table. “… Is this poison you’ve been giving me?” He shatters the cup by throwing it on the wall. Katharina screams, jumping. “It sure tastes like poison,” he continues.
Grabbing the handle, Luther leans way forward to the point that he is about to fall. “Tell me one thing. What is the plot you people have for Martin Luther? Tell me, what is it? Slowly killing him with poison? Is that your plan?”
With an indifferent face, Katharina waits for her husband’s pitiful rant to finish. Luther’s raving stopped, the buzz of a fly is the only sound breaking the awkward silence. What happened to my Luther, the creator of Invocavit Sermons? Katharina asks herself. She wishes this everlasting sickness vanishes sometime soon; so does the lame Luther that the illness has nurtured in her husband. She turns to the physician to explain that these are just disturbed thoughts of an ill person.
“Don’t,” the physician says before Katharina speaks. “I understand. Take good care of him.”
The physician dashing to the door, Luther slowly leans back on his chair. “Yeah, take care of him,” he mutters to himself, looking like a drunk with no self-control. He faints and with that, the barking hatred in his eyes crawls back inside. The buzzing fly lands on his lips.
Late at night on July 6, 1527, groaning and taking labored breaths, Luther experiences another episode of self-torture; in the lavatory. The only witnesses for his misery are a few stubborn flies buzzing all around him. He hides his sweaty face with his palms; not clear from whom.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, help me.” He is in pain as a woman in labor. It is indeed a miserable and pitiable situation, especially with the sound of people enjoying a party in the background. While pulling his hair out of pain, he pushes again.
“For the love of God!” he begs. Nothing happens!
He takes a deep breath and pushes again.
And again.
And again…
Survived but exhausted, Luther leaves the lavatory, going directly back to his party. The sound of the party becomes louder and louder. Walking through the dark, he approaches the door to his house. The light pours out, the moment he opens the door.
Luther’s friends are sitting behind the dining table, eating, drinking, and laughing loudly. He enters the room and approaches the empty chair at the head of the table, next to Herman.
“There he is, our beloved host,” says one of the guests. “What took you so long?”
They all turn to Luther.
“He’s been cooking,” another says with a full mouth. The guests all roar with laughter.
Luther smiles while sitting down.
“Send the shit to the Pope,” Hermann says and with that, the guests burst into laughter. “From shithouse with love.” The laughter amplifies.
Luther chuckles and frowns at the same time. “Language please, Hermann,” he says while reaching over to cut a piece of pork for himself.
“Oh! Sorry professor!” Hermann responds sarcastically and follows that with a chuckle.
The piglet’s head is in the middle of the dining table, facing Luther. Luther cuts a piece of the pork when he hears Hermann hissing in a creepy, high-pitch voice. “Martin Luther!” It sounds more like Hermann imitating a piglet screaming in pain.
Luther turns to Hermann but finds him engaged in a conversation with someone else. All confused, he goes back to cutting from the pork. The knife barely touches the meat when he hears another creepy voice, but this time low pitch, and it sounds like Satan. “Martin Luther!”
Coming back to life, the piglet stares right into Luther’s eyes, talking to him in Satan’s voice. Luther is frozen, staring back at the head of the talking piglet lying on the silver tray. The piglet then laughs. The low-pitch laughter slowly turns into a ROARING TINNITUS in Luther’s left ear. When retracting his hands from the piglet, it hits the bottle of wine, spilling all over the table.
Their murmur stopped, the confused guests turn to Luther.
Luther covers his ears with his hands, tightly pushing on them. Although it does not make it any less painful, he has no idea how else to deal with the unbearable, hellish pain.
Everybody stops eating. Hermann among them dares to jokingly say something. “Everything alright there, professor?”
The tinnitus turns into a high-pitch, constant noise. Luther screams while falling off the chair. Lying on the ground and shrieking like a madman, he desperately presses his hands against his ears.
His friends worryingly gather around him. Before Luther completely disappears in the huddle, he screeches at the top of his voice.
The party might be over, but the long night is not.
In excruciating pain, Luther lies down on his bed, surrounded by his friends. They cannot do much but watching him in torment before his physician arrives.
Sitting on the bed, Herman cleans the sweat off Luther’s face and neck. Biting his nails, Uwe, Luther’s young pupil, peeks from behind Herman. Like an innocent teen that he is, Uwe starts crying in silence.
“Anything we can get you?” one asks.
Breathing with difficulty, Luther can barely talk.
“Say something,” Hermann insists.
Mumbling sounds, Luther seems to try saying something. Hermann gets closer to hear.
“Wa… Wa… Water,” Luther says during exhales.
Without missing a beat, Hermann turns to Uwe. “Water. Get him water. Hurry.”
Uwe darts out.
Judging by his face, Luther’s pain is getting more and more severe. He seems to be gathering his strength to say something, perhaps his last words. Hermann gets closer to hear it, and with him, all his friends lean forward—except Karl who separates from the huddle. Luther’s face disappears behind the surrounding men when Karl goes near the open door. He hears Luther saying during exhales: “God… Christ… Fath… Fu… Fuuuuuck… Father… Water… Water.”
Karl cannot believe his ears. Out of embarrassment, he turns his face away from Luther’s bed. He leaves the room when Uwe rushes in with water. Karl shuts the door behind him. Leaning back against the door, he tries in vain to unhear what he just heard. Blasphemy from the man who devoted his entire life to his faith! This cannot be happening.