Snow was falling when Heinrich followed the monks along a slippery plank and onto the dock in Stettin. He bade the captain farewell and assented once more to his pledge before hastily following Baltasar to the town’s church. He was heavy-hearted and depressed. His shoulders slumped and he plumbed the dark recesses of his soul in search of reasons for his predicament.
The man trudged thought the town, soon thinking of nothing other than the hurt his further delay would inflict on Wil and Karl. More than a year! he moaned within himself. I’ve been away more than a year… and now I’ve sins enough to send me to Rome! I pledged only forty days to Pious. The pitiful man realized something else as well. It was November and he would not travel very far before winter would close around him.
It was as if Baltasar could read the man’s mind. “You must spend the gray days with us, my son,” he offered. “We journey overland to a monastery near Posen in the land of the Poles. We plan to winter there before traveling farther east in springtime.”
Heinrich was beaten and knew he had no other choice. He had no money and no means of transport. He grit his teeth and yielded. “I cannot repay you, father. But I can serve in the monks’ bakery if they’ll have me.”
“Aye! So, ‘tis true you are a baker!”
“Ja, father.”
Baltasar nodded compassionately. “It must be hard work with only one arm. Pity, you have lost the other along with your family.”
Heinrich shook his head. Enough of this, he thought. He turned to the priest. “Father, it is my wish that you ask me nothing more of my past. I choose to think only of my coming time in Rome and the cleansing of my miserable soul.”
Baltasar nodded and bowed sheepishly. “I humbly ask your pardon, my son. I am content to know you as you wish to be known.”
Heinrich sighed and thanked the father, then reluctantly climbed into a large, four-wheeled wagon. The group traveled for about a week over rough roads and through a flat monotonous wilderness buffeted by blustery winds. They followed the Oder River south until the point at which it converged with the Warthe. There they turned east past countless lonely, desolate villages of German colonists until they were deep within the Kingdom of Poland. At last, on a cold, damp night they arrived at the tiny monastery in Posen.
The Carthusian cloister was little more than a single-naved church surrounded by a pathetic ring of stone and timbered buildings that served as the refectory, infirmary, stable, chapter house, and such. The porter greeted the new arrivals with the customary welcome, and the group was hurried to the chilly chambers of the ruling prior. Tankards of beer and a tray of cheese were offered, but they were presented with neither enthusiasm nor joy. A few dutiful words were exchanged and soon all were directed to their night’s quarters.
Wrapped in his sealskin cloak, Heinrich lay atop a board bed and shivered beneath a thin wool blanket. A small, meaningless fire burned in a smoking hearth at the end of the dormitory, giving as little heat as light. The man stared at the underside of the thatch roof and wondered why and how it was that he was lying in some forgotten place in Poland with only one arm and one eye, penniless, despairing, and cold. He would have wept had not the first tear of self-pity so shamed him that he clenched his jaw.
In the morning of his first day he was assigned to duties in the kitchen as the baker’s helper. The cloister’s baker was a lay monk, one whose vows did not require the piety of the choir monks nor demand the same devotion to either self-denial or charity. He was a sullen, blond-haired Pole named Radoslaw who had no affection for either Germans or their language. With utter disdain, he grunted and directed Heinrich to his tasks with pointed fingers and lips curled like a seething wolf.
Heinrich served his master without complaint. He labored hard, for kneading dough with one hand proved difficult. He was an expert in formulas, however, and meekly showed Radoslaw better techniques for preparing the oven and shaping rolls, pretzels, loaves, and the like. It was a miserable, unrewarding relationship, however, making the harsh winter seem all the more endless.
The Advent came and passed, then the Epiphany, and finally the self-inflicted sufferings of Lent were also over. Easter was the sixth of April in the year 1208, and on that day Heinrich complained to Father Baltasar about his confinement in the dreadful place. He had wanted to begin his pilgrimage long before but had been frustrated by delays due to heavy spring rains that had made the roads nearly impossible to travel. Father Baltasar and his monks were equally eager to begin their journey and preparations for their departure were underway. Unfortunately, the skies of April were unyielding and day after day the deluge continued. The priest made every effort to calm the man. “Heinrich, you are to be honored for your zeal. Surely your heart’s desire is to stand before the Lateran Palace of the Pope and receive the merits of your faithfulness. Ah, ‘tis a wonder to behold a common man who is not common at all! Tell me, my son, does your heart soar as you see the Holy City in your mind’s eye?”