Book Review: Everyone Knows Your Mother is a Witch by Rivka Galchen (2021)
Let the poor woman enjoy her retirement, for goodness sake
The mother in question is Katharina Kepler, mother of famed mathematician and scientist Johannes Kepler. Set in the small German town of Leonberg in the 1600’s, the story unfolds at the beginning of a plague outbreak and on the precipice of war in Europe. Fun stuff. Paranoia and witch hunts are in the air.
Independent Katharina, whose husband left long ago, whose children are grown, and whose cow Chamomile is her best friend, is a bit of a busybody. That’s her main crime. She offers salves, remedies, and unsolicited advice to neighbors. In other words, she’s a sitting duck. Villager Ursula Reinbold, who covets Katharina’s property and could use some money, accuses Katharina of poisoning her wine. Then Katharina doesn’t play her cards right with the governor. From there, everything confirms Katharina’s witchiness, from the way she dresses to her mannerisms to her very glance. One by one, the townspeople blame their misfortunes on her.
Crafted from historical records, Everyone Knows Your Mother Is a Witch is a series of testaments: the villagers’, through court transcripts, and Katharina’s, transcribed by her neighbor Simon, who adds his own account. In addition to playing scribe for illiterate Katharina, Simon also serves as her legal guardian—because it’s the 1600’s, and she can’t possibly be entirely independent. A pastor related to Katharina says, of witches, “Now, some old women do believe that they have powers. But they are to be pitied, not punished. They’re deranged, but not powerful.”
Galchen criticizes the Patriarchy with seething intelligence. Women like Katharina who are too self-sufficient, don’t dress in attractive clothes, and don’t cry or show enough emotion—in other words, are “too manly”—are at risk of scorn. Of being the target of a witch hunt, even. Though the story takes place in the 17th Century in a tiny German town, Katharina’s home could be anywhere. The circumstances leading to her trial aren’t unique: people are panicked about things they can’t control—war, poverty, illness—and seek an outlet for their rage and fear. Why not an ugly, old woman?
In juxtaposing Katharina, the accused witch, with her famous son Johannes, whose mathematical mind is prized by the State, we’re forced to wonder about the difference between “magic” (things we can’t explain) and science (things we can). The distinction between the two is an age-old question, but one that will perhaps be relevant for a long time to come.
Though the novel is slow to start, posing small hurdles for readers not used to historical fiction and the language of another era, it’s peppered with surprising bursts of wit and relatability. Especially in the court transcripts, which are reminiscent of a Monty Python movie. (What kind of a blackbird was it? A black one, sir. An ordinary blackbird? I trust you know a blackbird. Is the female blackbird not more brown than she is black? I’m not an expert on birds, sir. But you know the bird was Frau Kepler? It was very obvious.) The takeaways are many: Personal feelings can snowball into thoughtless mob mentality. There’s more than one way to lose one’s life. And perhaps most importantly:
Being a “neutral” party can do harm.
Galchen makes us snort with laughter as much as clench with rage. She has given us a historical gem relevant to any era—but hopefully not forever.