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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 15 March 1642 – Anna and the Boys

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 The morning was still cold, the air grey and dull as lead, when Anna woke me — not gently, but sharply, in a tone I hear only when something is wrong. I sat upright at once, heart pounding, feet on the cold floor. She stood at the door, her face pale, her hair loose beneath her white night-cloth. “The boys,” she said. “They’re in the yard. With a knife.” I knew immediately what she meant. I walked out barefoot, through the kitchen where the fire had not yet been lit and the smell of ash and cold soup lingered. Outside, among the frost on the paving stones and the wet chicken dung, stood Hans Caspar and Wilhelm, bent over one of the hens. The animal lay on its side, paralysed with fear, and from its neck protruded the rusty kitchen knife they had taken from the cupboard. They had not used one of my knives. Not a sword. But the gesture was the same. They looked up as I approached. Their hands were red with blood and grime, their eyes wide — not with remorse, but with tension. B...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 14 March 1642 – Three at Once

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 This morning, even before the bells of the Marktkirche rang, the verdict was delivered. Three women, condemned for theft, lewd conduct, and repeated defiance. The Small Council had decided unanimously: hanging, simultaneous, at the High Court above the Breite Tor. The documents were signed, the order clear. And yet something gnawed at me—not the sentence itself, but the haste of it. As if justice were suddenly required to hurry. We began at dawn. A light rain fell, a misting drizzle that softened the ground. The earth was muddy, slippery, but the scaffold was dry enough beneath our boots. Everything had to proceed precisely. One mistake, one wrong knot, one misstep—and the crowd would grumble, whisper, mock. Or worse: ask questions. I assigned the tasks, as always. Bastian, my first assistant, took the rope. He had rewoven it the day before, with fresh flax and twisted hair. His hands knew their craft—slow but certain. He held the rope the way a farmer holds a scythe: with know...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 24 February 1642 – Meeting with the City Physician

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 The air was dry today, unnaturally dry for this time of year. No snow, no rain. Only a thin wind that swept over the cobblestones like ash. I was cleaning the yard—someone had left a pig carcass at the Abdeckerei earlier in the morning—when a boy from the Council came running, cheeks red, a piece of parchment in his hand. No seal, only the name “Keller” and a place: back room of the inn Zum Goldenen Adler . I washed my hands, put on a clean cloak — and went. Dr. Keller awaited me there, as written. Not in his own house, but in the privacy of an upper room in a tavern. It smelled of old wine and honeyed tobacco. He stood at the window, in the last of the winter light, looking out over Breite Straße as if he sought something that had long since vanished. When I entered, he turned slowly. He wore no hat—rare enough—and his hair clung flat with sweat. His eyes held weariness, or something beneath it. He did not gesture to a chair. He began speaking at once: “You tend the sick whom...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 5 January 1642 – The Pillory

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 The wind cut through Marktstraße like a cold awl. The stalls from the last market day had not yet been fully taken down, and the smell of fish, bacon, and sour wine still hung in the air. I walked across the square as I often do—not as a buyer or spectator, but as someone who notices what others overlook. And there it stood, as always: the pillory. The shame-post. A wooden column, set into a base of hard stone, with an iron ring halfway up and traces of shackles on either side. Today I saw something different. The base, normally hidden beneath straw or mud, showed a deep crack. Not superficial. Not harmless. I crouched down and felt with my thumb: the wood yielded. Damp, soft. An elderly woman, a market-seller, said quietly behind me: “A drunkard fell against it on Saint Sylvester’s night. They dragged him home with a broken nose.” I nodded. It did not surprise me. The pillory had become more of a stage-set than an instrument, yet its meaning endured. It did not stand there fo...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 19 September 1641 – The Call from Wolfenbüttel

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 From Wolfenbüttel a courier arrived, early in the morning, sweating, his cloak stained with dust. He brought a sealed letter, signed by the city council of Wolfenbüttel and confirmed with the seal of Duke August. Their executioner had died, it said — dysentery, quick and filthy, as befits times of hardship. They requested my assistance. Not only mine, but also that of the executioner of Halberstadt, a certain Georg Heinrich Schlott. We knew each other only by name, but both of us were considered experienced and capable. It was not unusual: when a city lost its hangman, it turned to neighbouring towns. Death must go on, even when it has no hands left. I departed the next day on horseback. Anna gave me dried sausage and a small jug of beer. She said, “Be quiet within yourself, Caspar. That is the best thing you can be.” Arrival in Wolfenbüttel – 17 September The city lay somber beneath a low sky. The walls were blackened with smoke and shadow. The years of war had not spa...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 3 May 1641 – Food as Payment

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 This morning, very early, a servant knocked on our door. His name was Friedrich, if I remember correctly, and he had wrapped a blood-soaked cloth around his hand. He worked for the brewer by the Gose, he said, and had cut himself on an iron ring on a barrel cart. His eyes looked pale, his hand trembled beneath the rag. The blood had mixed with the chaff on his sleeve. A scent of yeast hung around his shoulders. I looked at his hand and saw that the flesh had split all the way into the palm. No bone struck, but deep. He would not be able to keep it dry for long. Anna brought water; I cleaned the wound, applied honey and comfrey, and wrapped it in clean linen. He clenched his teeth and said little. When I was finished, he looked at me sideways and asked what I wanted for my trouble. I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said. “No money today.” By midday he was back at the door, with a skinned piece of game over his shoulder, still dripping from the forest. “From the hunter near the Smeltmühle...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 2, 1641 – The Cat in the Corner

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 She did not look at me when she was brought in two days ago. Bregje Menze, widow of a watchman, fifty-four years old. Small of stature, with gray braids hanging down her back like ropes. Her face was sharp — like a knife sharpened too often. Her hands were like claws — not a cat’s, but labor’s. She had raised three children, and buried two. The accusation came from a neighbor: the child had fallen ill after a failed churning of butter. Then followed the usual testimonies — dreams of scratching, a hen that refused to lay, a child that suddenly stopped speaking. And so, as always, the order came. I no longer asked questions of guilt. We do not ask those anymore. We ask for confession. She was bound on the wooden bench, her feet bare. The air in the Ulrich Chapel was cold, but my hands were warm from work. I chose no iron that day, but the old method I had learned from my grandfather: sulfur, dry cloths, hot ash. Jörg held the torch beneath the cloth until it smoked. I pres...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, March 3, 1641 – Boy with Fire

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 He came to the gate in the early morning, a burlap sack over his shoulder and mud up to his knees. His name was Matthes. Not yet twenty. His voice cracked with cold and shyness. But his eyes — they burned. Not with anger or pride, but with something else: a mixture of defiance, resolve, and fear. He said, “My father served under Marten Voigt, the old executioner of Dannenberg.” I nodded. Marten is my brother-in-law. Matthes said he had not learned the craft, but he had watched. He had helped his father clear carcasses, split bone, carry ropes. And now his father was dead — fallen from a ladder while hanging sheep hides. The Council had granted no compensation. And the neighbors had shunned him. I asked him why he came to me. He looked up and said, “Because the fire burns nowhere else.” He was allowed to stay. In the first week, I gave him a hammer and told him to polish the tools. In the second week, he slaughtered a sick pig we had received for the knacker’s yard. One blow....
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 8, 1640 – Before a Pyre

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 The morning had a gray skin. Mist rose from the Gose and drifted like a ghostly veil through Rosenberg Street, as if the dead themselves were still breathing over the city. I was up early; the fire had to be ready before noon — the Council had ordered it so. The woman – Grietke Klenze – was still locked in the Ulrich Chapel, chained to the iron ring. She had not spoken since yesterday, nor screamed. Only her eyes still moved, tightening at every footstep on the stairs like a rope stretched to the point of breaking. I bore the task in silence, as always. For the people, the fire is purification, justice. For me, it is work — arithmetic. The carpenter brought the wood: dry fir from near the Zwinger, together with a bundle of twigs and a few blocks of beech. I paid him one thaler and spoke no words. He did not look up, nor did I. It was work, nothing more. We both knew this wood would not serve for warmth, but for consumption — of flesh, hair, and prayer. My oldest servant, crooke...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 8, 1640 – The Women’s House

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 The morning air was sharp and metallic. A pale sun hung above the city like a dull coin. I had been summoned to the women’s house at the edge of the hospital, where the nuns sheltered their sick and poor. One of the privy pits — by the west wall, near the infirmary — had risen too high for weeks. They had sprinkled sand over the hatch, thrown straw on top, spoken prayers against the stench. But nothing had helped. When I arrived, two of my men were already there with hooks and poles. The air was so heavy that even the flies moved slowly. A nun, her white veil pulled over mouth and nose, came toward me. Her name was Sister Maria, if I remember rightly. Her eyes were watery, yet keen. She said: “Master Kruse, you are an executioner by trade?” I nodded. “And now you come to clean filth for women.” “The Council requires that I perform these duties as well.” She nodded slowly, holding her nose with a linen cloth. “And yet… are you not more than this?” I looked her straight in ...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, September 20, 1640 – Birth of Catharina

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 Today our daughter was born. In the simplicity of these words lies a world of gratitude, joy, and awe. The early sun had scarcely risen above the rooftops of the Rosentor quarter when the child’s first cry filled our room and stirred our hearts. Her name is Catharina, after my grandmother — the woman who helped establish our family in this city — and whose memory we still honor with love and reverence. Anna’s pregnancy passed without worry this time, and for that I praise the Lord. What a difference from that other, dark year. Only two winters have passed since we laid our son Hans Christoph in the cold earth — newly born, scarcely filled with breath. The shadow of that loss lay long upon Anna, and upon me as well. And yet, again and again, we placed our hope in God’s hands. Today, our prayers have been answered. Anna was calm this morning, stronger than I have ever seen her. She held my hand, squeezed it with each wave of pain, yet she did not complain. Our neighbor Trine was w...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, January 9, 1640 – The Miller

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 Four nights ago it had snowed — not soft, silent snow, but sharp, uneven flakes that gathered between the cobblestones and in the folds of my cloak. The city smelled of wood smoke and ice. People no longer spoke of hunger aloud, but it was felt in everything: in the empty market stalls, the thin winter soups, the red noses of children with worn-out shoes. There was no flour. Barely any beer. Even the rats seemed unwilling to leave their holes. And then they brought Sigebert Meurer . A miller. A strong man, broad-shouldered, with calluses like leather on his palms. His mill stood by the water near the southern rampart, and for months there had been whispers that his sacks were fuller than he admitted. Rumors said he had hidden grain while others buried their children. That he sold flour to soldiers outside the gate. That his wife wore new shoes. I believed nothing without proof. But the Council needed a reason for confiscation. They did not seek vengeance, but possession. Land....
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, December 24, 1639 – Christmas Supper

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 The snow fell softly that evening — not like a blanket, but like a veil. The windows misted early, and in the street one heard the shuffle of people hurrying to make their last purchases. Inside, the fire burned high, and the scent of cloves, onions, and warm beer drifted like a cloud through the rooms. Anna had been in the kitchen all day. No complaints, no sighs — her movements were fluid, like a ritual she had known all her life. She sang softly as she sliced the blood sausage, stirred the porridge, melted the fat. Her apron was dusted with flour and steam, her cheeks glowing from heat and labor. On the table stood three dishes: Blood sausage with onions — dark and hearty. Barley porridge with bacon fat — salty and heavy. Apple dumplings with cloves — sweet, steaming, spiced like memory. In a stone jug: warm beer with egg. Cloudy, thick, but comforting. We drank it slowly, each sip a step further from the burdens of the year. The children were given honey cookies, homem...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 11, 1639 – At the Guild

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 It was cold on the market this morning, sharp as a blade across the skin. Mist lay like a cloth over the stalls, and the air smelled of soot and old bacon. At the entrance to the meat hall stood a man with a pouch under his arm, clearly returning from an inspection, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. I was expected — not out of courtesy, but out of necessity. The meat-inspectors’ guild had sent a messenger. No official letter, no seal, only a spoken request: “The Master wishes to see you. There is something wrong with the meat from Langelsheim.” The tone was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. In the guild room sat Guildmaster Cordt Bäumer with two other men, brothers of the craft, grown fat on the meat they judged. They sat by the hearth, steaming mugs before them, their eyes fixed on me as if I were already cutting. “The goods from Langelsheim stink,” Bäumer said curtly. “Too many entrails, too little salt. We want you to tighten inspection on the market.” In his...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, August 10, 1639 – The Fair

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  The city shimmered with sound. Along the cobbles of Breite Straße rolled carts with barrels of wine and bundles of linen. The smell of salted fish mingled with that of fresh bread and torch soot. Children darted between stalls, tugging sleeves, laughing, shouting. Everywhere sound: rattles, hoofbeats, the cries of vendors, the song of a blind man with a hurdy-gurdy. I walked at an even pace from the Rosentor toward the market, my leather apron clean, my knife sheathed but visible at my side. As the council required — visible, but unused. My duty today: supervision of order, scales, and sausages. I paused by the fishmonger’s stall near the Rammelsberg lane. The herring was fresh, the barrel heavy. I nodded and moved on. At the cheese stall of widow Hohmann there was a queue. I watched her wipe the knives carefully and fold the linen neatly. A woman with her young son quickly slipped away as I passed. I heard him whisper, “Is that him?” The mother pressed a finger to her lips. ...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 24, 1638 – The Execution – Ten Bodies, One Fire

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 Die Luft roch nach Lauge und Asche. Die Sonne war noch nicht aufgegangen, als ich mich ankleidete: der schwarze Rock, die Lederschürze, der Kragen aus grobem Leinen. Meine Frau Anna sagte nichts. Sie saß am Tisch mit gefalteten Händen, als bete sie. Doch ihre Augen waren trocken. Sie wusste, was heute war. Die Stadt schlief noch. Ich nicht. Die Knechte hatten die Nacht über auf dem Hochgericht gearbeitet, gleich außerhalb des Breiten Tors. Die Galgen waren gereinigt, der Scheiterhaufen aufgeschichtet, das Schwert geschliffen. Es gab zehn Verurteilte. Acht Frauen. Zwei Männer. Ich hatte ihre Stimmen gehört. Ihre Knochen gehalten. Ihre Träume verbrannt. Und nun war der Moment gekommen. I. Die Ankunft Die Glocken läuteten dreimal. Die Menge versammelte sich, gehüllt in Wolle und Schweigen. Kinder saßen auf den Schultern ihrer Väter. Mütter flüsterten Psalmen in die Ohren ihrer Töchter. Es waren Prediger da. Ratsmitglieder. Und stumme Männer mit Feuer in den Augen – kein Ausdruck der ...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, October 22, 1638 – Tools

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 The air smelled of wet leaves and rust. Autumn had settled deep into the cobblestones of Goslar. In the town, mist drifted between the timbered houses, but in my workshop at the edge of the Rosenberg it was dry. I had stoked the fire and laid out the tools. Today was a day of maintenance. No summons, no orders, no calls from the Council — only me, the silence, and my instruments. First, the long sword. It lay on its plank, wrapped in oil-soaked linen. I unwrapped it and took it in both hands. It felt familiar, as a carpenter knows his hammer. The balance was still good. The edge gleamed, but I knew there is always room for improvement. With the whetstone I worked slowly, patiently, in long strokes. The sword is for the merciful death — the clean beheading, when the law commands it. No swing, no disorder. One stroke. One silence. Then the wheel blade. Short, curved, made to strike tendons, split knees, break bones — for those who end upon the wheel. Chalk clung to it from its la...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 3, 1638 – Fire

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 The sky above Goslar shimmered with dryness. It was early May, yet the wind carried dust and smoke. No rain had fallen in weeks, and the town was as parched as parchment. The streets echoed hollow beneath my boots, as if even the stones wished to flee from what was to come. Gese Schraders. A woman of forty. Daughter of a weaver, widow of a brewer. She lived by the Gose, near the bridge, in a house that smelled of herbs and yeast. Her name had long drifted through the whispers of the town. They said cows went lame when she looked at them, that children took fevers when she anointed their heads, that she spoke with cats by night. I had seen her once or twice at the market, bent forward, a basket of linen on her arm. Not a woman who joined in talk. Not a woman who smiled. Her arrest was no surprise. I had heard her name whispered in the pews since Candlemas. When the child of Councillor Witte died of convulsions, all glances soon turned one way. And the Council... the Council was...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 23, 1638 – Talke Rode – The Maid with the Brandmark

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 She spat on the ground before I had spoken a word. Talke Rode, tavern maid, twenty-three, red hair, teeth like pearls — but her soul, they said, black as coal. She worked at Zur goldenen Kanne — where men drank, danced, and slept with whoever smiled at them. And Talke smiled often. They said her skin was “too warm.” That flesh shrank when she touched it. That men who spent a night with her dreamed — and woke weeks later covered in sores. On her left hip — a scar, circular, with lines like branches. According to her: a burn from oil. According to the preacher: a witch’s mark. She was brought into the Ulrich Chapel with the look of someone who already knew the end. I asked: “Why did you hide the mark?” She said: “Because you don’t want to hear — only to scream.” I had the iron made ready. First, the thumb screws — a short introduction. She closed her eyes but did not scream. “Is that all, Master?” Then the shin straps. At the second turn: “You call me sinful. But wh...
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The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 22, 1638 – Ficke Steinhauer – The Beggar Woman with the Blood in Her Hair

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 She had lain for three days in the cell beneath the Rathaus. She spoke to the wall. She bit into her own arm. And when the gaoler brought her food, she smeared her face with the porridge. No one knew where she came from. Her name — Ficke Steinhauer — appeared only in the register of the poor, marked as a “pitiful case” under the supervision of the city pastor. They found her at the end of Mauerstraße, screaming at a tree. She had blood in her hair. Whose, no one knew. She wore a rabbit’s foot on a string around her neck, and in her pockets were eggshells, bone meal, and ash. The pastor said: “She is a vessel of demonry. The Devil seeks weak vessels.” The council said: “If even her madness is full of horror, that is enough.” I fetched her from the cell myself. She laughed when she saw me. “You have eyes of iron,” she said. “They will burn, you know that?” I led her to the Ulrich Chapel. She walked skipping, like a child. I laid her on the bench. She did not struggle. S...
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