The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, February 3, 1633 – Inn “At the Golden Stag”

  The snow had already melted for the most part in the streets of Goslar, yet the air remained sharp. My work for the day was done: an inspection, a brief interrogation, a visit to the knacker’s yard. The sun had set, the city slipped away into twilight. And I was thirsty.

I went to the inn “At the Golden Stag,” as I often did when I wished to be alone — and yet among people. The innkeeper recognized me. I saw it in the way his hand lingered for a moment above the tap before he nodded.
He said:
“Back room, Master Kruse. As always.”

I sat down at the table by the small window, with a view of the back courtyard. The bench creaked beneath my weight, the wood cold from the stone wall. The fire in the hearth burned low, but glowed enough to ease my back.

They brought me barley beer. Warm, with foam that slid lazily over the rim. Beside it: sour pickles in a small earthen pot, lentils stewed with bacon, and a thick slice of black bread. The meat was fatty. The bread heavy. But it filled me. And it warmed me.

The innkeeper greeted me once more, but looked down at the floor.
As is proper.
They set me apart. That is the rule.
Not because I am unwelcome, but because my presence reminds the others of what they would rather forget.

And yet I felt rich.
For an hour.
Not for the food.
Not for the silence.
But because for a moment I was someone sitting at a table, chewing, beer in hand, with the day’s work behind him.

A man. Not an executioner.
And I thought: perhaps that is enough, for tonight.




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