The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 9 February 1633 – Communion

 The morning was gray and still. The snow that had fallen in the days before lay like an old cloak over the roofs of the Klosterviertel, heavy and melting. In the Sankt Stephani Church it was cold, and the breath of the congregation drifted like mist through the dim space. The preacher spoke in solemn tones of purification, of the body and the blood, of communion with Christ in bread and wine.

I knelt as was proper. Among the people. Not at the back, not at the front — but somewhere in between, as if in doing so I could forget my place.

When the deacon came to me, I saw his hand hesitate. Just for a moment. It was no grand gesture, no theatrical shock. Merely a brief delay, a split second of tension at the breaking of the bread. As if he doubted whether my mouth — with which I pronounce sentences, with which I give orders for torture — was truly worthy to receive the body of Christ.

I did not look at him.
I opened my mouth.
He offered the bread.
I took it, chewed, swallowed.

Then came the chalice. Red as the blood I have seen too often. I lifted it, took the wine within me, and waited.

But I felt nothing.
No heat.
No remorse.
No light in the darkness.

Only emptiness. A complete, pure emptiness — like a white wall without echo.

And perhaps, I thought then, that too is a sign.
Not of damnation, but of recognition.
For if the body of Christ truly bears all sins —
what happens if it refuses mine?




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