The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, February 12, 1634 – Magda vom Bruch

 The snow lay thick in the alleys of the Altstadt, hardened under the feet of the city guards who came to take her. It was shortly after morning prayer when Magda vom Bruch was brought in — not shouted at or beaten, but quiet, her head slightly bowed, as if she had expected her arrest herself.

People had whispered about her for weeks. She lived in a small house behind the Brauergasse, close to the Gose, where dampness gathers and the walls sweat in winter. She sold herbs at the market: chamomile, asafoetida, lady’s mantle, vervain. Sometimes she told old stories, gave a recipe against sores or a potion against cramps. Too many had sought her out at night. Too many women had said they had “something from Magda.” And when the young wife of the merchant Christoph lost her child twice, and the neighbor Gertrud whispered that Magda had “murmured words over the bed,” the accusation was born.

I knew Magda only faintly. In her youth she had served as a maid to a surgeon’s wife from Halberstadt and had learned much about plants. She had never married, wore her hair tightly bound, and always smelled of roseroot and mugwort.

The first interrogation took place in the Ulrichskapelle, in the old side chamber we use for such purposes. The chain was already fastened to the ring in the floor. The council was present, four men, plus the city clerk and myself. Magda sat upright, her hands in her lap. The chairman spoke: “Magdalena vom Bruch, you are accused of witchcraft, of harming children, and of dealings with evil spirits.”
She answered calmly: “I am guilty of planting beans, of boiling tea, and of speaking prayers over the sick. If that is sin, then so be it.”

The council frowned. The clerk wrote quickly. The first series of questions followed — whether she had ever danced at night, whether she had animals that followed her, whether she had knowledge of sabbaths. She denied all. Only when asked if she possessed herbs “for devilish purposes,” did she look up briefly. “I possess herbs, yes. For those who suffer pain. Curse or blessing — that is what people make of them.”

Her answer was called presumptuous. The chairman looked at me. “Prepare the thumbscrews,” he said.

I fetched the small wooden block with the iron screws. She stretched out her hands without my asking. I placed her thumbs between the wood, began to turn slowly. Her face remained rigid. At the second turn she groaned. At the third she fell back against the wall, whispering.

I bent down to hear what she said. It was Latin. A prayer, perhaps. “Domine, libera me.”
One of the councillors growled: “To whom does she pray?” No one knew for sure.

That day no confession was given.

Two days later, on February 14, the order came to continue. The council was impatient. The mother of the dead child, Martha, was in the hall — pale, nervous, but full of hatred. “She looked at me as if she knew I would bleed,” she said. “She placed herbs beneath my mattress!”

Magda was brought in again. Her fingers were blue with bruising, her nails cracked. When I saw the thumbscrews, I felt a brief revulsion. But I kept silent.

This time the rack was prepared. I pulled the board forward, spread the ropes. She looked at it with a kind of distant calm, as if it were not meant for her.
“Bind her,” said the chairman.

I did what I was ordered. Hands and ankles secured, head turned aside. I began to turn slowly. Once, twice. Her back arched. Her teeth clattered together.

Then came the moment when she cried: “Not the devil — God! God is my judge!”
The clerk Kleine leaned toward the chairman. “She confesses nothing. But her body betrays her.”

After six turns I was given the sign to stop. Her skin was red and taut, the muscles trembling. I loosened the knots. She did not fall but slowly sat upright against the wall.

In the evening Anna asked me what I had done that day. I lied. I said I had gutted a pig. But I noticed I washed my hands more often than usual.

She looked at me silently when I sat at the table. She had cooked soup. Carrot, bacon, a little bay leaf.
“You do not eat,” she said.
“I smell herbs,” I replied.

She understood. She kept silent. She ate.

The following week, on February 18, Magda died in her cell. No stake. No confession. The doctor said: “Internal bleeding.” The gaoler said: “She prayed to the end.”

I washed her body with wine. She had no family to claim her. The council ordered her burial outside the wall. No cross. No name.

I was there when we lowered her, into a pit by the grove near the Zwinger. Only the night watchman and I.
Softly I prayed: Domine, libera me.
And thought: perhaps she did pray to God after all.




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