The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, March 7, 1634 – The Roof Tiles

 The night was harsh. The east wind drove over the Rosenberg as if it sought revenge on everything that rose upward. It whistled through cracks, howled past the chimney, tore at the shutters. The house groaned like a ship at sea. I lay awake, listening to the storm, and around the third night hour I heard two blows, hard and sharp. As if stones struck the pavement. Then the unmistakable rush of falling roof tiles.

By morning I saw it with my own eyes: two tiles gone, the slates shifted, an opening through which rain and wind forced themselves mercilessly inside. It was not raining yet, not yet, but the sky was gray and threatening. I knew I could not wait a day.

I pulled on my old boots, the leather coat torn at the elbows, and took up the tools. Anna stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, her arms folded. She already knew what I intended. “Why not a carpenter?” she asked softly.

I looked at her and said: “Because a carpenter does not come to an executioner.”

She was silent, turned, and went back inside. Not out of anger. Out of recognition. She knew I was right.




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