The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 17, 1634 – Lenten Meal

 The days grow longer, yet the wind remains sharp. The trees along the Gose show only buds, hesitant whether they may bloom. In the house a candle still burns in the evening, but the light is meager — not out of poverty, but out of restraint.

It is Lent.

As every year we eat simply: rye bread, stewed turnips, applesauce. Anna makes the sauce in her own way — with a dash of vinegar and a spoon of honey, so that it both tightens and softens. It fills the room with a scent I have come to know as sobriety, but also as homeliness.

Son Hans Caspar does not yet ask for meat. He knows the rhythm of the calendar better than some pastors. Anna says:
“He who abstains remembers better.”
And I know: she is right.

But last night, as I closed the window on the market side, I smelled it unmistakably: roast. Pork belly, perhaps veal. A scent that cut through the evening air like a call in a silent church.

The neighbors do not fast.
Their table follows laws other than those of the church. Perhaps other gods as well. I heard laughter, the clatter of dishes, a song, sung unsteadily.

I said nothing to Anna. She had smelled it herself already. She did not look up from her work, but her jaw tightened for a moment.

And I thought:
God sees more than the kitchen door.
Not only the food upon the plate,
but the stance of the heart.
Not only what is eaten,
but why.




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