The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 20 December 1635 – Anna Maria

Today our daughter was born. A girl. Our first. And what a one: strong in build, with a powerful breath, a color like apple blossom in spring, and eyes still clouded, yet carrying something piercing within. We have given her the name Anna Maria, after my wife and after the Mother of God. To bless her with the virtue of the one and the holiness of the other.

It was early in the morning, still dark outside. The snow had lain itself like a soft blanket over the Rosenberg, and inside only the hearth fire burned. The evening before, Anna had still rinsed the linen and prepared the soup for the next day, as if she knew her time was near but refused to give in to it. To my amazement, she carried out her tasks until the very last days without complaint – as if her body was stronger than the months it bore.

When her labor began, I sent servant Bastian to fetch the midwife. He ran down Rosentorstraße in his winter coat, and within the hour she stood inside our home. Her hands cool, her gaze steady. No fuss, no chatter – I love such women. Anna clutched the wooden bedframe, her eyes like flint. No cry passed her lips until the end. And then … a scream, a sigh, a final push – and there she was. Slippery, warm, alive. A daughter. My heart pounded harder than ever before. I, who can sever a human head from its body without hesitation, stood there with trembling knees.

The midwife showed her first to Anna, who, with a weary yet delighted face, drew her to her breast. Then she handed her to me. I took her into my arms – still wrapped in cloths, the cord already cut – and felt her weight. She was no feather. This daughter is sturdy, a child with strength. Anna Maria will hold her own, I thought involuntarily. And then I felt shame, for I had thought of her future as if it were a battlefield like mine. May she walk a more peaceful path.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 3, 1638 – Fire

Image
 The sky above Goslar shimmered with dryness. It was early May, yet the wind carried dust and smoke. No rain had fallen in weeks, and the town was as parched as parchment. The streets echoed hollow beneath my boots, as if even the stones wished to flee from what was to come. Gese Schraders. A woman of forty. Daughter of a weaver, widow of a brewer. She lived by the Gose, near the bridge, in a house that smelled of herbs and yeast. Her name had long drifted through the whispers of the town. They said cows went lame when she looked at them, that children took fevers when she anointed their heads, that she spoke with cats by night. I had seen her once or twice at the market, bent forward, a basket of linen on her arm. Not a woman who joined in talk. Not a woman who smiled. Her arrest was no surprise. I had heard her name whispered in the pews since Candlemas. When the child of Councillor Witte died of convulsions, all glances soon turned one way. And the Council... the Council was...
Read more

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 11, 1639 – At the Guild

Image
 It was cold on the market this morning, sharp as a blade across the skin. Mist lay like a cloth over the stalls, and the air smelled of soot and old bacon. At the entrance to the meat hall stood a man with a pouch under his arm, clearly returning from an inspection, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. I was expected — not out of courtesy, but out of necessity. The meat-inspectors’ guild had sent a messenger. No official letter, no seal, only a spoken request: “The Master wishes to see you. There is something wrong with the meat from Langelsheim.” The tone was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. In the guild room sat Guildmaster Cordt Bäumer with two other men, brothers of the craft, grown fat on the meat they judged. They sat by the hearth, steaming mugs before them, their eyes fixed on me as if I were already cutting. “The goods from Langelsheim stink,” Bäumer said curtly. “Too many entrails, too little salt. We want you to tighten inspection on the market.” In his...
Read more

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, January 9, 1640 – The Miller

Image
 Four nights ago it had snowed — not soft, silent snow, but sharp, uneven flakes that gathered between the cobblestones and in the folds of my cloak. The city smelled of wood smoke and ice. People no longer spoke of hunger aloud, but it was felt in everything: in the empty market stalls, the thin winter soups, the red noses of children with worn-out shoes. There was no flour. Barely any beer. Even the rats seemed unwilling to leave their holes. And then they brought Sigebert Meurer . A miller. A strong man, broad-shouldered, with calluses like leather on his palms. His mill stood by the water near the southern rampart, and for months there had been whispers that his sacks were fuller than he admitted. Rumors said he had hidden grain while others buried their children. That he sold flour to soldiers outside the gate. That his wife wore new shoes. I believed nothing without proof. But the Council needed a reason for confiscation. They did not seek vengeance, but possession. Land....
Read more