The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 3 June 1636 – Night Meeting

 The evening air hung heavy over Goslar, saturated with a heat that did not recede even after sunset. There was no moon, only the pale shine of stars behind a veil of clouds. I had already withdrawn to my workroom, the knife sharpened and the wine poured, when there was another knock at the door — twice short, once long. The sign of the Council.

My wife looked up from her knitting. She did not speak, but her fingers stiffened. We both knew: no messenger comes after dusk for a trivial matter.
On the square in front of the Rathaus a few torches still burned. The windows were dark, save one. The back room. There, where men meet when minutes later must be twisted or forgotten.
The servant led me in silently. The wooden passage smelled of candle wax and old linen. In the room sat three men. To the right, Mayor Cramer, the youngest of the three, with nervous hands and a stain on his collar. Beside him the secretary, Master Bode, who did not use his goose quill but held it like a dagger. Opposite sat Pastor Heinrich Becker, who looked at me as if I were already at work on my damnation.

They had not summoned me to exchange greetings.
Councillor Zeidler began, in a voice that trembled more than it sounded:
“There is a woman to be questioned. Quietly, with no stir in the town.”
He did not look up as he spoke. Becker laid his hand on the table, spreading his fingers like a cross. The woman’s name was not spoken; only the accusation: “witch-conspiracy, devil’s mark, nocturnal visitation of a child.”

I had already heard the charge in the corridors of the Ulrich Chapel. They bring the rumours to me before they ripen into process.
I looked at them, at their faces reflecting the candlelight with uneasy gleams. And I asked — not in mockery, but as a test:
“Is conscience silent?”
They were silent.

Bode bowed his head. Becker closed his eyes. Zeidler stared at his knuckles.
No answer came. Only a short nod from the mayor, followed by the words that demanded everything of me and nothing of them:
“Make it quick. No rumour. The Council will bear the costs.”
They did not rise. I did not salute. There was nothing left to say that would not make it worse.
Outside a wind rose, warm as breath from a cellar. The town lay silent in its beds, unaware of what was being kept from it.

I knew whom they meant: Gese Schraders.
And I knew: one day I will hear her speak … or hear her scream.




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