The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, January 18, 1633 – Marten Voigt as Guest

 The snow lay thick upon the roofs of Goslar. The chimneys smoked sluggishly in the dusk. The house was warm from the fire, and it smelled of stewed cabbage and spice cake when my brother-in-law Marten Voigt arrived from Dannenberg. His cloak dripped with meltwater, his boots crunched with strewn salt. He greeted me with a short nod, as he always did—no embrace, no words of affection.

Marten is a man without adornment. His face bears the hard land in which he lives, his voice is deep, his gaze sharp. He is executioner of Dannenberg, as I am of Goslar. His wife is Ilke, the sister of my Anna, and whenever we are together, there is always a tension in the air—not hostile, but heavy with the unspoken.

That evening we sat together at the hearth. The children had gone upstairs, Anna had withdrawn with her knitting. The fire crackled lazily. I poured us each a cup of the dark Goslar beer we had only just brewed.

After a while he began to tell a tale.
Of a case three weeks before: a murder of a landlady, suspected was a surveyor, a stranger, no family, no acquaintances.
There was no convincing evidence.
Yet the council wanted a confession.

“I bound him three days,” Marten said and took a sip of beer.
“First on the bench, then on the wheel. Not a word. Only screams.”
He shrugged. “On the third day he breathed his last. Before the judgment was even given.”

I looked at him. His eyes flickered in the firelight.
In his voice there was no remorse. No pride either. Only… dryness.

“And then?” I asked.
“Then they paid me,” he said.
“Without complaint. Without comment. They wanted his words. He gave them not. So he died. That is how it goes.”

I was silent a while, listening to the crackling of the fire. Outside snow slid from the roof and fell to the ground with a dull thud. Inside it was still.

“Do you never feel it weigh upon you?” I asked then.
My voice was softer than I had intended.

Marten looked at me.
Not surprised. Not offended.
Only a moment longer than usual.
Then he answered:
“I carry it as I carry my sword—with calluses.”

His words lingered.
Calluses.
A skin that closes itself against pain.
Against remorse. Against doubt.

I did not know what to reply.
For I did feel it weigh upon me.
Not always.
Not with every neck I broke, not with every lie I pressed out of someone.
But sometimes—midnight, when Anna slept, when the house was silent—
then I felt the weight of every scream I had ignored.

I poured once more.
We drank in silence.
Two men with the same office, the same hands,
but perhaps a different heart.

Later, at parting, he clapped me on the shoulder.
“You do well in Goslar,” he said.
“The council speaks of you. They say you are reliable.”

I nodded.
And thought:
Reliable. Not just. Not humane. Only: useful.

That night I slept poorly.
I dreamed of a man who looked at me with shattered eyes.
He said nothing.

But his gaze bore the weight of all I should have heard. 




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