The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 15, 1630 – The House Grew Silent, and Then Strange

 The snow had barely melted from the yard, the earth was beginning to breathe beneath my feet, and I had not yet learned how silent a house could become when its master dies. My father had been dead only a few weeks, his scent still in the collar of his coat, his knife still sharp, his voice still alive in my dreams—when Mother announced that she would remarry.

I remember the moment like a cut that does not hurt at once. We sat at the table, servant Hans was gone, the fire smoldered, and I stared at the knife Father had always used to cut bread. She sat across from me, her hands folded, her eyes fixed on my face. “His name is Hans Mosel,” she said. “He comes from Quedlinburg. Your father knew him well. They were colleagues, even friends.”

I was silent.

“He is willing to take over the office. The council agrees,” she went on, as if speaking of exchanging a horse or repairing a roof. “You are still too young, Caspar. Too inexperienced to bear responsibility for the city. You have not borne the sword long enough.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “I passed the master’s trial,” I said. “With one stroke.”
“I know that,” she replied. “But that is not the same as holding an office. Hans is experienced. He knows the craft, knows the people. And it is… sensible.”

Sensible.
That word stuck in my throat like a bone. No love, no grief, no loyalty. Sense.

A few days later Hans Mosel stood in the yard. A broad-shouldered man, red hair, already gray at the temples, a voice like syrup, hands like claws. He brought his own sword, his own tools, his own way of looking at me—a mixture of pity and arrogance. He wore no mourning. He slept in the bed where my father had died.

The council confirmed his appointment with a simple announcement. No ceremony. No opposition. He became executioner of Goslar as if he were nothing more than a messenger replaced.

I became… nothing.
A servant without commission. A son without a father. An heir without inheritance.

I slept on straw in the corner, beside the tongs and the leather curtain. I spoke little with my mother. When I looked at her, I searched for something—remorse, doubt, warmth—but her face was smooth as ice. She cooked. She spoke of the future. Of Quedlinburg. Of a new beginning.

On the third Sunday after Hans Mosel’s appointment, a messenger arrived at the town hall with a letter. Written in ornate, old hand. Sender: Catharina Kruse, widow of Caspar the First, my grandmother. She had lived for years at the edge of town, a woman of prayer, of memory, of will.

The letter, the secretary explained, was brief but written with great moral sharpness. Catharina demanded that the council appoint her grandson Caspar as rightful successor to his father.

She wrote:
“My grandson has done the work. Even if he is very young, he took the head with one stroke, under the council’s supervision. He has grown up in the house of the sword, shaped by his father’s hand. It is not age that makes the master, but the silence after the stroke.”

The words fell like an axe into dry wood.

The council, mindful of the people’s opinion, who perhaps knew of my master’s trial, convened. A few days later, the decision was overturned: Hans Mosel was to return to Quedlinburg. Caspar Kruse the Third would be installed as rightful heir.

My mother was silent when the news came. She packed her things. No quarrel, no anger. Only: silence. She kissed my forehead, placed a pouch of coins on the table, and said: “Take good care of the house.”

Then she left, with Hans Mosel at her side, his boots heavy on the cobbles, her skirt fluttering in the wind.

Since then I have lived alone.

The house—once smelling of wax and leather, of Father and fire—is now mine. It is cold in the morning, hollow at night. The floor creaks when I practice my step, the steel once more at my hip. My name now stands in the council books. My signature beneath the seal. The keys to the Ulrich Chapel hang from my belt.

I am now the executioner of Goslar.
I am the son of the man who gave his life for this city.

And I am a nineteen-year-old boy in an empty house, with a sword that weighs heavier than ever before.




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