The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 14, 1632 – The Last Woman of the House

 The letter came with the evening post, in the rain, its edges already soft with damp, the seal of Quedlinburg torn open. The messenger was silent and drunk, his eyes shining with pity or with beer—I do not know. He handed me the letter, only nodded, and left.

I recognized the handwriting at once.
Hans Mosel.
His style was matter-of-fact, as always, as if he were writing about a delivery of hides or an appointment with the council.

“My dear Caspar,
Your mother Magdalena, my wife, died of the plague on May 8. It was quick. She complained of fever for only two days, then the skin broke out and she grew weak. On the third day she no longer spoke.
She died in peace, on her resting bed, with a candle and the crucifix she had taken from you.
The burial is set for May 10, in the small church by the market in Quedlinburg.
If you and Anna wish to come, you are welcome.
Your mother asked in her last hour after your son.
— Hans Mosel”

I read it three times.
Anna wept softly. Not aloud. She sat by the fire with little Hans Caspar on her lap, his hair golden in the evening light, his eyes too young to grasp death.
“He cannot go a day without me,” she whispered. “And I will not do that to him.”
I understood her.

I saddled my horse.
The road to Quedlinburg was wet and dark. Rain beat down on my hood, the saddle grew slick beneath me, and the trees along the way seemed to bend under their own sorrow. I arrived late—just in time.

The church was small, vaulted, lonely. Inside stood a few chairs, the scent of incense and sickness still clinging to the walls. Perhaps ten people were there. No singing, no bells, only a preacher with rough hands who spoke of suffering and submission. I recognized no one except Hans Mosel, sitting at the front, his hands on his knees. He looked up as I entered and nodded. Nothing more.

The coffin was pinewood. Plain. No flowers. No nameplate. Only a small cross drawn on the lid in black ink.
I stood at the back.
And I thought of her hands.

How they cut bread, touched my brow, kindled the fire with a breath.
How they were silent when Father fell.
How she left—suddenly, matter-of-factly, without struggle.

Hans Mosel spoke a few words. “She was my wife. Briefly, but truly. She brought peace into my house.” Then he pointed toward me. “And she loved her son.”
I nodded.
And said nothing.

After the ceremony they carried the coffin to the graveyard behind the chapel. The ground was wet. Two men lowered it down. No choir, no bell. Only rain on the stones.
I watched until the earth was level again. Then I remained. A long time. Until all were gone.
Then I spoke softly:
“Magdalena. My mother. Forgive me that I did not understand you.”

The house on the Rosenberg was silent when I returned. Anna had washed, the fire was burning. Little Hans Caspar lay in his cradle, his chest rising and falling like a clock—steady, untroubled.
I laid aside my travel cloak, wiped the mud from my boots, and looked to the wall where Mother’s jug still stood. In the same place. Untouched.

She is no longer here.
And yet she is everywhere.
In the dough. In the wood. In the light through the window.
She died far away.
Yet she still dwells here.
Within me.




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