The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, February 2, 1633 – Candlemas

 The morning began with mist over the rooftops of the old town. The cobblestones of Marktstraße glistened damp, the air smelled of wet wood and candle wax. It was Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation, the day when one gathers in the Church of St. Stephani to remember the light of the world — and to bless the new year.

I went. Not because I was expected, for no one expects me. But because I sometimes still wish to believe that there is something that cleanses, that softens.

The Church of St. Stephani was filled with breath, voices, scraping chairs. High above us the organ resounded. The preacher — a gaunt man with a sharp nose — spoke of Simeon, the old priest who had held the Christ child in his arms. “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace; for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation,” he quoted in a loud voice, as the light fell through the stained glass windows.

I sat in the back, by the pillars, where the shadow is deeper and the wood of the pews splintered. Before me sat the guild masters, the councilors, the brewers with their wives, the tanners, the swollen butchers. They nodded at the proper moments, folded their hands in careful curves. They bless what they can possess.

No one looked back.

After the blessing the people streamed out. Cloaks were wrapped close, caps straightened, voices filled the portal. They passed me as though I were air — or worse: something they did not wish to smell.

Only one paused for a moment. Widow Bräunlich. She was old, but her eyes clear. She nodded, slowly and without regret, as if she knew what it was to stand outside the light. I nodded back. She went on. But her gesture remained.

That evening the sky was clear. Anna had cleaned the table and set three candles on the window ledge. For the two of us and for little Wilhelm.
She lit the candles with a match she struck against the hearthstone.
I watched. Her hands trembled a little from the cold, or from something else.

The room grew still, save for the flickering of the flames. Outside the wood cracked. The wind curled along the windows. Yet in our house seven fires burned. Small, but steadfast.

Sometimes faith is not what is spoken in church. But what is done in silence, when no one is watching.




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