The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 10, 1630 – Reflection at Evening Hour

 The sun stood low this evening, like a glowing red seal at the edge of the Rosenberg, and I sat before the house in the shadow of the old pear tree, my hands folded over my knees. My house stands at the foot of the Rosenberg, just outside the city gate and diagonally across from the watchtower, the Zwinger. My fingers have already grown rough from the work.

I grew up with the children from Rosentorstraße. We played in the mud of the Gose, caught frogs at the pond of the Kahnteich, and made wooden swords to reenact battles against the “Swedes.” Back then I did not yet know what real war was, or real death. There I learned friendship—with the Thielemann brothers, with little Ernst Spangenberg who never stopped talking, with Trineken, who later disappeared without farewell. Our fathers spoke little to one another, yet we knew no walls.
Sometimes family came to visit from Hanover, especially my uncle Heinrich, a shoemaker with a black beard who smelled of leather and pitch. His wife brought pastries, and my cousin Ilsabe danced through the room until the cups rattled. The house filled with laughter, and I heard my father speak louder than usual, as if in that moment he did not have to be the executioner. Those days were holidays.
At the Latin school on Mauerstraße I learned letters. Dominus vobiscum, said Master Brandt, and we answered: Et cum spiritu tuo. He struck with the rod, but he also had patience. I learned to read, write, calculate, and later even a little Cicero and Virgil. Yet it was my father who truly shaped me. When I turned twelve, he took me into the Ulrich Chapel beside the old Kaiserpfalz. “You must see it,” he said. I thought I would faint. The iron, the blood, the smell of fear. Yet he held my shoulder firmly and spoke softly. “Not out of cruelty,” he said. “But out of justice. And justice must be learned to be endured.”
In the years that followed, I learned the craft. How to sharpen a sword. How to loosen the joints when breaking on the wheel. How to face death without trembling, and yet with reverence. He let me practice on dead animals, and later on the condemned who were bound to die anyway—I was sixteen when I first wielded a knife. My hands trembled then, but he said nothing. He knew that I knew.
And then came Anna.
She lived with her family on the other side of Breite Straße. The first time I saw her she carried a basket full of onions, but her eyes were as clear as spring weather. We did not speak, yet I thought of her for days. Later we met on the market, when she sold horseradish. I said something foolish, and she laughed. And that laughter stayed.
We spoke more and more often. About books, about plants, about God. She asked me what I did. I did not lie. She looked at me, long. “Then your heart will be heavy,” she said, “but just. That is enough.” From that day I loved her.
We both lost brothers and sisters. The plague came in the year I was fifteen. My mother prayed all night, yet my sister Ilsa died in her arms. My little brother Hans lay cold in his cradle. The silence that followed was worse than the death knell. Only I remained. My father said: “It is not ours to ask why.” But I asked nonetheless. And perhaps that is why I hold on to Anna so tightly. She is my answer.
In December we will marry, God willing. We have the council’s consent. Her father does not oppose it. We can live in my parents’ house at the foot of the Rosenberg. Not large, but enough. Anna says the light falls so beautifully there in the morning. We will plant a garden. Perhaps children. Perhaps peace.
I am only twenty. Yet my back feels older. My heart is heavy with memories, but also light with hope. Anna makes the difference. When I look at her, I know why I bear all this. Not for fame. Not for money. But because something must be set right in the world, each day anew. And because, with her at my side, I have the courage for it.
The sun has set. The air smells of grass and ash. Tomorrow will come again. And I will meet it.





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