The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 15th, 1638 – Cathrin Hasenbein – The Bell of the Town Servant

 The morning began in silence.

No bell rang, no market voices echoed between the walls.
Only the caw of a raven above the Rosenberg valley, and the ticking of raindrops on the stones before the Ulrich Chapel.
It was as if the city held its breath for what was to come.

Cathrin Hasenbein, wife of Jacob Hasenbein, town servant of the southern guardhouse, was brought in just after morning prayer. Two attendants carried her by the forearms — she had refused food during the night.
She was old, yet unbroken, deep lines carved around her mouth, like cuts made by something that had worked its way inward.
Her hair was grey, loose. Her apron was stained with dried blood — whose, I did not know. Perhaps her own.

The accusations:
“Mocked the Holy Supper.”
“Muttered strange words during the procession.”
“Her husband found a cat’s tail beneath the bed.”

The pastor had been clear:
“She does not look at the cross. She looks through it.”

When I showed her the rack, she said only:
“Jacob loved me. But he is afraid.”

I nodded. Fear is the root of all things in this city.

I bound her with my own hands.
The rack.
First the ankles. Then the wrists.
The leather tightened like a memory of justice.

The first turn — a cracking sound in her hip.
She growled. No scream.
The second turn — a cry.
“I prayed! I prayed aloud! What was I to do when the boy died in my arms?”
I said nothing. I turned the handle.
The third — her shoulders began to twist in their sockets.

Then she roared:
“I harmed no one! Only myself! Only myself!”

The theologian wrote:
“Impure speech. Self-pity.”

I gave the sign for the iron.
Bastian handed me the tongs.
I pressed the heated metal to her chest, just below the collarbones.
The skin hissed. She no longer screamed. She sang.
A half tone. Then a jolt. Then silence.

Then came the whisper:
“I saw him. The goat. He stood behind the altar.”
I asked:
“What did he say?”
“He laughed.”

I wrote:
Confession obtained.

Later that day, while I washed my hands in brine, the pastor said:
“She now lies in her own darkness.”
I said nothing. But I thought:
Or in ours.

Note (evening):
Jacob Hasenbein stood outside the chapel, in the rain.
He looked toward the portal, his cap in his hands.
He did not see me.
I walked past.
I could hear his breath trembling, as if he wished to cry out.
But he swallowed it.
And so did I.




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