The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 21, 1638 – Else Branning – The Washerwoman with the Black Hands

 

They took her while she was at work, by the river south of the city. Her arms were covered in suds, her apron soaked through, her hair twisted into a wet knot on her head. She did not protest — she only looked at the foam, as if it trusted her more than the men who surrounded her.
Else Branning, eighteen years old. Daughter of a carpenter, orphaned since the age of twelve. Worked for the innkeeper of Zum Goldenen Adler. Lived with her aunt, who said:
“She talks to herself. And sometimes to the wind.”
People said her hands were never clean, not even after hours of washing. That she laughed in her sleep. That she knew things before they happened.
The preacher said:
“She has the gift of knowing. And whoever knows without Scripture speaks with the Devil.”

She was brought into the Ulrich Chapel, still dripping. She trembled not from cold, but from shame. Her eyes were large, with lashes like combs. She looked at me as though she knew who I was — inside.
I asked:
“Have you made a pact?”
She shook her head.
“Have you seen anything you could not explain?”
She was silent.
“Why are your hands black?”
She answered:
“Because no one else will touch the dirt.”

I gave the signal.
Jörg bound her to the bench. Her arms trembled beneath the rope. I began with the thumb screws.
At the first turn: a tear.
At the second: a shudder.
Then:
“I saw something, Master… but I do not know what it was!”
I asked:
“What was it?”
“In my sleep… a creature… with a head of stone… and eyes of flame.”
She sobbed. Her lips trembled.
“He came into my dream… he took my name.”
The theologian nodded.
“The Devil rewrites the names of his brides.”

I fetched the fire iron. She whimpered softly.
I touched her wrist with the iron.
She screamed.
Then:
“I lied! I saw nothing! I only didn’t want to be alone again!”
I looked at her. And for a moment — I felt her fear.
But it was too late.
The preacher wrote:
“Confession of a vision. Recantation.”
I noted:
Condemned to purification by fire.

Note (evening):
I dreamed of her voice. Not crying. Not pleading.
Singing.
A song from long ago. About water and wind.
I awoke in sweat.
My hands smelled of soap. And of guilt.




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