The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, October 22, 1638 – Tools

 The air smelled of wet leaves and rust. Autumn had settled deep into the cobblestones of Goslar. In the town, mist drifted between the timbered houses, but in my workshop at the edge of the Rosenberg it was dry. I had stoked the fire and laid out the tools. Today was a day of maintenance. No summons, no orders, no calls from the Council — only me, the silence, and my instruments.

First, the long sword. It lay on its plank, wrapped in oil-soaked linen. I unwrapped it and took it in both hands. It felt familiar, as a carpenter knows his hammer. The balance was still good. The edge gleamed, but I knew there is always room for improvement. With the whetstone I worked slowly, patiently, in long strokes.
The sword is for the merciful death — the clean beheading, when the law commands it. No swing, no disorder. One stroke. One silence.

Then the wheel blade. Short, curved, made to strike tendons, split knees, break bones — for those who end upon the wheel. Chalk clung to it from its last use, months ago — a highwayman from Vienenburg, I believe. I scraped off the remnants with a steel brush, oiled the handle, and checked the edge: not too sharp. The wheel is no work of precision. It is a work of example. But the blade must still speak.

The torture thumbs — small iron shells bound with leather straps. They grip the fingers, twist until the bones crack. I inspected the leather, hammered a small nail back into the frame. Nothing must come loose here. No margin for slackness when pain is the instrument. I sealed the leather with wax, rubbed it supple, and stored the thumbs again in the wooden chest with the iron lock.

Then the foot roller: a block with serrated cylinders, made to crush feet. The edges were encrusted, old blood and fat hardened in the grooves. I soaked it in warm water with wood ash, scrubbed it with a copper brush, rubbed the axles with linseed oil. The device still squeaked, but it turned again.

Last came the scaffold knife. Shorter than the sword, broader, meant for blows in less honorable places. Women sometimes. Or boys punished in the square, whose heads are not to be taken. The knife lay in its sheath like a sleeping serpent. I drew it out and saw my own face in the steel: tired, calm, without confusion. I sharpened it without haste.

I always do it myself. No servant, no son.
This is my duty, my craft.
What I use to perform justice must lie just in my hand. For:
A dull blade provokes mockery.
A sharp blade provokes silence.
And in that silence, the sentence is fulfilled.
Without cheering. Without complaint.
Only the sound of steel — and then nothing.




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