The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, August 10, 1639 – The Fair

 

The city shimmered with sound. Along the cobbles of Breite Straße rolled carts with barrels of wine and bundles of linen. The smell of salted fish mingled with that of fresh bread and torch soot. Children darted between stalls, tugging sleeves, laughing, shouting. Everywhere sound: rattles, hoofbeats, the cries of vendors, the song of a blind man with a hurdy-gurdy.
I walked at an even pace from the Rosentor toward the market, my leather apron clean, my knife sheathed but visible at my side. As the council required — visible, but unused. My duty today: supervision of order, scales, and sausages.

I paused by the fishmonger’s stall near the Rammelsberg lane. The herring was fresh, the barrel heavy. I nodded and moved on. At the cheese stall of widow Hohmann there was a queue. I watched her wipe the knives carefully and fold the linen neatly. A woman with her young son quickly slipped away as I passed. I heard him whisper, “Is that him?” The mother pressed a finger to her lips.
A few steps later it came louder.
“Mother, is that the sword man?”
The girl stood before a stall of glazed honey pots, straw in her hair, eyes like autumn apples. She pointed at me. Her mother seized her hand, whispered something — too softly for me to hear — and pulled her firmly into the crowd, as though I were a contagion.
For a moment I stood still. An old merchant gave a short nod. A baker turned away. The space around me widened — invisible, yet tangible. As if the street itself grew broader where I walked.

I went on, my gaze fixed on the stall of the beekeeper from Immenrode. Honey, dark and thick, in earthen pots. I chose one with a blue lid, paid without words. The man bowed briefly. Not out of reverence — out of politeness, out of habit, out of fear.
Anna loves honey in her tea, especially on cool evenings when the windows fog. And she never asks how my day was.

By noon, the musicians’ guild began to play. Drums rolled, a flute struck a high note. Young women danced barefoot in a circle, their skirts swaying with the wind. Children leapt among the clouds of flour dust and straw. I stood at the edge, the pot of honey in my hand, like a strange ornament in this celebration.
A man shouted, “Only God judges!” It was a preacher, standing on an upturned bucket. People laughed and walked on. But his eyes met mine. And he fell silent.

By evening the people went home, bundles on their backs, children asleep in their arms, grease stains on their sleeves. I followed the road home, past the Zwinger, the wind cool on the slope of the Rosenberg.
When I arrived, Anna opened the door. She smiled. I handed her the honey.
“For your tea,” I said.
She said nothing, but kissed my hand.
And for a moment — just a moment — I felt neither executioner, nor shadow, nor sword.
Only a man. With a pot of honey.




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