The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, December 24, 1639 – Christmas Supper

 The snow fell softly that evening — not like a blanket, but like a veil. The windows misted early, and in the street one heard the shuffle of people hurrying to make their last purchases. Inside, the fire burned high, and the scent of cloves, onions, and warm beer drifted like a cloud through the rooms.

Anna had been in the kitchen all day. No complaints, no sighs — her movements were fluid, like a ritual she had known all her life. She sang softly as she sliced the blood sausage, stirred the porridge, melted the fat. Her apron was dusted with flour and steam, her cheeks glowing from heat and labor.

On the table stood three dishes:
Blood sausage with onions — dark and hearty.
Barley porridge with bacon fat — salty and heavy.
Apple dumplings with cloves — sweet, steaming, spiced like memory.
In a stone jug: warm beer with egg. Cloudy, thick, but comforting.

We drank it slowly, each sip a step further from the burdens of the year.
The children were given honey cookies, homemade, shaped like stars. Anna had cut them with the tin molds she still had from her mother. She handed them out with a smile and a kiss on each child’s forehead. Their eyes sparkled, and I thought: they know no weight yet.

We sat together at the table. No guests. No words of work or council or sentence. Only food. And the rustle of paper that held a small wooden horse for Christoph.
I tasted peace.
For a moment.
The world stayed outside.
The cold stayed at the door.
The voices of the dead were silent for one night.
And I asked nothing of God.
I said nothing to Him.
I was silent — as one is silent when something is made sacred.




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