The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 1 May 1637 – Marksmen’s Festival

 The town was up early. Even before the bell tolled voices sounded in the street: children with branches, women filling their baskets with baked breads and bottles of beer. The scent of pitch and gunpowder already hung in the air. It was Marksmen’s Day — the day the town honors its guild, waves its banners, and praises its marksmen.

From the house on the Rosenberg I looked out over the town. The roofs shone with morning dew. At the foot of the slope the guild-brethren walked in their Sunday robes: red, blue, dark green. Drums sounded, the brass of the horns blared between the half-timbered houses. The banners were held high — the city arms, the colors of the bakers, smiths, tanners.

I took Hans Caspar down with me. He was now six years old and full of expectation. His hair was still wet from washing, his face serious in that way only children can be when they expect something important.

On the marketplace benches and barrels had been set out. Above the gate by the Zwinger they had hung wooden birds — with brightly painted feathers and a crown on the head of the largest. The contest would begin: whoever shot the bird last would be “King.”

Hans Caspar held my hand. His eyes followed the archers as they loaded their pieces and took off their caps before the first salvo.
“Why do they carry swords?” he asked.
“Because it is a festival,” I said.
“And you? Do you wear yours?”
I laid my hand on the hilt at my side. “Not today.”

We watched the first marksmen fire. The wood splintered, pieces fell. The crowd cheered. Beer flowed. The children climbed on benches to see better.

When Hans Caspar asked, “May we join in sometime?” I looked at him. His eyes shone with longing — to belong, to carry a piece, to be allowed to aim at something and receive applause.
I bent down and said, “We do not shoot at wood.”
He did not understand at once. His gaze lingered on the wooden bird that wobbled on the mast, half struck.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I answered softly: “We do not shoot at things called sport. We strike flesh, not wood. Silence, not music.”
He looked away. His face closed. He understood more than I had hoped.

Afterward we walked back. Along Breite Street drinking songs rang out; someone had brought out a bagpipe. I felt no more a part of the town than a stone in the wall.

That evening at the table Hans Caspar said nothing of the festival. He ate his porridge in silence. Anna noticed, but said nothing. She understood his silence.
Before he went to bed he asked, “When I am grown… must I do your work too?”
I had wanted to lie. To protect him.
But I said, “Only if the sword chooses you.”
He nodded, turned over — and I knew: it had already chosen him.




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