The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 2 June 1637 — Invoice for the Meat

 The sun burned over the town today as if it wanted to scorch something hidden deep beneath the roofs. The air was dry, but the smell of rotten fat hung like a haze above the Goseufer.

Four weeks ago I inspected three pigs. Dead in their pens — no disease communicable to humans, but enough to sow panic. There was also a horse, found on the slope of the Rammelsberg, foam at its lips and a stiffened neck.

I examined their bodies with glove and knife.
Opened the abdominal cavities, smelled liver and spleen, tested skin and lymph.
I recorded my judgement on the council’s parchment:
“Unsafe for trade. Cadaver disposal necessary. Origin likely contaminated feed.”
They nodded. They promised payment: 18 groschen and the remainder “on occasion.”
That was four weeks ago.

Since then my table has seen no meat. The cellar is empty. The children eat barley soup with linseed. My wife Anna says nothing, but her hands grow thinner, her face drawn.

I am not a man of words, but today I wrote:
“My knife stays sharp, but my table stays empty.
Is this your justice, sirs?”

I folded the parchment carefully. No threat. No anger. Only the fact.
I did not know whether they would answer.

This evening there was a knock at the door. Not hard. One knock. Then silence.
On the doorstep stood a boy from the brewers’ guild. He carried a worn sack, no larger than a helmet.
He did not bow. He did not speak.
I opened the sack. Barley. Half a sack. No coin. No letter. No word.
I took it. Not because I wanted it. But because I had to.

I am the man who cuts away the rotten meat.
Who removes the rotting entrails before the town begins to stink.
Who examines the animals no one wants to look at.
Who writes what lives and what dies.
But to them I am no name. No office. No man.
Only someone paid with grain when there is anything left.

Postscript (evening):
The knife lies on the board. It is sharp. Always sharp.
But there is no meat on the table.
Sometimes I wonder if the town ever realises
that even an executioner knows hunger.




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