The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 9 October 1637 – The Fire for Anna

 She was condemned on a Monday. Rain fell straight from a hopeless sky, as if the city itself could no longer breathe. The Small Council met in the chamber above the Marktstraße. The windows were fogged, the candles burned sluggishly. I was not summoned — they rarely do — but the rumor had already spread through the corridors of the Rathaus before the seal was pressed.

“Anna Ilsabe Flörke, found guilty of dealings with the devil, blasphemous dreams, the use of poisonous herbs, and the seduction of innocents, shall be executed by the sword, and her body burned at the Hochgericht.”
The judgment came swiftly. She had named names — enough to keep the wheels turning. The pastor had declared that she was “in the grip of darkness,” yet that her suffering had shown true willingness. I knew what he meant. Her silence had not been defiance but surrender. Yet no one saw it as repentance. They sought not remorse — they sought purification.
The execution was set for Thursday, 12 October. They gave me four days to sharpen the sword, gather the firewood, and quiet my conscience.

Goslar, 12 October 1637 – The Hour of the Sword
The sky was clear that morning. Too clear. The sun shone mercilessly upon the gallows hill. There was little wind. The city had been granted a rest day by the smiths’ guilds: no hammers, no carts. Only the dull tread of footsteps on wet grass, and the whispers of those who came to watch.
Anna was brought in a wooden cart, seated, her hands shackled, her head uncovered. Her hair hung loose, strawlike but not dirty. Her dress was plain grey, with a linen collar. She looked eastward, where the sun had just begun to climb behind the ridge. She said nothing. Her lips moved.
I stood by the block, the sword resting in my hand. Bastian held the parchment with the verdict. I had not wanted him to come — but he had insisted. He must learn, he said. But what can one learn from this?
The pastor stepped forward, gave a short address. He called her a stray star, an example of what sin can do to a woman’s soul. He spoke of mercy, of the justice of the sword. I did not listen. I looked at her feet. They were still. Not a single toe moved.
When they brought her to me, I saw her lips tremble. Not from fear, perhaps from cold. Or from something I could not understand. She knelt without being told. She bowed her head. I placed my hand upon her shoulder. She shivered.
“Will you speak once more?” the pastor asked.
She opened her eyes and looked at me.
“You know that I am innocent.”
I felt something in my chest, as though the air had grown thin. But I said nothing. My fingers closed around the hilt.
Then the head went to the block.
I counted the beats of my heart. One... two... three...
The sword fell.
The work was clean. One stroke. The head rolled slowly, as if hesitating. Blood spurted from the neck, warm, dark red. Her body remained kneeling, muscles still taut. Then it toppled sideways.
Behind me there was silence. No cheering. No cries. Only the faint moan of an old woman, perhaps her aunt, whispering the name “Ilsabe.”
The servants carried the body to the pyre. The stack was high with willow branches, birch bark, and resin blocks. On top lay straw. I scattered a handful of pitch over her chest. Then my new servant Jörg lit the fire with his torch. Flames licked at her feet. A smell of fat and ash rose up. Birds burst from the oak.
I turned and walked away.

Home – later that evening
I sat by the fire and washed my hands in wine vinegar. The blood was still under my nails. My wife, Anna, asked nothing. She laid her hand upon mine and looked at me as though I were ill.
“She sang yesterday,” I said quietly. “In the cell. A child’s song. About a hare in the corn.”
Anna closed her eyes. “The Lord knows her song.”
I nodded. But I do not know if I believed it.
Outside, night fell. And with it, the silence.




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