The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 17 April 1638 – Catrin Baumanns – The Water Dream

 The night before, I had dreamed of water.

Not a brook or a puddle — but a whirlpool, deep and dark, from which voices rose like bubbles. It was no dream of death. But of something still moving beneath the skin.
When I woke, I knew it was her day.

Catrin Baumanns, seamstress, daughter of a tanner, unmarried.
She lived in a small room above the stables of the Klosterviertel. Someone had said she threw herbs into wine. Another that her eyes did not blink when the Lord’s Prayer was spoken.
Her niece had said:
“She washes her hair at full moon.”
And that was enough.

The Council ordered an interrogation by water.
She stood upright when we fetched her. Not upright in body — her shoulder had sunk — but upright in spirit. I saw it at once.
She looked at me as I shackled her.
“I will say nothing.”
I asked, “Why not?”
“Because you have already decided.”

The Kahnteich lay beneath a grey sky. No wind. Only the ripples of ducks, and the creak of the rope in my hands.
Catrin was bound, hands to feet, a knot of bast beneath her shoulder blades. Her dress was weighted with stones. Only her face remained uncovered.
A small group of children watched from the path.
The pastor spoke the formula:
“Let the Lord decide.”
I pushed her into the water.
She sank.
The line went taut.
We waited.
One minute.
Two.
Then she began to rise.
Her head floated like a pale fruit upon the surface. Her eyes closed. Her lips moved.
I pulled her out.
She breathed heavily, coughing. Water poured from her nose and mouth. Her legs trembled beneath her dress.

The pastor said, “She rejects the element.”
We took her to the chapel.
I offered her a chair.
“Will you confess?”
She was silent.
I had the thumbscrews applied. One turn.
She ground her teeth.
Two turns.
She sighed.
Then she said:
“I dreamed of a field. I lay in the grass. There were no voices. Only wind. And I was free.”
I looked at her hands.
“There is no freedom here.”
She closed her eyes.
I did not turn again.

The theologian said:
“No full confession. But enough vision for the fire.”
I wrote:
Suspect. Unbroken. Condemned.

Note (evening):
Her dreams are not of us.
Perhaps she will return to the grass.




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