Executioner Goslar

 The morning was still cold, the air grey and dull as lead, when Anna woke me — not gently, but sharply, in a tone I hear only when something is wrong. I sat upright at once, heart pounding, feet on the cold floor. She stood at the door, her face pale, her hair loose beneath her white night-cloth. “The boys,” she said. “They’re in the yard. With a knife.” I knew immediately what she meant. I walked out barefoot, through the kitchen where the fire had not yet been lit and the smell of ash and cold soup lingered. Outside, among the frost on the paving stones and the wet chicken dung, stood Hans Caspar and Wilhelm, bent over one of the hens. The animal lay on its side, paralysed with fear, and from its neck protruded the rusty kitchen knife they had taken from the cupboard. They had not used one of my knives. Not a sword. But the gesture was the same. They looked up as I approached. Their hands were red with blood and grime, their eyes wide — not with remorse, but with tension. B...

 This morning, even before the bells of the Marktkirche rang, the verdict was delivered. Three women, condemned for theft, lewd conduct, and repeated defiance. The Small Council had decided unanimously: hanging, simultaneous, at the High Court above the Breite Tor. The documents were signed, the order clear. And yet something gnawed at me—not the sentence itself, but the haste of it. As if justice were suddenly required to hurry. We began at dawn. A light rain fell, a misting drizzle that softened the ground. The earth was muddy, slippery, but the scaffold was dry enough beneath our boots. Everything had to proceed precisely. One mistake, one wrong knot, one misstep—and the crowd would grumble, whisper, mock. Or worse: ask questions. I assigned the tasks, as always. Bastian, my first assistant, took the rope. He had rewoven it the day before, with fresh flax and twisted hair. His hands knew their craft—slow but certain. He held the rope the way a farmer holds a scythe: with know...

 The air was dry today, unnaturally dry for this time of year. No snow, no rain. Only a thin wind that swept over the cobblestones like ash. I was cleaning the yard—someone had left a pig carcass at the Abdeckerei earlier in the morning—when a boy from the Council came running, cheeks red, a piece of parchment in his hand. No seal, only the name “Keller” and a place: back room of the inn Zum Goldenen Adler . I washed my hands, put on a clean cloak — and went. Dr. Keller awaited me there, as written. Not in his own house, but in the privacy of an upper room in a tavern. It smelled of old wine and honeyed tobacco. He stood at the window, in the last of the winter light, looking out over Breite Straße as if he sought something that had long since vanished. When I entered, he turned slowly. He wore no hat—rare enough—and his hair clung flat with sweat. His eyes held weariness, or something beneath it. He did not gesture to a chair. He began speaking at once: “You tend the sick whom...

 The wind cut through Marktstraße like a cold awl. The stalls from the last market day had not yet been fully taken down, and the smell of fish, bacon, and sour wine still hung in the air. I walked across the square as I often do—not as a buyer or spectator, but as someone who notices what others overlook. And there it stood, as always: the pillory. The shame-post. A wooden column, set into a base of hard stone, with an iron ring halfway up and traces of shackles on either side. Today I saw something different. The base, normally hidden beneath straw or mud, showed a deep crack. Not superficial. Not harmless. I crouched down and felt with my thumb: the wood yielded. Damp, soft. An elderly woman, a market-seller, said quietly behind me: “A drunkard fell against it on Saint Sylvester’s night. They dragged him home with a broken nose.” I nodded. It did not surprise me. The pillory had become more of a stage-set than an instrument, yet its meaning endured. It did not stand there fo...

 From Wolfenbüttel a courier arrived, early in the morning, sweating, his cloak stained with dust. He brought a sealed letter, signed by the city council of Wolfenbüttel and confirmed with the seal of Duke August. Their executioner had died, it said — dysentery, quick and filthy, as befits times of hardship. They requested my assistance. Not only mine, but also that of the executioner of Halberstadt, a certain Georg Heinrich Schlott. We knew each other only by name, but both of us were considered experienced and capable. It was not unusual: when a city lost its hangman, it turned to neighbouring towns. Death must go on, even when it has no hands left. I departed the next day on horseback. Anna gave me dried sausage and a small jug of beer. She said, “Be quiet within yourself, Caspar. That is the best thing you can be.” Arrival in Wolfenbüttel – 17 September The city lay somber beneath a low sky. The walls were blackened with smoke and shadow. The years of war had not spa...

 This morning, very early, a servant knocked on our door. His name was Friedrich, if I remember correctly, and he had wrapped a blood-soaked cloth around his hand. He worked for the brewer by the Gose, he said, and had cut himself on an iron ring on a barrel cart. His eyes looked pale, his hand trembled beneath the rag. The blood had mixed with the chaff on his sleeve. A scent of yeast hung around his shoulders. I looked at his hand and saw that the flesh had split all the way into the palm. No bone struck, but deep. He would not be able to keep it dry for long. Anna brought water; I cleaned the wound, applied honey and comfrey, and wrapped it in clean linen. He clenched his teeth and said little. When I was finished, he looked at me sideways and asked what I wanted for my trouble. I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said. “No money today.” By midday he was back at the door, with a skinned piece of game over his shoulder, still dripping from the forest. “From the hunter near the Smeltmühle...

 She did not look at me when she was brought in two days ago. Bregje Menze, widow of a watchman, fifty-four years old. Small of stature, with gray braids hanging down her back like ropes. Her face was sharp — like a knife sharpened too often. Her hands were like claws — not a cat’s, but labor’s. She had raised three children, and buried two. The accusation came from a neighbor: the child had fallen ill after a failed churning of butter. Then followed the usual testimonies — dreams of scratching, a hen that refused to lay, a child that suddenly stopped speaking. And so, as always, the order came. I no longer asked questions of guilt. We do not ask those anymore. We ask for confession. She was bound on the wooden bench, her feet bare. The air in the Ulrich Chapel was cold, but my hands were warm from work. I chose no iron that day, but the old method I had learned from my grandfather: sulfur, dry cloths, hot ash. Jörg held the torch beneath the cloth until it smoked. I pres...

 He came to the gate in the early morning, a burlap sack over his shoulder and mud up to his knees. His name was Matthes. Not yet twenty. His voice cracked with cold and shyness. But his eyes — they burned. Not with anger or pride, but with something else: a mixture of defiance, resolve, and fear. He said, “My father served under Marten Voigt, the old executioner of Dannenberg.” I nodded. Marten is my brother-in-law. Matthes said he had not learned the craft, but he had watched. He had helped his father clear carcasses, split bone, carry ropes. And now his father was dead — fallen from a ladder while hanging sheep hides. The Council had granted no compensation. And the neighbors had shunned him. I asked him why he came to me. He looked up and said, “Because the fire burns nowhere else.” He was allowed to stay. In the first week, I gave him a hammer and told him to polish the tools. In the second week, he slaughtered a sick pig we had received for the knacker’s yard. One blow....

 The morning had a gray skin. Mist rose from the Gose and drifted like a ghostly veil through Rosenberg Street, as if the dead themselves were still breathing over the city. I was up early; the fire had to be ready before noon — the Council had ordered it so. The woman – Grietke Klenze – was still locked in the Ulrich Chapel, chained to the iron ring. She had not spoken since yesterday, nor screamed. Only her eyes still moved, tightening at every footstep on the stairs like a rope stretched to the point of breaking. I bore the task in silence, as always. For the people, the fire is purification, justice. For me, it is work — arithmetic. The carpenter brought the wood: dry fir from near the Zwinger, together with a bundle of twigs and a few blocks of beech. I paid him one thaler and spoke no words. He did not look up, nor did I. It was work, nothing more. We both knew this wood would not serve for warmth, but for consumption — of flesh, hair, and prayer. My oldest servant, crooke...

 The morning air was sharp and metallic. A pale sun hung above the city like a dull coin. I had been summoned to the women’s house at the edge of the hospital, where the nuns sheltered their sick and poor. One of the privy pits — by the west wall, near the infirmary — had risen too high for weeks. They had sprinkled sand over the hatch, thrown straw on top, spoken prayers against the stench. But nothing had helped. When I arrived, two of my men were already there with hooks and poles. The air was so heavy that even the flies moved slowly. A nun, her white veil pulled over mouth and nose, came toward me. Her name was Sister Maria, if I remember rightly. Her eyes were watery, yet keen. She said: “Master Kruse, you are an executioner by trade?” I nodded. “And now you come to clean filth for women.” “The Council requires that I perform these duties as well.” She nodded slowly, holding her nose with a linen cloth. “And yet… are you not more than this?” I looked her straight in ...

 Today our daughter was born. In the simplicity of these words lies a world of gratitude, joy, and awe. The early sun had scarcely risen above the rooftops of the Rosentor quarter when the child’s first cry filled our room and stirred our hearts. Her name is Catharina, after my grandmother — the woman who helped establish our family in this city — and whose memory we still honor with love and reverence. Anna’s pregnancy passed without worry this time, and for that I praise the Lord. What a difference from that other, dark year. Only two winters have passed since we laid our son Hans Christoph in the cold earth — newly born, scarcely filled with breath. The shadow of that loss lay long upon Anna, and upon me as well. And yet, again and again, we placed our hope in God’s hands. Today, our prayers have been answered. Anna was calm this morning, stronger than I have ever seen her. She held my hand, squeezed it with each wave of pain, yet she did not complain. Our neighbor Trine was w...