The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, September 20, 1640 – Birth of Catharina

 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 with us, as was the midwife who has helped us three times now. The room was kept dim, wet cloths over the windows, and I heard only Trine’s soft prayer and the steady commands of the midwife. And then, at last, the child. A girl. Pink-skinned, with strong lungs and large eyes that seemed eager to see everything. I was permitted to hold her before she was washed. She smelled of blood, milk, and future.

Anna wept when she held her for the first time. Not from pain, but from joy. “She lives,” she whispered. “She is healthy.” I could only nod, unable to speak. My heart was full. God has blessed us.

In the afternoon I went to Saint Stephen’s Church to light a candle. It was quiet, only an old woman praying in the back pew. I knelt in the side chapel beneath the image of Mary and gave thanks. Not aloud, but in the depths of my soul. “Lord, let this child live long. Let her grow in a house of peace. Let her laughter fill our rooms, where once silence and grief dwelt.”

When I returned home, I found Anna asleep, little Catharina on her chest. The midwife had gone, taking a jug of warm water and some rye bread. The room smelled of lavender, wine, and blood. A sacred scent, almost. I sat quietly by the hearth and looked at them — my women. For that is how it feels: that I no longer stand alone beneath the weight of my office, but am upheld. Anna, who has such strength. And now Catharina, so small and yet so full of promise.

My eldest son Hans Caspar gazed at his sister with reverence. “She hardly cries,” he said. “She is strong.” I rested my hand on his head and replied, “She is a Kruse. Like you. Like me. And yet also something new.”

Tomorrow I will have her name entered into the birth register. And soon will come her baptism, with water from the church’s silver basin and the blessing of the pastor. But today we live in the moment. A girl has been born. Her name is Catharina. And we give thanks to God.




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