The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, March 3, 1641 – Boy with Fire

 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 animal dropped like thunder had struck it. I looked up from my work and said only, “Good.” He nodded.

But the third week brought the test.
A condemned man sentenced to death for theft and murder — a young fellow to be hanged at the gallows. Matthes helped attach the rope, held the ladder, checked the knots. When the moment came, he did not look away. But when the body began to twitch, and the silence filled with that hoarse, ragged sound of the last breath, he stepped back a few paces and vomited on his shoes.

He was deeply ashamed, eyes fixed on the ground as if awaiting punishment.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “That is no disgrace.”
He looked at me. And I knew: he would stay.

From that day on, he worked with care. He asked questions, but not too many. He listened when I spoke. He observed even when he was silent. And he began to understand: that this craft is not about strength, but about composure. Not about cutting, but about knowing where the line runs — between justice and revenge, between fear and duty.

Sometimes I saw that fire flare again in his eyes. Not as anger, but as something that kept him awake. I hoped he would learn to bear it, as I had learned: as a lamp, not a blaze.




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