The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 5 January 1642 – The Pillory

 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 for show. It stood there for shame. And shame, however disliked, holds a town together.

Later in the day, I went to the workshop of the city master-builder, Helmold. He was working on a new church portal, drawings spread across his table. I waited until he looked up.

“The pillory is damaged,” I said.

He wiped his hands and looked scarcely surprised.
“Yes, I have heard. The post wobbles, but it does not fall yet.”

“It needs a new ring,” I said.

Helmold gave a faint smile.
“The post exists only to be seen, Master Kruse. No one takes it seriously anymore. Who still pays attention to shame?”

I looked him in the eye.
“That is precisely why it must remain standing.”

A moment of silence. Not long, but long enough. Then he nodded.
“I will forge a new ring. And reinforce the base. Not for the drunkard’s sake. But for memory’s sake.”

I greeted him and left.

The next morning the post stood straight again. A new ring gleamed in the morning sun. A boy threw an apple core at it and ran off. I did not smile. I thought of the faces that had stood there—smeared with pitch, beaten, mocked. And how all of it had not broken them, but made them visible.

The pillory does not serve justice alone. It serves memory.
And as long as it stands, someone still looks.




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