The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 14 March 1642 – Three at Once

 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 knowledge of cutting.

Matthes, still young, kept the crowd at bay. He stood at the edge of the field, held children back, shouted at a group of youths who came too close to the gallows. His voice barked like a dog—sharp enough to command obedience.

Jörg was the gentlest among us. Small in stature, but with strong hands. He bound the women’s wrists. He did it without cruelty, without haste. With the third woman—grey hair, blue eyes, one who asked nothing—he looked away for a moment as he tightened the knot. But his work was sound.

The women said nothing. No pleading, no cursing. The oldest murmured a prayer, or something like one. The youngest bit her lip until it bled. The middle one looked only at the sky, as if something were there we could not see.

When all was ready, I gave the signal. The wooden mechanisms clicked, the beams creaked softly—and then: silence. Only for a heartbeat, before the crowd shifted, sighed, murmured, and slowly drifted apart—as if death were merely a pause before the marketplace.

Afterward, beneath the linden by the Zwinger, we drank beer. Not out of joy, not in celebration, but out of necessity. The work does something to a man. Even when you’ve done it for years. Especially then.

They drank in silence. Only Matthes made a joke about the rain and the beer tasting the same. Bastian did not laugh. Jörg wiped his hands on his apron, as if something still clung to them that he needed to be rid of.

I drank slowly. And looked at the rope hanging at the edge of the field, drying. Three strands, taut, wet with rain and with what remained of life.

Sometimes it feels as if we do the work.
But sometimes I think: the work does us.




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