The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, 19 September 1641 – The Call from Wolfenbüttel

 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 spared Wolfenbüttel: grain was scarce, streets muddy, beggars at every corner.

I met Schlott in the courtyard of the town hall. He was heavily built, his face marked by scars and calluses, but his eyes were kind.
We greeted each other without ceremony. No brotherhood, but a shared craft.

The sentence concerned a bandit captain, Ulrich von dem Berge, captured near Lutter am Barenberge, where he and his men had attacked a military convoy.
He had six deaths on his conscience, had raped a nun, and held a woman hostage. The council had decided on hanging without hesitation.

The place of execution was the central square. A simple wooden gallows had been hastily erected. The people had gathered since early morning, as if for a market fair.

The Execution – 18 September

Ulrich was led in between two armed guards.
He walked upright, not like a man seeking forgiveness, but like one who accepts his fate — as a soldier accepts a bullet.
His clothes were torn, his hair clotted with dirt.
But his eyes — they looked around calmly.

When he stepped onto the square, people threw pieces of bread at him.
Some loaves were old, some still warm.
Was it mockery? Pity? Or superstition?
At the edge of death, the borders blur.

He smiled briefly and called, “Better bread than bullets!”

I stood behind him, sword on my back, while Schlott checked the knot of the rope.
We did not speak. We did not need to.

The captain asked for a short prayer. He prayed with simple words. No priest, no gestures. Only:
“Let mine live, and take me quickly.”

I gave the signal.
The trapdoor fell.
His body jerked once, twice.
Then it hung still.
No sound.

The Silence of the Trade

Later, over a bowl of soup in the inn, a boy from the kitchen asked if I was the executioner.
I nodded.
He asked, “Do you then… feel strong?”
I said, “We executioners feel nothing strong. We are only hands.”
He looked at me as if I had said something magical.

And perhaps I had.
For outsiders sometimes cheer.
They shout, laugh, spit, or weep.
But we remain silent.
We remain silent,
because the work is loud enough.




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