The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 8, 1640 – The Women’s House

 The morning air was sharp and metallic. A pale sun hung above the city like a dull coin. I had been summoned to the women’s house at the edge of the hospital, where the nuns sheltered their sick and poor. One of the privy pits — by the west wall, near the infirmary — had risen too high for weeks. They had sprinkled sand over the hatch, thrown straw on top, spoken prayers against the stench. But nothing had helped.

When I arrived, two of my men were already there with hooks and poles. The air was so heavy that even the flies moved slowly. A nun, her white veil pulled over mouth and nose, came toward me. Her name was Sister Maria, if I remember rightly. Her eyes were watery, yet keen.

She said:
“Master Kruse, you are an executioner by trade?”
I nodded.
“And now you come to clean filth for women.”
“The Council requires that I perform these duties as well.”
She nodded slowly, holding her nose with a linen cloth.
“And yet… are you not more than this?”

I looked her straight in the eyes.
“Sister,” I said, “this is work for the living. The other is work for the dead.”
She fell silent, then made the sign of the cross.

I lifted the hatch.
The contents bubbled softly, like a grudge finally finding its voice. My men drove their hooks into the wall of the pit and began to scoop. The muddy stream filled two barrels on the cart, which we would later empty in the field near the copse by the Zwinger. Once, Matthes nearly slipped. A nun stifled a scream. I ordered the grate of the drain opened and water fetched from the rain cistern.

While we worked, a few women came outside. Pale faces, shabby shawls. One carried a child on her arm. She looked at me. Not with disgust. With pity. That was worse.

Afterwards, I washed my hands with ashes from the hospital hearth, mixed with wine vinegar. The smell lingered in my beard.
Sister Maria brought me a piece of bread. “For the labor,” she said.
I accepted it.
She whispered, “You smell of earth. Not of hell.”
I nodded.
But in my mind I thought: the difference is smaller than one thinks.

That evening, by the fire at home, Anna asked,
“And? Was it a grave today?”
I said, “No grave. But something that waits.”
She handed me a bowl of lentil soup. No more questions. Only food.
And silence.

As always.




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