carpenter at the mines, of Kuttenberg
“I am just resting my bones for a few days before I get back to the adze. The air in this town is foul and my chest rattles.”
Things Fritz Kraus had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, before None
That whoreson Claus sent word to ask if my chest still hurts. Tell him to go straight to hell and take his pity with him. I am perfectly well. Hans the foreman is saving my spot on the crew until I am ready, and I will be back down the shaft before Pentecost.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted thrice by loud coughing fits.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Terce
My stepmother Kunigunde has been snooping around my chamber. If she finds the slate I owe to Cunne for the ale, my father will throw me into the street. It is just a passing chill keeping me in bed, but my teeth chatter so hard I can barely sleep.
If you spent less time drinking watered ale and more time working, you would not be shivering like a leaf under my roof.
the eve of Saint George, at Vespers
Word is that Wolfgang has gone to Prague for two months. The bloody coward ran away rather than face me again. I only fell off that wagon because my boot slipped on the wet wood, not because he strikes hard. He is a blind fool and he owes me for my cracked ribs.
You called him a whoreson over dropped timber and swung first. He did not run, he just took the supply wagon like he was meant to.
Shut your mouth, Zdenyek, or you will get the same when I am healed.
Nota scribaeHe spat into his bucket after every second sentence and clutched his side.
the Monday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
It has been days since the fight at the sorting sheds and I am burning with fever. The mud in this town is cursed. But I am tougher than the old men on the crew. I will just sweat this out. I have not forgotten how Claus vanished the moment the fists started swinging.
Rest your back, lad. The timber will still be there to cut when you are standing again.
the day after Candlemas, at Prime
Down in the galleries again. The air is damp and the wages are poor, but a man needs groschen for the alehouse. Cunne says my slate is getting too long. Christ almighty, how is a man meant to wash the dust from his throat without a bit of cheap beer?
You drink more than you mine, Fritz. Mind you do not drop a support beam on us when your head is pounding.
Nota scribaeThe young man smelled strongly of stale beer.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I only meant to ask if you needed bread, Fritz. There is no need for such anger. My father Joerg keeps me busy anyway.
Keep your bread and your cowardly face away from me.