casual labourer of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I haul what I can to keep my family fed and the bailiff from marching me off to die.”
Things Albrecht Baumann had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
They say the bailiff is making his lists again. By Saint Wenceslas, I cannot go. I have no padded jack, no sword, and if I march off to fight Cumans, Gerta and the boy will end up in the beggar's ditch. I am needed here to mend the town's carts! Surely they see that.
Nota scribaeThe speaker was trembling and kept looking toward the door.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The rain did not stop all night, and neither did the leaks in this cursed tenement. I spent the dark hours putting out pots. The man who holds the lease is sitting warm in Prague, while we drown in Kuttenberg. If he ever comes back, I will nail him to his own rotting roof.
Wood rots, but that miser's soul is already mouldy.
Nota scribaeDictated with a severe cough. He wiped his nose on his sleeve throughout.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at None
Down by the pillory again, waiting for the silver works foreman. The older labourers pushed me out of a carting job today. They think because I am young I do not need the bread. I have a wife and boy to feed, and the cold never leaves my bones.
It is a bitter thing, neighbour. The foremen have no pity for us.
I can work too, Father. I am old enough.
the eve of Saint Gregory, at Sext
I broke my back hauling rocks all morning for a few pennies, and what do I see on the way back? Plümel throwing dice in the baker's alley. Honest men are trying to survive the winter and keep out of the army, and this fool throws his groschen in the dirt.
My groschen, my dirt. Mind your own hauling.
the Friday after Candlemas, at Terce
Saint Wenceslas preserve me from blind old men! Eleven groschen I spent on good pitch to seal my shed. Left it in the yard, and that broad-shouldered old cart-dragger knocked the whole barrel over in the dark! And then he blames my stepson Kunz. Half a month's food in the mud.
We will starve if you do not make him pay it back, husband.
A man's silver is sacred. He owes you the coin.
Nota scribaeHe pounded the table so hard he spilt my ink.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I cannot sleep for fear of the muster. We are dead men if they take us.
Pray they take the drunkards and leave the honest husbands be.