washerwoman on the weavers' row, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the merchants' dirt out of their linens till my knuckles bleed, and sleep under a leaking roof for my trouble.”
Things Clara Kramer had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Terce
That foolish girl Adelheid keeps pestering me. She thinks the bailiff cares about our roof. I told her I want no part of her petition, but I still have the cursed parchment hidden. If Gottfried finds it, there will be the devil to pay.
Nota scribaeDictated at the public well. The woman's voice was uncommonly hushed, though she kept looking over her shoulder.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Vespers
Let it be known, if you lend Mary Weaver so much as a rusty nail, you will never see it again. Madlen Braun is still waiting for her goose quills. A woman who steals from her own neighbours is no better than a Cuman.
It was a fair trade for the cloak I mended! You mind your own washboard, Clara Kramer.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Lucy Baker was weeping in the street again today over her sister Lene. God rest the poor girl if the Hungarians took her last autumn, but tears won't bring her back from the ashes, and they certainly don't get the washing done.
Have you no heart, Clara? She is all the blood I have left in this world.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
Saint Barbara preserve me, the snows are melting and our room is a river. That fat whoreson Hans is drinking our rent in Prague while Gottfried and I sleep in the wet. The town council are blind fools to let him keep the deed.
Wife, lower your voice in the street. We want no trouble with the bailiff or the council.
Nota scribaeThe woman shouted this so loudly in the square that a passing monk crossed himself.
Candlemas, at Compline
My hands are so raw from the lye I can barely hold a needle to mend these hems by the fire. The merchants want their linen white as snow for the feast, but they care not a whit if my skin cracks to do it.
I know the ache, Clara. My hands cramp daily at the bakery, just as my late mother Margaret's did.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Just put your mark on it, Clara! Or are you happy sleeping in a puddle while Hans drinks our rent?
Hold your tongue, girl, before you bring the town watch down on all our heads.