maker of soap and washerwoman, of Kuttenberg
“I make lye soap and scrub the miners' filthy tunics. It ruins my hands, but it puts bread in my mouth and I owe no man.”
Things Madlen Bauer had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
Gerda Wolf offered to pray for my cracked hands again today. I told her the Lord doesn't haul water from the well, nor does He scrub mining grease out of linen. If she wants to help my soul, she can lend a hand at the vats.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke very fast, crossing her arms. I did not record the oath she used before the Lord's name.
the feast of St Mark, at Sext
Sakra, the price of fat at the butcher's is up again. They say there's soldiers on the roads taking the livestock before it even reaches the walls. How am I to make soap if I can't buy fat? If my hands stop moving, I starve.
It's the same with grain. We all must tighten our belts until the roads are safe.
Perhaps you could find cleaner work, Madlen. The smell from your vats is terrible today.
The smell is honest work, Rosa. You should try it.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Isolde Goodman was crying by the tubs today because Ottilie shouted at her over a spilled bucket. I told the girl she knows her letters and ought to use them to get out of Kuttenberg. There's nothing for her here but being trampled by old hens.
You shouldn't have said anything, Madlen. I just want peace in the yard.
I was teaching the girl to be careful. Water is heavy to haul, as you well know.
Nota scribaeThe woman looked over her shoulder toward the courtyard before dictating this entry.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Kethe Preng is telling everyone I stole her bone comb. I stole nothing! She came for lye soap, had no coin because of the monastery's rent, and gave me the comb as a pledge for the three pennies. Bring me the three pennies, Kethe, and you'll get the comb.
I left it on the edge of the tub by mistake! Give it back, you thief!
You handed it to me directly. My mother Grete taught me not to give my work away for nothing.
Three pennies is steep for lye, Madlen. But a pledge is a pledge.
Candlemas, at Terce
Lorenz the agent came demanding the yard rent in silver groschen instead of grain. Sakra, where does he think we find silver in the wash-tubs? The women are in a panic. I had to pay him all I had saved, and now Kethe wants soap without paying.
The monastery's needs have changed. Silver is required. It is not my place to argue with the Prior.
He is only doing his master's arithmetic. We must find the silver.
Nota scribaeDictated while scrubbing a heavy tunic. The water splashed my ink.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is pride that hardens the heart, Madlen. A little prayer eases the burden.
Pride doesn't pay the bailiff, Gerda. Work does.
Your mother Grete was a quiet woman. She never snapped at her betters in the yard.