reached a catastrophic level. Famine is raging, claiming the lives of dozens, if not hundreds, of people. Mortality has risen sharply, especially among children and the elderly.
Horrifying reports are coming in from the towns and villages of the Ruhr region. People are dying in the streets, in their homes, in queues for meager rations. Corpses are left lying at the scene of death for hours, as the authorities lack the strength and resources to remove them in a timely manner.
«We are facing a real genocide,» said a doctor from Essen in private, who wished to remain anonymous for fear of reprisal. «People are dying of exhaustion, from diseases caused by malnutrition. Children have nothing to eat. Mothers cannot feed their infants. It’s hell on earth.»
Local authorities are appealing for help from the government, but their pleas go unanswered. The government, it seems, is occupied with more important matters than saving the lives of its own citizens. Food supplies are depleted. Prices for bread and other food items have reached exorbitant heights. Smuggling is flourishing.
Meanwhile, the French occupation forces continue to tighten their control over the region, which further exacerbates the situation. The invaders are hindering the delivery of food and coal, condemning the population to suffering and death.
Hartmannische Zeitung calls on all conscientious citizens to take immediate action. It is necessary to organize the collection of funds and food for the starving. It is necessary to put pressure on the government and the occupation authorities to take measures to save people. Time is running out. Every minute of delay costs human lives.
«I saw a woman fall to the ground right in the market square,» says Hans Hartmann, a resident of Bochum. «She was holding an empty basket, from which a few rotten apples fell out. People just walked by. No one stopped to help. Everyone is too busy with themselves.»
«My child died yesterday,» says Frau Schmidt from Dortmund, with tears in her eyes. «He hasn’t eaten for days. He didn’t even have the strength to scream. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know how I can go on living.»
Local authorities are appealing for help from the government, but their pleas go unanswered. Food supplies are depleted. Prices for bread and other food items have reached exorbitant heights. Smuggling is flourishing.
Speculators, hungry for profit, cynically sold essential goods coal for heating, medicine for sick children, a piece of butter for exhausted mothers – at astronomical prices unaffordable to ordinary people.
Crime, like a poisonous weed in an abandoned field, grew at an alarming rate, poisoning an already unbearable life; petty theft, robbery, murder became commonplace, and the corrupt and demoralized police were completely powerless to stop this unrestrained orgy of lawlessness, merely helplessly watching as the country plunged into the abyss of chaos.
One evening, as twilight thickened over Berlin, an old watchmaker named Herr Klaus was returning home after a long day of work.
In his hands, he carried a small bag with the day’s takings – a few marks, barely enough for a loaf of bread and some potatoes for his family. He walked quickly, trying not to attract attention, but his worn-out shoes and patched coat gave him away.
Suddenly, two young men jumped out of a dark alley. Their faces were hidden by dirty rags, and they held shivs made from shards of glass in their hands.
«Stop!» one of them shouted roughly, blocking Herr Klaus’s path. «Your money or your life!»
The old watchmaker, trembling all over, tried to run away, but the second robber grabbed his arm and knocked him to the ground.
«Don’t resist, old man!» hissed the first robber, pressing the shiv to Herr Klaus’s throat. «Give us everything you have!»
«Please…» croaked Herr Klaus, choking with fear. «I have almost nothing… Only enough for food…»
«Don’t lie!» roared the robber, shaking the old man by the shoulders. «We know you have money!»
Herr Klaus, realizing that resistance was useless, handed over the bag of money with trembling hands. The robbers snatched it from his grasp and quickly disappeared into the darkness of the alley.
The old watchmaker lay on the ground, weeping with resentment and helplessness. He knew that his family would now go hungry. But he was alive, and that was the main thing.
Getting to his feet, he slowly trudged home, cursing the war, poverty, and those who had taken away his last hopes.
A particularly oppressive atmosphere hung over the bustling train station, which was normally filled with chaos and commotion.
The smell of coal, machine oil, and human sweat mingled with the pungent odor of disinfectant, a reminder of recent epidemics.
The vast hall, once gleaming with cleanliness and lights, was now dimly lit and covered in a layer of dust and grime.
Exhausted people with extinguished gazes sat on the tattered benches, waiting for their trains, as if for salvation.
In a corner of the hall, a woman was crying, clutching a hungry child to her.
Two men, wrapped in old, tattered coats, stood aside and spoke quietly, waiting for their train. Their faces were hidden by shadows, and their voices were muffled, as if they were afraid of being overheard.
Steam billowed around them from smoking locomotives, creating a sense of unreality.
«Did you hear the news from Munich?» asked one, adjusting his crumpled hat and nervously glancing around the crowd, as if afraid of being heard. «They say there are riots there again. Shooting, barricades…»
«Yes,» replied the other, nervously rubbing his hands and drumming his fingers on a battered briefcase. «This is all not good. They say it’s the communists. Give them free rein, and they’ll turn the whole country into a fire. They’ll get to us soon too.»
He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice: «The main thing is to stay away from politics,» the first advised, and his lips twisted into a semblance of a smile that did not reach his eyes. «And from… the Witch’s Forest. They say it’s unholy there. Locals whisper about strange lights in the night and terrifying cries. Better not to go there.»
The second man nodded, his face paler than usual. In his gaze, fear flickered, mixed with something else – perhaps curiosity, or perhaps a premonition. He glanced towards the exit, as if he wanted to leave this station, permeated with the smell of fear and uncertainty, as soon as possible.
Corpses lay in the streets, and there was no one to take care of their burial. The air was filled with the smell of death and decay.
Chapter 2
Quiet Groben
Groben… The very name seemed to absorb the essence of the place, sounding muffled and down-to-earth, like the whisper of the earth itself, saturated with the scent of damp moss and decaying leaves.
In 1922, when the world around was shaken by wars, revolutions, and economic crises, Groben remained a small, quiet village, lost in the heart of the Bavarian countryside, far from big cities and bustling highways.
As if cut off from the outside world, it was immersed in the greenery of hills and forests, like a child sheltered in its mother’s embrace.
Life here flowed slowly and measuredly, subject not to the bustle of time, but to the natural rhythm of nature and centuries-old traditions passed down from generation to generation.
Time seemed to flow differently here, unhurriedly, like a mountain river carving its way through the stones, leaving behind a trail of peace and tranquility.
In Groben, even under the rays of the bright sun, there was always a shadow, the shadow of long-gone eras, the shadow of great changes that seemed to never reach these secluded