of many generations of Groben residents, and each cobblestone held its own story, its own secret.
Along these streets stretched modest but sturdy and well-kept houses, built of wood and stone, with tiled roofs darkened by rain and sun. Each house was unique, with its own character and its own history, but they were all united by one thing – the love and care of their owners.
On the windows and wooden balconies, like bright jewels, boxes and pots with flowers flaunted. Geraniums, petunias, nasturtiums – simple but so dear to the heart flowers, as if competing with each other in brightness and beauty. Every morning, the residents of Groben lovingly cared for their flowers, watering them, trimming dry leaves, and rejoicing in each new bud.
In the mornings, a thick, milky fog rose over the village, like a ghost, enveloping houses and fields, making Groben look like a fabulous, unreal world. Silhouettes of houses and trees barely broke through the fog, creating a sense of mystery and enigma. It seemed that time had stopped, and Groben was frozen in anticipation of something extraordinary.
But then, finally, the first rays of the sun appeared, piercing the fog with their golden arrows. The fog slowly dissipated, exposing Groben in all its glory. Houses, fields, trees – everything was transformed under the rays of the sun, acquiring bright colors and clear contours. And Groben awoke to a new life, filling with the sounds and aromas of a new day. Roosters crowed, cows mooed, dogs barked, coming from the surrounding farms. The air smelled of fresh bread, smoke from chimney flues, and the scent of flowers. Groben lived its life, a life full of work, cares, and hopes.
Most of the inhabitants of Groben were peasants. Their life was inseparable from the land, from sunrise and sunset, from the seasons. Even before the first rays of the sun broke through the morning haze enveloping the valley, the peasants were already getting up. The creak of floorboards, the quiet whisper of a prayer, the sound of water pouring into the washbasin – this is how every day began in a peasant family.
After a meager breakfast consisting of bread and milk, the men went to the fields. Their rough hands, etched with wrinkles and scars, remembered the touch of the earth, of the ears of wheat, of the raw clay. They plowed the land, sowed the grain, harvested the crop – worked from dawn to dusk, knowing no fatigue. Their backs bent under the weight of labor, but their eyes shone with perseverance and hope for a good harvest.
Women remained at home to care for the livestock, cook meals, and look after the children. Their caring hands milked cows, fed pigs, and collected eggs. They washed laundry in cold water, wove linen, and sewed clothes. Their days were filled with chores, but they never complained, knowing that their labor was as important as that of the men.
Some residents of Groben were engaged in crafts. Blacksmiths forged horseshoes, carpenters made furniture, tailors sewed clothes. Their hands skillfully wielded tools, creating beautiful and useful things. Their crafts were passed down from generation to generation, preserving the traditions and culture of Groben.
The life of the peasants was hard and full of worries. Droughts, floods, livestock diseases – all this could suddenly ruin their plans and deprive them of their livelihoods.
But they were strong and hardy people, accustomed to labor and hardship. Nature itself had tempered them, teaching them to appreciate the simple joys of life: the warmth of the hearth, a child’s smile, the taste of fresh bread. They were bound to each other by ties of kinship and friendship, helping each other in difficult times and rejoicing together in successes. Their life, simple and unpretentious, was filled with deep meaning and dignity.
In Groben, as in any other village, there was its church. It was the center of the village’s spiritual life. On Sundays, the residents of Groben gathered in the church to pray and listen to the priest’s sermon. Church holidays were celebrated solemnly and joyfully, with songs, dances, and folk festivities.
In Groben, as in any other self-respecting Bavarian village, a church towered. Not just a building of stone and wood, but the heart of the village, the spiritual center around which the life of every resident revolved.
Its high spire, soaring upwards, was visible from afar, like a beacon pointing the way to lost souls. The church was built many years ago, back in the days of the kings, and within its walls, the prayers of many generations of Groben residents had been heard.
Inside the church, there was an atmosphere of reverence and silence. Sunlight, penetrating through the stained-glass windows, painted the air in soft, muted tones. The smell of incense and old wood filled the space, creating a sense of peace and tranquility. On the walls hung icons of saints, with stern but kind faces, watching over the parishioners.
On Sundays, when the sound of the bells spread throughout the surrounding area, the residents of Groben, dressed in their best clothes, gathered in the church. They came here to pray, to ask forgiveness for their sins, and to receive a blessing for the new week. Their voices, merging into a single choir, rose to the heavens, filling the church with prayers and hymns.
The priest, an old and wise man, read the sermon, talking about love for one’s neighbor, about mercy, and about how to live according to God’s laws. His words resonated in the hearts of the parishioners, strengthening their faith and hope.
Church holidays were celebrated in Groben solemnly and joyfully. The residents of the village dressed in their most beautiful costumes, decorated the church with flowers and ribbons, and organized folk festivities. Songs, dances, games, treats – all this created an atmosphere of joy and unity. All the residents of Groben, from young to old, gathered on the church square to celebrate the holiday together and take a break from the hard workdays. The church, like a caring mother, united all the residents of Groben, giving them faith, hope, and love.
In the village, a little away from the central square, was the school – a small but sturdy building with large windows overlooking the quiet village landscape. Here, every morning, children from Groben and the surrounding farms streamed in, with backpacks on their backs and a gleam of curiosity in their eyes. The school was the pride of the village, a symbol of hope for the future and a place where dreams were born.
The teacher, Mr. Hauser, was a respected man in Groben. Short, thin, with a penetrating gaze and a kind smile, he was not just a teacher, but rather a mentor and guide to the world of knowledge. He knew each student by name, remembered the peculiarities of their character and their dreams. His house, located next to the school, was always open to children and their parents.
The classroom contained wooden desks, covered in ink and etched with carved names. On the walls hung maps, multiplication tables, and portraits of famous Bavarian kings. It smelled of wood, chalk, and fresh ink. Here, in this simple and cozy setting, the children learned the basics of literacy and science.
Mr. Hauser taught the children reading, writing, arithmetic, history, and geography. He told them about faraway lands, about great discoveries, about heroes of the past. He tried not only to impart knowledge but also to develop critical thinking in the children, to teach them to analyze and draw their own conclusions.
But the teacher gave his students not only knowledge. He instilled in them a love for their homeland, for their Bavarian land, for its traditions and culture. He told them about the beauty of their native nature, about the importance of labor, and about the need to respect their elders. He taught them to be honest, just, and merciful.
The school was not only a place of learning but also a place of communication. Here, children found friends, learned to work as a team, shared their joys and sorrows. Here, true friendship was born, which lasted for many years, connecting generations of Groben residents. The school, the teacher, the students – they were all part of one big family, the Groben family, united by love for their land and faith in a bright future.
Chapter 3
The Inn «At the Old Oak»
Inside the inn, it was always noisy and lively. Long wooden tables,