H. Adler - Panorama

EXACTLY HALFWAY BETWEEN ADAMSFREIHEIT AND LEINBAUM, A LITTLE building stands in the open countryside, this the train station for Adamsfreiheit, with its three tracks running between tufts of grass and weeds, two of the tracks lying free, while on the third stands a couple of freight cars in front of the loading dock to the warehouse. Each day three passenger trains and a freight train use this narrow-gauge track. The manager’s office, which also sells tickets, is staffed by two men, though otherwise the station is completely empty if no train is scheduled to arrive, while even then only a couple of people get on or off, the journey a slow one since the area is mountainous, not much attention having been paid when the tracks were laid, for they had to conquer unnecessary and considerable rises in elevation. Reddish-brown cresses grow in hanging pots at the station, next to it a little garden with fruit trees, between which vegetables and flowers flourish, while chickens strut and peck at the ground, the manager’s dog now and then roaming about.

Downhill from the station the road travels past fields and meadows to a small village, which is Leinbaum, a somewhat neglected though not really poor village that is nonetheless active, and yet in which strangers are rarely seen, the entire area quite remote, which is surprising, when you consider what a well-known realm it is that Ranger Brosch oversees, one where two thousand years ago this area covered by dense woods was home to dreamy, sparsely populated villages, the legio decima of the Romans roaming the countryside, though today since the area of Adamsfreiheit is not known to the world and has no mining, but instead farms and livestock provide a humble living, the villages have few inhabitants, possessing neither industry nor any specific trade, the next small town over ten kilometers away. Adamsfreiheit is a tiny market town, its majority of single-story houses giving it the appearance of a village, its little church made of gypsum also looking countrified, the school homely, the post office and telegraph depot hidden away in a neglected shop, the two shop owners carrying only the most essential goods in order to cover the reduced demand, while if one wants something special the reply is always “We don’t have it.”

Behind Leinbaum the immense forest district begins, Ranger Brosch’s realm stretching out far and wide, full of unknown reaches and covered in dense woods. If from Leinbaum you take a right, you avoid the forest and come to Sichelbach, behind which stretches Sichelbach Lake, whose length presses deep into the forest. To the left of the lake runs a cart path that later disappears into the forest and winds left and right, while on the other shore of the lake after half an hour you reach a high clearing where there is another lake and a settlement consisting of just a few farms, and just a little ways away, directly on the lake, stands a splendid Baroque church with a rounded onion-domed tower. The church is bright white, its large windows containing clear glass, the single entrance consisting of a massive portal and some open steps, the church facing the lake, in whose glassy surface the bright walls and the red tower are reflected, only the front of the church cannot be seen, since it happens to be encompassed by a cloister that contains a large fruit garden and a high wall, the settlement also called Cloister in return. The interior of the church is quite bright, possessing only a barrel roof that is nonetheless powerful and brighter than is often seen in these parts, the main altar and the side altars built from dark-black wood in the same style and decorated, the ornaments made of silver without a spot of gold anywhere, the frame of the strong altar painting helping to set off its radiance in contrast to the silver and black, as well as the sunlight pouring in, though the monks perhaps do not realize how beautiful their church is, for they think the catacombs are worth looking at much more than the building itself, even if there is nothing striking about them, though the monk on duty will quickly approach to ask whether you would like to visit the catacombs, to which you agree in order not to upset the monk. Then he lights a candle and leads the stranger down a narrow set of steps into a damp, murky hallway, the cold dampness clinging to your skin, the monk holding the light up to coffins piled one on top of another, though there’s nothing else to see here, and so you thank the monk, hand him a bit of alms, and breathe again as soon as you reach daylight.

If you don’t take the road to the Cloister, but head left, you enter a lovely grove of black spruce, between which there also grows some beeches, alders, and deciduous trees, the forest opening up a bit here and there in reverent forest glades, followed by more woods, until finally you reach a crossing at which a devotional image is covered in glass and nailed to a fir, a clearing opening up a little where this year the Wanderers have set up their summer camp. If at the crossing you head left, after about half an hour you will reach the forest ranger’s house, but if you head right you will soon be surprised to come upon an open forest meadow in the basin of a gentle hollow, a little creek flowing along its edge which is fed by Sichelbach Lake. The water is cool and fresh and safe to drink, though the Wanderers use it only for cooking and washing, hauling their drinking water from one of the many surrounding springs. If you head straight across this forest meadow you enter diverse woods, after which you pass through a valley that is not very deep, but which is surrounded by steep cliffs, the valley opening up farther on, the forest retreating as you soon enter an ancient village. Any stranger who shows up here is such an unusual sight that not only the children but also the grown-ups come out into the street to stare silently at the visitor, especially if it should happen to be such a wild bunch as the Wanderers in their yellow smocks secured with a brown belt, all of them in short pants, though of no uniform cut, all of them bareheaded, even when it rains cats and dogs. To look at this village, which is called Altstadt, you would think that time has forgotten this place, for where can one find now the glory of the Roman legio decima or hear about Altstadt, which until the days of the Hussites — or was it as late as the Swedish invasion? — was supposedly a thriving city. That is long ago, nothing left now but a mighty Gothic church with a defiant, freestanding tower as a memorial to earlier times, though only the building remains, the church now desolate on the inside, no antiquities hidden away within it, but instead looking quaint and devoid of any special features, the church never even full during Sunday service. Even if everyone in the parish came to Mass, the church would still remain half empty.

If you head back to the crossing above, where the Wanderers are camped, the path continues to run along level and then begins to climb the mountain, winding back and forth as it rises, then descending more sharply, revealing to the left the view of a mighty hill that rises up, not that high, but crowned by an imposing castle, which are the ruins of Landstein Castle, though the path doesn’t lead to it, bending right toward a hollow instead, where it comes out in the little village of Markl, with its sixty inhabitants. If you want to get to the castle, you must climb a steep path that leads to a forebuilding that houses a couple of people who hardly pay attention to the rare visitor, only a woman calling out a warning to be careful, since Landstein is in ruins, and no one should risk the crumbling steps and fragile walls. The lofty edifice is immense, but the cracks in the walls are deep and wide, debris from the collapsing walls having piled up, the round bulk of the detached tower well protected, nor would it even be possible to climb it, though in more astounding fashion a single wall still contains some austere windows from the early Renaissance. About the men of Landstein hardly anything is known, the castle having been abandoned and let fall into ruin since the Thirty Years War, if not earlier, no one doing anything to keep it up.