I spent the first 18 years of my life in Kronach, a town of 10,000 in the most northern
corner of Bavaria. Swarming with tourists from all over Europe throughout the summer,
the little town was famous for its medieval castle, framework houses and narrow, winding
streets.
The street I recall most vividly after being away for ten years is the one I walked to school
five days a week and to church on Sundays.
That morning in June I opened the right wing of the heavy, green double-door (the left
one was always locked) and, skipping the two old stone steps, I sprang onto the uneven
cobblestone. It was the last day of school, ten weeks of worry-free laziness ahead of me!
Turning left I strolled past Porzelt’s butcher shop, with the 2-foot Salamis hanging in the
window. Across the street lay old Mrs. Pabstmann’s shoe store, her display in the
rain-streaked window faded, out of style.
The street widened after I crossed the intersection, lined by sidewalks. They, too, were
made of cobblestone--smaller squares, worn flat and smooth by generations of school
children, church goers, Belgian tourists, and shopping housewives.
Old Mrs. Meyer limped into the Protestant church to my left. No service was held at this
early hour, but she went in every morning, dressed in black, for her silent prayers, had
done so since the death of her husband in 1960. A tower, about five stories tall, rose
above the stone church, concealing under its tiled roof a set of bells I had learned to hate
during my 12 years at the old house. They would disturb my sleep every Sunday morning
with their sharp, out-of-tune, “dang-dong-ding, dang-dong-ding”, which continued for a
good thirty minutes.