The Hinterkaifeck Murders. Madina Fedosova

hearts, but also a deal sealed by blood and land. Already on April 24, 1877, Josef Asam inherited the ancestral plot of land, the Waldhof farm, from his widowed father, Johann Asam. Land, as is known, feeds and protects, and in those days, owning it was a guarantee of survival.

      But that’s not all. A notarized marriage and inheritance agreement was concluded between Cäzilia and Josef – a document written in dry legal language, but concealing complex interweaving of interests and hopes. After the conclusion of the marriage, Cäzilia Asam became a co-owner of this plot of land. Paper giving her the right to part of this harsh land, a right that, as it turned out, did not guarantee her happiness and security.

      Soon this right turned into a heavy burden. On May 21, 1885, Josef Asam died, and Cäzilia suddenly remained alone – a widow and the sole owner of the Hinterkaifeck farm, on whom all responsibility now lay.

      This burden was not easy, especially for a woman, but Cäzilia did not break. The hard work on the farm, exhausting day after day, did not break her physically, but took away her last mental strength.

      A year later, in 1886, she married for the second time – to Andreas Gruber. What motivated her? Echoes of hope for happiness, a desire to find a kindred soul, or simply a desire for stability in a troubled world? The farm certainly needed a strong owner, and Cäzilia needed reliable support, a person who would share the burden of care and provide a future for her and her loved ones. After the wedding, an agreement on joint ownership of the farm was signed, which was common practice at that time – a formal confirmation of the union and common interests.

      And yet, contrary to all hopes and expectations, this marriage became not salvation for Cäzilia, but rather a burden that she bore silently and meekly. She was patient, like the earth accepting any rain, and submissive, allowing fate to lead her along its intended path. Every morning she woke up knowing that only one thing awaited her: the repetition of yesterday, filled with silence, hard work, and fear. It seemed that fate had long decided everything for her, and Cäzilia only humbly accepted every blow, not hoping for change. She was like an old icon, darkened by time and grief, but still retaining in the depths of her soul a faint glimmer of faith in the best.

      The woman lived a hard life. According to rumors, she was subjected to violence by her father, and later by her husband Andreas. It is, of course, impossible to confirm these rumors now, but the life of a peasant woman in those days was rarely easy and cloudless. Women worked on a par with men, endured hardships, and often became victims of domestic violence.

      Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to consider Cäzilia a soft-bodied and spineless victim. Those who lived in the village confirmed that she had a strong character and a firm will. She knew how to stand up for herself and for her family, although perhaps she could not always openly resist the tyranny of her husband. Cäzilia was a complex and contradictory personality, formed under the influence of difficult life circumstances.

      Viktoria Gruber:

      On a cold February morning in 1887, when the howling wind shook the bare branches of trees around Hinterkaifeck, Cäzilia gave birth to a girl. The entry in the church book read: Viktoria Gruber, February 6, 1887.

      The birth was difficult, exhausting. When the midwife gently placed the newborn in Cäzilia’s arms, she closed her eyes, exhausted.

      Viktoria was born silent. No cry, no squeak – only a quiet groan, which made the midwife wary. Andreas, usually restrained in showing his feelings, stood aside, watching what was happening with an inscrutable face. His gaze, sliding over the girl’s pale skin, lingered on her large, wide-open eyes, as if he was trying to discern in them something hidden from others.

      Years passed, but this gaze, full of the unsaid, remained a mystery. Viktoria, who grew up on the Hinterkaifeck farm, was like being woven from contradictions. Her tall, almost angular figure seemed to carry a burden unbearable for her young age. Her movements, usually smooth and graceful, sometimes became sharp, nervous, betraying hidden tension. Her face, framed by dark, thick hair, seemed pale, almost lifeless, as if her blood flowed slower than others. Large gray eyes, which could have captivated with their beauty, now looked at the world warily, as if searching for signs of danger. Her gaze was penetrating, sharp, capable of noticing the smallest details that remained unnoticed by others.

      She was silent and reserved, preferring to observe rather than participate. Her voice sounded quietly, almost in a whisper, as if she was afraid to break the silence, to attract unnecessary attention to herself. There was some internal recluseness in her, as if she was shielding herself from the outside world with an invisible shield. She rarely smiled, and when she smiled, it seemed that the smile did not touch her eyes, that it was just a mask hiding her true feelings.

      Her hands, usually occupied with hard housework, were distinguished by a strange grace. Her fingers were long, thin, as if created not for rough labor, but for something more elegant. She loved to spend time alone, wandering through the surrounding forests, collecting herbs and flowers. It was said that she knew the language of plants, understood their secret messages.

      There was something unearthly in her, something otherworldly, that both attracted and repelled. She seemed to be a mystery that could not be solved, a secret that was better not to touch. She was like a warning, like a sign indicating that there are things in this world that are better not to know.

      Sofia Gruber:

      Two years later, in 1889, the cry of a newborn was heard again in the house – Cäzilia gave birth to a second daughter, Sofia. In the first days, the house was full of joy, but along with it, a vague anxiety seemed to hang in the air, a vague premonition of trouble. Sofia seemed too fragile, too defenseless against the dark forces that seemed to surround Hinterkaifeck.

      She was not destined to live long. Sofia left this world at the age of two, as if an evil spirit had stolen her soul, leaving only a lifeless body. A disease, shrouded in mystery, seemed to descend from the surrounding forests, twisted her fragile body, deprived her of breath.

      Infant mortality in those days, like an insatiable reaper, reigned in the Bavarian lands, and no house could feel safe. Every child born came into the world with the mark of vulnerability, like a thin sprout that had to break through rocky soil. And few succeeded in this. Typhus, diphtheria, measles, scarlatina – the names of these diseases sounded like ominous spells, dooming infants and children to a painful death. There were no vaccinations, no effective medicines, only prayers and herbal decoctions, which more often brought comfort than healing. Poor hygiene was everywhere: dirty water from wells, crowding in cramped huts, where both people and livestock gathered in winter, lack of basic knowledge about germs and infections. Diseases spread like a forest fire, engulfing entire villages. Mothers watched in horror as their children faded before their eyes, as their bodies became covered with rashes, as they were suffocated by coughs. They wiped the sweat from their foreheads, whispered prayers, hoped for a miracle, but miracles rarely happened. Even if a child survived a serious illness, he remained weak and defenseless against other dangers: hunger, lack of warm clothes, hard labor, which began at the age of five or six. Many children simply did not live to adulthood, taking with them unrealized dreams and unfulfilled hopes. In the cemeteries outside the villages, children’s graves occupied entire rows – faceless mounds covered with grass and wildflowers, a sad reminder of how fragile and short life was in those times.

      The death of the child was another blow for Cäzilia, although outwardly she endured it silently and without tears. The loss certainly left its mark, but hardly anyone noticed it behind her usual submission and humility. In the harsh realities of life on the farm, where every day was a struggle for survival, there was simply no room for long grief. One had to work to survive, and Cäzilia continued to perform her duties as if nothing had happened. But what was going on in her soul remained a mystery.

      Chapter 6

      Land and Blood

      1910—1914

      In those