It stands a little apart, not in the market square, not in the center of the action – and that is precisely its secret. The Peace Church in Guben is not a church that pushes itself forward. It waits. Overgrown in its own silence, overgrown by the silent breath of ivy, it stands there like a forgotten chapter in a book that no one opens anymore – but everyone immediately loves as soon as they read it.
In summer, it has almost completely disappeared. The windows, Gothic in shape, peer through a curtain of foliage like silent witnesses. One feels as if it were breathing – or dreaming. As if it had transformed itself into a ruin of good, into a place that not only bears the word "peace" but carries it within itself, as substance. In winter, however, it becomes a figure – naked, upright, with trailing arms clinging to the façade like memories. Then you see its power. And its history.
No pomp, no chimes. Just red brick, the wind, time – and a doorknob that you touch reverently, even though you don't know if anyone is even gathered inside. Perhaps it has long since become more of a monument than a church. A silent acknowledgment of something quieter than words.
You can sit on the bench in front and watch the light catch the windows. Or you can simply keep walking – and wonder half a block later why everything suddenly seems a little warmer.