A creek so narrow you hardly got your feet wet divided a settlement for more than four decades. Because of a chance of landscape, the fifty locals of Mödlareuth, a tiny settlement surrounded by pine forests, meadows and spectacular views, found themselves at the heart of the Cold War tensions. They had the bad luck to straddle Bavaria, in the Federal Republic of Germany, and the Thuringian region in the East, a frontier that was established first by a enclosure and then by a partition. US troops dubbed it Mini Berlin.
Several months after their own barrier was opened, and even before their country had become one in 1990, a assembly of residents set about memorialising their heritage. The work is close to come to fruition: on 9 November, the 36th commemoration of the fall of the Wall in Berlin, the German-German Museum Mödlareuth will begin operations. It was formally opened by the national president, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, in the first part of October, but the show wasn’t quite prepared. Speaking to the residents who experienced the former times, Steinmeier stated: “You were bystanders of an cruel division, which ripped households asunder and turned local residents into aliens.”
“You were witnesses of an inhuman division, which pulled relatives into pieces and turned neighbours into aliens.”
Right from its founding in 1810, the community spanned the Kingdom of Bavaria and the Principality of Reuss, a noble lineage best known for assigning all its male descendants the title Heinrich and labeling them sequentially by birth. As Steinmeier informed the audience, the peculiarity was never an obstacle in the way of the residents drinking in the very same tavern, visiting the very same church and enrolling their children to the identical learning center.
Next arrived the global conflict. As soon as they appeared, the Russian troops installed wooden posts by the stream. For a twelve months they seized the complete hamlet, creating their headquarters in a dwelling on the Bavarian territory side, decorating it with a portrait of Stalin and a communist symbol. The US forces urged them to retreat to the other side of the brook. For a while, locals could still cross over, though as restrictions increased they were obliged to present identity papers, despite the fact that all understood who they were, and to come back at evening.
Subsequently, in 1952, came barbed wire and the legal closing of the frontier. In 1966, as in Berlin five years earlier, a barrier was constructed, with explosives, vehicle barriers and observation points. The villagers could continue to view each other by scaling hills, but on the eastern side waving and calling out were banned. A female resident was placed on a Stasi monitoring list for responding “likewise” to a Bavarian local who said her “happy new year”.
I was told narratives including these incidents by Robert Lebegern, the director of the museum, who has dedicated a large part of his professional career building it. Residents were asked early on about how what length of barrier they wished to keep. They opted for a stretch on the western fringe, adjacent to where one of their own managed to get away in the darkest hours with a climbing device, after which the border was significantly strengthened.
2 watchtowers are conserved together with a set of exhibits illustrating the most dramatic moments in the hamlet’s past. As we walk, Robert Lebegern lists the regulations: no one could get closer than 5km of the boundary. Agricultural workers needed special permission to look after their crops; the spouse could operate the combine harvester but never the two, in case they tried to make a run for it. Armed guards stood watch.
The boundary between West Germany and the German Democratic Republic stretched 1,400 kilometers, from the Baltic Sea in the north to the south in the south. Berlin is remembered and honored the most frequently, but in excess of twice as many individuals (more than 300) died trying to pass over it in provincial zones than in the urban center. Lebegern reminds me that 95 percent of efforts to cross were unsuccessful.
Most of Mödlareuth’s villagers were farmers or craftsmen, who adjusted to residing in the grey zone between a pair of belief systems by keeping their heads down and tending to their fields. They neither backed the socialist government nor opposed it, Robert Lebegern states.
For visitors, however, the settlement became a sort of site of interest. Roughly 15,000 visited every year, binoculars in possession, to stare – and then swiftly leave. In 1983, the United States leader, George Bush, was given a tour by the German defence minister.
25 years after merger, the television series, a TV series about a fictional hamlet resembling Mödlareuth, resulted in fresh curiosity.
The launch of the new museum – with a cafe, store, movie theater and big parking lot – is likely to
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