A brook so low you barely got your feet wet separated a settlement for more than four decades worth of time. Because of a chance of landscape, the 50 residents of Mödlareuth, a small village surrounded by pine forests, fields and spectacular vistas, found themselves at the core of the Cold War tensions. They had the bad luck to straddle the Bavarian region, in Western Germany, and Thuringia in the Soviet sector, a frontier that was established first by a barrier and then by a barricade. US troops dubbed it Little Berlin.
A few months after their own barrier was opened, and even before their state had become one in 1990, a collection of local people began documenting their history. The project is close to come to fruition: on 9 November, the 36th remembrance of the collapse of the German barrier, the German-German Museum Mödlareuth will open. It was formally opened by the head of state, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, in early October, but the exhibition was not completely ready. Telling the residents who endured the old days, Steinmeier said: “You were observers of an inhuman split, which pulled families asunder and turned neighbors into aliens.”
“You were bystanders of an brutal division, which tore relatives apart and turned local residents into strangers.”
Even at its establishment in 1810, the village spanned the Royal Bavaria and the Reuss Principality, a noble lineage most famous for giving all its male descendants the designation Heinrich and labeling them in order by date of birth. As Steinmeier informed the gathering, the peculiarity did not stand in the way of the residents gathering in the very same pub, attending the very same religious building and sending their kids to the same educational institution.
Subsequently occurred the global conflict. As soon as they came, the Soviet forces erected timber poles by the creek. For a year they took over the entire village, creating their headquarters in a building on the western side, embellishing it with a image of Stalin and a communist symbol. The American soldiers urged them to retreat across the brook. For a time, locals could continue to cross over, though as controls became stricter they were required to display identification, even though all was aware who they were, and to return at night.
Then, in 1952, came barbed wire and the official sealing of the frontier. In 1966, as in Berlin half a decade before, a concrete structure was built, with explosives, anti-tank obstacles and observation points. The villagers could still observe each other by climbing elevations, but on the Soviet side signaling and shouting were forbidden. A local woman was placed on a East German secret police surveillance list for answering “likewise” to a western local who greeted her “prosperous new year”.
I was told accounts including these tales by Robert Lebegern, the museum’s director, who has spent much of his professional career developing it. Residents were asked in the initial phases about how what length of barrier they desired to maintain. They selected a section on the western fringe, near where a local resident managed to get away in the middle of the night with a climbing device, after which the border was substantially fortified.
A pair of guard towers are conserved in addition to a collection of displays illustrating the most impactful dates in the hamlet’s chronicle. As we stroll, Robert Lebegern lists the regulations: nobody could get closer than 5km of the frontier. Rural residents needed particular approval to look after their produce; the spouse could operate the combine harvester but not both, for fear that they tried to make a run for it. Military personnel kept guard.
The frontier between West Germany and the GDR ran 1,400km, from the Baltic coast in the northern part to here in the southern region. Berlin is recalled and honored the greatest, but in excess of twice as many individuals (exceeding 300) lost their lives attempting to pass over it in provincial zones than in the big city. Robert Lebegern tells me that 95 percent of attempts to flee were unsuccessful.
The greater part of Mödlareuth’s locals were rural laborers or craftsmen, who adapted to residing in the ambiguous area between a pair of political systems by avoiding attention and looking after their land. They did not backed the socialist government nor fought it, Robert Lebegern explains.
For sightseers, however, the village became a sort of destination. Approximately fifteen thousand visited every year, binoculars in their hands, to stare – and then quickly go away. In 1983, the US president, George Bush, was given a tour by the German defence minister.
Twenty-five years after merger, the TV show, a television program about a imaginary hamlet resembling Mödlareuth, resulted in new interest.
The launch of the modern exhibition center – with a restaurant, store, cinema room and big car park – is expected to