A creek so narrow you scarcely got your feet wet separated a settlement for over four decades. By an accident of topography, the 50 locals of Mödlareuth, a small village bordered by evergreen groves, fields and stunning vistas, found themselves at the heart of the cold war. They had the misfortune to straddle Bavaria, in West Germany, and the Thuringian region in the East, a border that was demarcated first by a fence and then by a wall. US troops dubbed it Little Berlin.
Several months after their own barrier was opened, and even before their country had reunified in 1990, a assembly of villagers set about memorialising their past. The project is about to reach completion: on 9 November, the 36th anniversary of the collapse of the Wall in Berlin, the Museum of German Division Mödlareuth will begin operations. It was formally opened by the head of state, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, in the beginning of October, but the display was not entirely finished. Addressing the locals who experienced the old days, Steinmeier stated: “You were bystanders of an cruel division, which pulled households asunder and turned neighbours into aliens.”
“You were bystanders of an cruel division, which tore families asunder and turned local residents into strangers.”
Right from its establishment in 1810, the community cut across the Bavarian Kingdom and the Princely State of Reuss, a royal family best known for giving all its male descendants the name Heinrich and counting them consecutively by birth. As Steinmeier informed the crowd, the peculiarity did not stand in the path of the inhabitants gathering in the very same pub, attending the identical religious building and sending their young ones to the very same school.
Then came the global conflict. As soon as they came, the Russians erected timber poles by the stream. For a annual period they took over the entire hamlet, creating their headquarters in a building on the Bavarian side, decorating it with a portrait of Stalin and a Soviet emblem. The Americans convinced them to retreat back over the stream. For a period, villagers could still jump across, though as controls tightened they were obliged to show identity papers, although each person understood who they were, and to return at after dark.
After that, in 1952, came wire fencing and the official sealing of the boundary. In 1966, as in Berlin five years earlier, a concrete structure was built, with landmines, tank traps and watchtowers. The locals could still see each other by climbing hills, but on the Soviet side waving and yelling were forbidden. One woman was put on a Stasi monitoring list for responding “likewise” to a West German resident who wished her “happy new year”.
I heard narratives including these tales by Robert Lebegern, the head of the institution, who has spent much of his professional career developing it. Residents were polled early on about how how long a section wall they wished to preserve. They selected a section on the Bavarian fringe, close to where one of their own succeeded to escape in the middle of the night with a scaling tool, subsequently the frontier was substantially fortified.
Two watchtowers are preserved alongside a collection of tableaux illustrating the most significant dates in the community’s past. As we stroll, the director details the rules: no one could get closer than 5km of the border. Agricultural workers had to obtain specific authorization to tend to their fields; the husband or wife could work the combine harvester but not the two, in case they attempted to make a run for it. Armed guards were on duty.
The boundary between the Federal Republic and the German Democratic Republic stretched 1,400km, from the northern sea in the northern part to here in the southern region. Berlin is remembered and documented the most, but in excess of double the number persons (exceeding 300) lost their lives attempting to cross it in provincial zones than in the metropolis. Lebegern informs me that 95% of escape attempts were unsuccessful.
The majority of Mödlareuth’s locals were agricultural workers or artisans, who accommodated to living in the uncertain territory between a pair of belief systems by keeping their heads down and looking after their fields. They nor did they endorsed the socialist government nor opposed it, the director clarifies.
For tourists, however, the settlement became a sort of destination. About 15,000 came to visit every year, viewing tools in their hands, to stare – and then quickly go away. In 1983, the American president, George Bush, was guided by the German defence minister.
25 years after unification, Tannbach, a TV series about a made-up community like Mödlareuth, caused renewed interest.
The launch of the new museum – with a cafe, store, movie theater and large vehicle area – is probable to
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