A creek so shallow you scarcely got your ankles wet split a community for in excess of four decades worth of time. Due to a quirk of topography, the half a hundred locals of Mödlareuth, a small village bordered by coniferous woods, meadows and stunning vistas, found themselves at the core of the cold war. They had the unfortunate circumstance to straddle Bavaria, in Western Germany, and Thuringia in the Soviet sector, a border that was demarcated first by a barrier and then by a partition. US troops dubbed it Small Berlin.
A few months after their own wall was opened, and even before their state had reunified in 1990, a group of villagers set about commemorating their history. The work is close to be completed: on 9 November, the thirty-sixth commemoration of the collapse of the Wall in Berlin, the Museum of German Division Mödlareuth will inaugurate. It was formally opened by the national president, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, in early October, but the exhibition was not entirely prepared. Addressing the villagers who endured the past era, Steinmeier said: “You were witnesses of an brutal division, which pulled households apart and turned neighbours into aliens.”
“You were observers of an brutal separation, which pulled relatives apart and turned neighbors into foreigners.”
Even at its founding in 1810, the village straddled the Royal Bavaria and the Princely State of Reuss, a noble lineage most renowned for bestowing all its male members the title Heinrich and labeling them consecutively by date of birth. As Steinmeier informed the gathering, the oddity never stood in the manner of the locals socializing in the very same pub, going to the very same church and sending their young ones to the identical school.
Then came the global conflict. Immediately after they arrived, the Soviet forces installed wood stakes by the brook. For a year they seized the entire hamlet, establishing their control center in a house on the western side, adorning it with a picture of Stalin and a communist symbol. The Americans convinced them to withdraw to the other side of the brook. For a while, villagers could still hop over, though as limitations tightened they were required to show identification, despite the fact that each person was aware who they were, and to come back at after dark.
After that, in 1952, came wire fencing and the legal shutting of the frontier. In 1966, as in Berlin five years earlier, a concrete structure was built, with mines, anti-tank obstacles and observation points. The residents could continue to see each other by climbing hills, but on the eastern side waving and shouting were banned. A female resident was added to a GDR intelligence surveillance list for responding “same to you” to a western resident who greeted her “prosperous new year”.
It was related to me stories like these by Robert Lebegern, the museum’s director, who has dedicated much of his professional career creating it. Locals were polled early on about how how long a section wall they desired to keep. They selected a portion on the west fringe, close to where a local resident managed to get away in the darkest hours with a ladder, after which the border was heavily reinforced.
Two observation towers are preserved in addition to a set of displays depicting the most impactful dates in the village’s past. As we walk, Lebergen enumerates the regulations: not a single person could get closer than 5km of the frontier. Agricultural workers required particular approval to care for their produce; the husband or wife could work the combine harvester but under no circumstances both, lest they tried to flee. Military personnel stood watch.
The frontier between the Federal Republic and the East Germany extended 1,400 kilometers, from the northern sea in the northern part to the south in the south. Berlin is remembered and documented the greatest, but in excess of double the number people (exceeding 300) were killed attempting to pass over it in rural areas than in the big city. the director reminds me that 95% of attempts to flee did not succeed.
The majority of Mödlareuth’s locals were rural laborers or artisans, who adapted to living in the uncertain territory between two political systems by keeping their heads down and tending to their land. They neither endorsed the East German authorities nor opposed it, Lebegern explains.
For visitors, however, the village became a sort of site of interest. Approximately 15k came to visit annually, viewing tools in hand, to look – and then rapidly leave. In 1983, the US president, George Bush, was guided by the German defence minister.
Twenty-five years after merger, Tannbach, a TV series about a imaginary community resembling Mödlareuth, led to new curiosity.
The launch of the new museum – with a coffee shop, shop, film screening area and sizable vehicle area – is probable to
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