MikePadgett.com

Stasimuseum Normannenstraße

— The banality of evil: a Stasi boss who ate breakfast while down the corridor prisoners awaited their fate.”

Though the fledgling East German state was tied to a democratic process by wartime Allied agreements, in practice democracy was nominal since all parties were members of a coalition controlled by the ruling SED.

The SED gradually cemented their political power, using peoples’ organisations and the coalition to secure an absolute majority in the volkskammer.

By 1950, the SED leaders had decided to act upon their growing paranoia. The people had shown considerable and increasing dissent towards the political process and the population had already begun to decrease through outflows to the West.

The Ministry for State Security was founded the same year and soon became known by its famous abbreviation ‘Stasi’ (Staatsicherheit). With its bureaucratic base in the enormous, monolithic headquarters at Lichtenberg, the Stasi instituted a reign of fear that lasted almost forty years.

The sword and the shield

With funding thought to be about 3% of total government expenditure, the Stasi established itself in every nook and cranny of East Germany, until there was truly nowhere to hide.

The museum that now occupies Haus 1 of the Lichtenberg complex, run by the Anti-Stalinist Action Normannenstraße (ASTAK), has numerous exhibits that show the extent and the extremes of the Stasi’s power.

Wherever citizens went, the Stasi was secretly gathering evidence: photographing them with bizarre devices, entering their homes, bottling their scent, tracking them with dogs.

When you left for work in the morning, you couldn’t be certain that someone hadn’t entered your house to collect samples during the day. Then, while you were waiting for the bus, any car that passed by might have a film camera rolling inside the passenger door. If you asked someone the time, you were implicating them in your suspicious activities. If your colleague turned up to your office wearing a nice new tie, you couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a camera embedded in it.

Every investigation into every citizen generated a file of paperwork. Every file wound up in the concrete blocks of Normannenstraße. It is estimated that there are in excess of 33 million pages in these files.

The banality of evil

Such an operation required a fastidious sort of manager. That manager was Erich Mielke, a man who had instructions for the layout and composition of his daily breakfast typed out and communicated to the relevant parties.

When Mielke left for work in leafy Wandlitz, he could be confident that no-one was watching him. Probably.

Mielke operated the long arm of the state from his office on the first floor of Haus 1. The office is frozen haplessly in time: all brown carpets, nicotine-stained ceilings and amateurish watercolour paintings.

And when not busy persecuting citizens and sponsoring death squads, Mielke supported his beloved FC Dynamo, grooming players as spies and fixing their matches.

Breaking down the door to democracy

The resonating frequencies of glasnost fell largely on deaf ears among the East German authorities. The people however had heard them loud and clear.

On 15 January 1990, a crowd swept through the gates of Normannenstraße. Few doubted then that the surveillance state’s days were numbered.

Where once visitors might have noted framed photographs of bemedalled officials on the walls of Haus 1, today there are photographs of graffiti and angry faces young and old.

Nevertheless, as with seemingly everything in the brief history of East Germany, there was a twist in the tale. So deeply embedded was the Stasi in the fabric of society that it managed to place people in the crowd of protesters, people who had been briefed to destroy documents.

Indeed we know today that the Stasi machine had a considerable hand in destroying itself.