A Border Guard, a Measuring Tape, and a Daughter About to Start Over

At a first glance, it’s just an old, black-and-white photograph.

My father is standing in the snow, holding a measuring tape in his hand.

The photo shows a young man at the former inner-German border.

A border guard of the German Democratic Republic (East Germany).

It was taken in early 1990, just a few months after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

And that measuring tape in his hand tells a story.

So I asked my father about it.

“When I look at this photo, the memories come

back immediately.”

Dad, how old were you in this picture?

“Twenty-three.”

And where was it taken?

“At the border in Thuringia, near Spahl. Right on the border with Hesse.”

He looks at the photo and smiles.

“When I saw the picture again, all those memories came back immediately.”

Which memories?

“The good ones, actually. The stories. All the nonsense we got up to.”

The kind of memories he can still laugh about today.

“If you didn’t get up to some nonsense, you wouldn’t have survived the time there.”

The Measuring Tape

The first thing that catches my eye in the photo is the measuring tape.

What was that all about?

“That was a tradition.”

Every centimeter represented one day until discharge from military service.

Day by day, another centimeter was cut off.

“You coloured every single centimeter by hand. Eventually, the whole tape became colourful.”

Every day, another piece disappeared.

One more day closer to home.

“That was the highlight of your day.”

The pieces that were cut off were often sent home in letters.

For the soldiers, the measuring tape became a symbol of hope.

But it was more than just a countdown. It was a status symbol.

Anyone carrying one was officially an Entlassungskandidat - a soldier nearing the end of his service.

When soldiers met at train stations, they would dramatically let their measuring tape roll down.

Those who were also close to discharge would grin back.

Those who still had many months left were usually less amused... ;-)

The “Anschnitt”

The measuring tape came with another tradition.

As soon as a soldier received his tape and officially became an Entlassungskandidat, it was time for the so-called Anschnitt - the first cut, an important ritual.

“Everyone had to do it.”

A soldier nearing discharge would stand on a chair and let the measuring tape drop down.

The Entlassungskandidat was allowed to cut off the very first centimeter.

But that was only the beginning.

“You had to be dressed completely in white.”

White underwear. A white undershirt.

Full military gear on top. A helmet on your head.

And on top of the helmet: a lit tea candle.

The recruit cut off the first centimeter. Then he had to eat it.

“You had to swallow it.”

As a reward, he received a bar of chocolate afterward.

Then, with the candle still burning on his helmet, he had to run down the hallway until the flame went out.

“If you were clever, you just bumped your helmet into the wall.”

He laughs.

“Then it went out immediately.”

Ridiculous? Absolutely.

But rituals like these made military life a little more bearable.

A Border That Suddenly No Longer Made Sense

My father was originally supposed to serve for 18 months. Then the Berlin Wall fell.

And suddenly everything changed.

“It was complete chaos.”

A new border crossing was being built. The fences were opened.

People could suddenly travel from East to West and back again.

And in the middle of it all stood young soldiers who had been trained to prevent exactly that from happening.

“At some point, we started asking ourselves: What are we even doing here? The border is open.”

When West Germans Suddenly Appeared

People from West Germany started coming to the border.

They brought food. They brought gifts. They wanted to talk. They wanted to hear stories.

And they wanted souvenirs.

“They wanted all sorts of things from us.”

One man wanted to buy my father’s cap. Twenty Deutsche Marks later, it belonged to him.

“That’s when we realized: something is happening here.”

For the first time in his life, my father held West German money in his hands.

The Night at the Disco

Then he tells me a story that is almost impossible to believe.

A few people from the West German side came by. They chatted for a while.

Then they asked the border guards a question:

Wouldn’t they like to see the West for themselves?

“We never would have been allowed to do that before.”

Only a few months earlier, it could have had serious consequences.

But now they simply got into the car.

In uniform. With their Kalashnikov rifles.

And drove into West Germany. To a disco.

“When we walked in, the music stopped.”

Four armed East German border guards were clearly not a common sight.

“We were the attraction of the evening.”

The Border Guard with a Smurf

One story is even better.

Visitors from the West had given them stuffed animals as gifts.

My father stuffed a large Smurf under his military jacket so that only the head was sticking out.

Then he stopped a car.

“Border control.”

The driver immediately became nervous.

He started explaining where he had been and where he was going.

My father asked: “Have you had anything to drink?”

“No, no!”

My father replied: “That’s a shame. We’re having a party over here.”

Only later, presumably, did the driver realize that the East German border guard questioning him had a Smurf sticking out of his uniform.

Who Was Watching Whom?

Among all the funny stories, one sentence stayed with me.

What was it actually like to stand guard at the border?

“I felt imprisoned myself.”

My father describes the fences. The control strips.

The observation posts. The constant checks.

The soldiers were supposed to watch others.

At the same time, they themselves were being watched.

“You never really knew who might be observing you.”

That sentence probably says more about the system than many history books ever could.

The Last 30 Days

As the measuring tape grew shorter, another thought became stronger.

Home.

How did you feel when there were only 30 days left?

“Better than when there were 200.”

He laughs.

Then he becomes serious.

“You simply knew it was almost over.”

He looked forward to seeing his family.

His friends. His football club. His normal life.

And he already had a plan.

He knew he wouldn’t go back to work immediately after being discharged.

“The first week, I’m staying at home.”

But there was something else too.

Something that had previously been impossible.

Travel.

My father was a passionate supporter of the football club 1. FC Magdeburg.

And he had made a promise to himself.

“No matter where Magdeburg plays its first European match abroad - I’m going.”

For many people today, that sounds perfectly normal.

Back then, it was anything but.

And he actually did it.

“The first match was in Finland.”

He laughs.

“There were maybe six or seven of us from the entire GDR.”

For him, it was much more than a football trip.

For the first time, he could decide for himself where to go.

For the first time, he could simply leave.

Freedom

So I asked him:

What does freedom mean to you today?

He pauses for a moment.

“Being able to go where I want.”

Then he adds:

“True freedom probably doesn’t really exist.”

There are still borders. Rules. Visas. Politics.

But for someone who grew up in a country where travel was heavily restricted, today’s freedom means something special.

“Back then, you were basically trapped.”

What That Time Taught Him

What did that period teach you about life?

“Camaraderie.”

Sixteen men in one room. No privacy.

You had to get along with each other. Whether you wanted to or not.

“You learn how to deal with people.”

He also says that the experience made him more independent.

Learning to manage on your own. Taking responsibility. Finding solutions.

“It shaped me.”

My Own Measuring Tape

Toward the end of our conversation, things become personal.

Because I, too, am standing on the edge of a new chapter.

I’m leaving my job.

Leaving England.

Building my own business.

Travelling.

Stepping into a future whose outcome I cannot predict.

So I ask him:

What advice would you give me?

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Enjoy these last days.”

Then he adds:

“Don’t lose sight of your friends.”

And finally, he says something that feels like a summary of his entire life:

“Always forward. Never backward.”

An old East Germany slogan.

But perhaps also a timeless piece of advice.

Don’t give up.

Don’t bury your head in the sand.

Think things through.

Weigh your options.

Keep moving.

And never lose sight of your goals.

When the interview is over, I look at the photograph one more time.

My father stands in the snow. Twenty-three years old.

A border guard at a time when one world was disappearing and another was just beginning.

In his hand, he holds a measuring tape. For him, it was a countdown to discharge.

A countdown to home. A countdown to freedom.

And as I count down my own final weeks before a major new beginning, I find myself wondering:

Perhaps all of us, at some point in life, have our own measuring tape.

The real question is:

What are we counting down to?

Namaste, Sarah x