Bad Düben, Saxony, Germany
Local Focus: For nearly 50 years, a monstrous concrete giant has stood lost in the woods by the beautiful Königsee lake, situated between Gräfenhainichen and Kemberg. Even back in the GDR era, authorities halted the construction of a holiday camp intended for the energy combine's workforce.
For Sabine Richter, it is a constant source of annoyance—though by now, it is one she, as the proprietor of the "Am Königsee" inn, no longer dwells on. Just a kilometer away from her popular restaurant, guesthouse, and the idyllic bungalow complex by the picturesque little lake, a massive concrete monster squats in the forest, right next to the road leading to the nearby village of Rotta.
A concrete block
The concrete block measures 30 by 40 meters; overgrown with trees and brush, it stands empty save for illegally dumped piles of trash and a party room likely set up by local youths. Only the fence posts remain of the original perimeter, and unused construction materials lie buried beneath decades-old layers of humus and thick grass.
Nothing has happened here for 44 years; nature is slowly reclaiming a site that was once destined to offer happy, carefree holidays to the children of employees from the "West" energy combine.
On April 14, 1976, the state-owned enterprise—headquartered in Halle—had begun building a new holiday paradise on the northern edge of the Düben Heath, as existing facilities were no longer sufficient. Plans also included using the site for training purposes during the winter months.
Yet the grand dream of providing "better access to holiday trips for the working population"—as the phrase went back then—was shattered long before the first guests could arrive. A halt-work order was issued from a ministry in Berlin—exactly which one has been forgotten over the years—just as the shell of the large social building, comprising a kitchen, dining hall, and administrative wing, was being completed.
Workers vacation
By this time, workers had already spent three years laboring on the site, located along the road leading to the nearby village of Mark Nauendorf. The kitchen wing was finished, a major water main had been laid, and the power supply was in place. However, construction of the planned accommodation for 300 children attending the holiday camp had not even begun when the decree arrived from Berlin ordering an immediate stop to all work.
Village rumors claimed the entire project was an unauthorized build—constructed outside the official plan. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but funded from the wrong budget. Others believed that one of the bungalow owners living around the Königsee had used their connections in the capital to pull a few strings and ward off the looming prospect of having hundreds of noisy children as neighbors.
No one knows for sure. "But they certainly had an official building permit," says Edelfried Schimmel, the mayor of Rotta. The officials at the energy combine were reportedly all the more surprised when construction was banned overnight.
There was no point in arguing; the construction crew vanished, and the cranes and excavators were hauled away. About 1,500 tons of concrete were left behind by the Grubenmühlbach stream—a monument costing hundreds of thousands of East German marks that became a "lost place" long before the term even existed.
Today, open manhole covers gape beneath the moss across the site; every door has been forced open and unhinged, all the windows are smashed, and the interior masonry walls have been partially torn down. It is an abandoned construction project—leaving no trace in GDR archives—that has nonetheless outlasted many company holiday camps that operated for decades. It is a source of frustration not only for innkeeper Sabine Richter but also for local mayor Edelfried Schimmel.
His predecessors had already tried in vain to get rid of this legacy eyesore. An expert assessment in the early 1990s concluded that demolition and disposal would cost 175,000 euros—money no one had, and a sum exceeding the potential proceeds from selling the land.
Subsequent attempts yielded no different outcome. "The property has changed hands several times since then, yet no one takes care of it," says Mayor Schimmel, who is annoyed by the "truly unsightly image" the ruin presents in a region popular with tourists and vacationers. "But fortunately," he adds, "it is becoming increasingly overgrown."
