When the German Democratic Republic collapsed in 1990, thousands of coaches, doctors, trainers, and officials from its elite sports system entered a unified Germany that was still trying to understand what, exactly, the GDR had been. Their reputations now depended on how their pasts were interpreted—by newspapers, by athletic federations, by former teammates and rivals, and sometimes by courts. Some sought to defend themselves through interviews. Others tried to fight damaging statements in court. Still others discovered that defending themselves was complicated by missing documents, conflicting testimony, or shifting expectations in a country still learning to read its own history.
Three figures from GDR gymnastics—Ellen Berger, Klaus Köste, and Gudrun Fröhner—each confronted the same problem: how to assert their own account of the past in a new Germany where the rules, the evidence, and even the moral categories were changing under their feet. Their cases did not follow the same path, nor did they end in the same place. But all three illustrate how difficult—and sometimes impossible—it was to clear one’s name in the 1990s and beyond.
In December 1991, a Swiss magazine profiled a new coach at a gleaming gymnastics center in Liestal. Dieter Hofmann, they wrote, was a “coaching legend”—his East German athletes had won 52 Olympic, World, and European Championship medals. Now he was in Switzerland, “baking smaller rolls,” teaching part-time at a vocational school. The profile mentioned, briefly, that some had blocked his appointment to lead unified Germany’s team because of his past. But it went no further.
Over the next decade, two sets of articles would tell a fuller story. The first, released in 1993, documented Hofmann’s work as Stasi informant “Rose”—reporting on colleagues, providing a safe house for covert operations, and derailing careers to demonstrate loyalty to the East German state. The second, revealed in 2003, showed his role overseeing athletes during secret experiments with psychotropic drugs, including an incident where a gymnast lost control and had to be carried from the hall. Together, they painted a portrait of a man embedded in two overlapping systems of control: one focused on surveillance and political compliance, the other on pharmaceutical performance enhancement. Both required absolute secrecy. Both treated athletes as instruments of state policy rather than individuals with rights of their own.
Across two decades, in the same city, two East German girls lived out almost identical stories.
In the 1960s, Christiane Fröhlich was a sturdy child with quick reflexes and the kind of discipline coaches called turnerisch veranlagt—born for gymnastics. By seven, she was training five days a week; by sixteen, she was broken. Her coaches pried her knees backward to force flexibility, held a lighter under her calves when she could no longer lift her legs, and starved her until her vision went black. When she finally retired, her body was permanently damaged—spine fused with metal, nerves shot, walking possible only with crutches.
Two decades later, Antje Wilkenloh, the last East German champion, followed the same path through the same city. She, too, was chosen young, molded by repetition, and told to ignore pain. By thirteen, she was training up to six hours a day, her childhood disappearing into drills and conditioning. Fear of the coaches kept her silent as injuries accumulated: swollen fingers, a broken nose from the uneven bars, operations on her elbow, toe, ankle, and knee. Like many girls around her, she took painkillers before practice because she knew what training would demand.
Despite the difference in years, their experiences map onto each other with striking precision: early talent, escalating injuries, pressure to perform, and an adult world that treated their pain as routine. Both entered the system healthy and hopeful; both left it with bodies that would shape the rest of their lives.
Their stories, told here through two contemporaneous Der Spiegel profiles—one published in 1994, the other in 1995—show what remained after the routines ended and the state itself was gone.
Rotterdam, October 1987. Dörte Thümmler stood before the uneven bars in Amsterdam’s Ahoy Hall, knowing what she had to do. Her teammate Gabriele Fähnrich, the reigning world champion, had only just returned to competition after a long injury layoff and had fallen during compulsories. Now the fifteen-year-old Berliner—just 1.47 meters tall and 36 kilograms—was suddenly East Germany’s best hope for gold. She executed her routine flawlessly: the Tkatchev, the Deltchev, the toe-on front with a half turn, landed with just a small shuffle backward. When the score appeared—a perfect 10—she had won the world championship title on uneven bars, sharing the gold with Romania’s Daniela Silivaș. Dutch journalists were stunned. “Thümmler?” one said. “In a poll of favorites, her name would not have appeared on a single ballot.” In claiming this title, she continued a long tradition that included Maxi Gnauck and Fähnrich herself.
Thirty years later, Dörte Thümmler spoke publicly for the first time about what that victory had cost. At a press conference held by the Doping Victims Assistance Association in April of 2018, she stood alongside other former gymnasts, all of them bearing similar damage. For eight years by that point, she had been unable to work, living on a full disability pension. Medical specialists at Berlin’s Charité hospital had diagnosed her with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. She had only thirty percent of the strength typical for people her age. She was forty-six years old.
What Thümmler and the others revealed that day was something far worse than simple overtraining. Across East Germany’s gymnastics program, young girls had been fed into a system that treated them as experimental subjects rather than children. They trained seven hours a day, six days a week. They lived in boarding schools separated from their families. They were told the pills were vitamins. And when their bodies inevitably broke down—often before they even reached adulthood—they were left to live with permanent disabilities.
In November 1981, Ralf-Peter Hemmann stood in a packed Moscow arena, preparing for his second vault in the apparatus finals of the World Championships. His first had been flawless—a handspring front with a half twist that stuck to the mat as if pulled by a magnet. The judges awarded him a perfect 10. Now came his Tsukahara. He landed it cleanly. Score: 9.95. The twenty-two-year-old auto mechanic from Leipzig was the world champion.
“After the 10, I still wasn’t sure,” he told reporters afterward, beaming. “But then when the second vault went so well…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He was being called to the podium, where thousands of East German tourists in the sold-out hall cheered for their new champion. It was the kind of victory that makes careers, the kind that gets remembered in record books. The days before had been the hardest, Hemmann said—sleepless with nerves. But in the competition itself, he’d been completely calm.
Then, without warning, he disappeared.
Not literally—Hemmann was still alive. But his gymnastics career ended abruptly in the spring of 1982, with no explanation, no farewell interview, no public acknowledgment of what had happened. One day, he was preparing for a competition in the Netherlands. The next, a club official told him his competitive career was over, effective immediately. The press never called again.
For years, people whispered theories while the official story was buried in Stasi files that wouldn’t surface until after reunification: Hemmann had tested positive for anabolic steroids at that same Moscow World Championship where he’d won gold. The Soviets had caught him, covered it up, and allegedly used the secret as leverage against East German sports officials. Rather than face an international scandal, those officials made Hemmann himself disappear—forced into retirement with his title mysteriously intact.
Thirty years later, Hemmann still didn’t have answers. His case raises troubling questions about how Cold War sports politics may have enabled cover-ups at the highest levels. Rumors of the positive test circulated among judges even during the competition itself. Yet the positive test result was never published, and the International Gymnastics Federation never stripped him of his medal. We may never know for certain why.
Here’s a translation of Sandra Schmidt’s article on Hemmann’s case.
The roar in Seoul’s Olympic Gymnastics Hall is deafening as Dagmar Kersten dismounts from the uneven bars. It’s September 1988, and the seventeen-year-old has just executed an exquisite routine. Despite a small hop on the landing, a 10.0 flashes on the scoreboard. But perfection isn’t enough. Romanian Daniela Silivaș, who built an insurmountable lead after compulsories and optionals, takes gold with a perfect total of 20 points. Kersten’s silver is still East Germany’s highest finish in women’s gymnastics at these Games, confirming that the legacy of Karin Janz and Maxi Gnauck is still alive and well.
What Kersten doesn’t know—what she won’t discover until years later, after the Wall falls and the archives open—is that she’s been part of an experiment. The pills her coaches gave her weren’t just vitamins. She was a test subject in one of the most sophisticated pharmaceutical programs ever applied to athletes, a system that treated her body as a laboratory and her performance as scientific data.
“I would never have thought that something like that existed among us—it was outrageous,” Kersten would later say. “That’s why the whole process of confronting it was so shocking, as well. That’s when you realized that you had been used for such things. I had always seen the people we trusted as people who saw us as human beings. You don’t treat children like that; it’s the very last thing anyone in a position of trust should exploit. It’s also outrageous that some of this is still being covered up today. It’s a slap in the face to those who are now reading their files from back then. To deny that such things were possible at the time is an insult. There’s more than enough evidence. People always say, ‘We’d rather not talk about that.’ It’s such a shame that this topic can’t simply be discussed openly. No one wants to face it. No one wants to engage with the gymnasts of that time. We were given psychotropic drugs and OT [Oral-Turinabol]. Some of these substances were even tested by the NVA [National People’s Army]. They were supposed to help gymnasts who fell react more quickly. Anabolic steroids weren’t the only things they could give.”[1]
For decades, the gymnastics world believed its sport stood apart from the chemical manipulations reshaping track and field, swimming, and weightlifting. Doping, the conventional wisdom went, was incompatible with a discipline requiring grace, balance, and split-second coordination. Steroids built bulk; gymnastics required mobility. The logic seemed airtight.
But the archives of the Ministry for State Security tell a different story.
Dagmar Kersten, 1988 Olympics. Kersten has been the most vocal East German gymnast on the subject of doping.
Note: This article is not intended as medical advice, nor does it endorse the use of steroids. It is a historical account based on a collection of Stasi files.
At the 1975 European Championships in Bern, Switzerland, Nikolai Andrianov defeated Eberhard Gienger by a mere 0.050. But the real drama didn’t happen on the competition floor; it unfolded behind the scenes. East German gymnast Wolfgang Thüne, the 1974 silver medalist on high bar, vanished during the post-competition banquet, defecting to the West in an act that stunned his teammates and confused officials. For decades, whispers swirled. Had he hitchhiked across the border?
It wasn’t until 1999 that the truth came out. Eberhard Gienger, the legendary gymnast behind the eponymous high bar release move, had been keeping a secret for 24 years. It was he who had secretly driven Thüne across the border, and their story began in the most unlikely of places: in a bathroom.
Datum: 17.09.1975, Eberhard Gienger (Left), Wolfgang Thüne (Right)
In January of 1973, shortly after the 1972 Chunichi Cup, Stadión, a Czechoslovak weekly, ran a profile of Karin Janz. In addition to a summary of her career, it included interviews with Janz, her father, and her coaches. Interestingly, it suggested that Janz intended to continue competing through the 1976 Olympics, which, in the end, she did not do. As the article noted, she was busy with her medical studies.
For her father, this was Janz’s greatest achievement: “It meant more to me than all her medals when she enrolled in medical school because she stayed true to her childhood dream.”
After the Olympics, Deutsches Sportecho, the main sports newspaper of East Germany, published an article about the gymnastics competition. Its general conclusion: There were no surprises at the Olympics. Everything happened as expected. The socialist countries dominated the women’s competition while the Japanese team dominated the men’s competition.
The article did offer a small critique of the judging in the women’s competition:
Judges are only human, and they valued the grace of Olga Korbut or the suppleness of Ludmilla Tourischeva more highly than the pronounced athleticism of Karin Janz – with the same difficulty and the same precision.
Erika Zuchold was an integral part of East Germany’s rise in women’s gymnastics. She missed the 1964 Olympics due to an Achilles tear, but when she returned to competition, she was one of the leaders of the German team at the 1968 and 1972 Olympics.
Zuchold earned a total of 10 World and Olympic medals. She was known for her impressive Yamashita on vault and is often credited as the first gymnast to perform a back handspring on beam. Today’s fans know her because her name lives on in the Code of Points for the Zuchold transition on uneven bars.
Zuchold’s Yamashita, 1970 World ChampionshipsYou can see the Zuchold transition at the 0:16 mark in the video above (from the 1972 all-around final).
At the 1970 World Championships, Zuchold came back from a meniscus tear (and “other complicated injuries”) and won gold on both vault and beam.
As you’ll see below, she was also a lover of ice cream.
What follows is a profile of Zuchold that ran in Neue Zeit right before the Olympic Games.
