Today, fans of "lost places" regularly gather at this enchanted site for photographic safaris.High above the town of München—where a long, winding road comes to a dead end deep within the forest—a colossal building featuring five grand portals rises up like a fairytale castle.
No, this is not the world-famous city of Munich; it is merely a village that happens to bear the same name. And neither is it Castle Neuschwanstein, the world famous Fairytale Palace. Constructed half of yellow half-timbering and half of red shell limestone, Europe’s largest surviving half-timbered structure stretches 135 meters across the summit of the Emskopf mountain.
This peak, however, is not located in Bavaria, but rather 30 kilometers from the Saxony-Anhalt–Thuringia border, in the village of München—a district of the town of Bad Berka.
This 125-year-old edifice is not a castle, but rather the ruins of the Sophienheilstätte (Sophie Sanatorium)—founded in the late 19th century as a convalescent home for men suffering from lung diseases, and closed at the end of the 20th century. It is a "lost place," much like so many others across eastern Germany.
Locals dubbed the structure on the outskirts of town the "Hustenburg"—the "Cough Castle." It was here that patients were treated for tuberculosis: the epidemic that ran rampant among the general population during the early years of industrialization—a disease that caused considerable consternation for this small town on the banks of the Ilm River.
Ever since Goethe’s secretary, Ludwig Geist—a native of Berka—drew his employer’s attention to the salutary effects of the local healing springs (thereby making Goethe a spa guest in Berka), the town had built its livelihood upon its clean air and the visitors seeking rest and recuperation.The Fear of ContagionHighly contagious tuberculosis patients simply did not fit into this idyllic landscape.
The "forest dormitories"—originally opened closer to the town—where ailing locksmiths, textile workers, and weavers were treated with months-long regimens of bed rest due to the lack of effective medication, soon had to close. The fear of the "White Plague" was simply too great—the fear that the highly contagious bacterium, first described by Robert Koch in 1882, might spread beyond the open-air resting pavilions.
The Emskopf site, however, appeared sufficiently remote to serve as the location for Germany’s largest tuberculosis clinic. The four-story building housed 200 beds and featured an intensive care unit for severe cases, expansive south-facing terraces, a wind-sheltered resting hall with retractable windows, a private chapel, a large dining hall, and a swimming pool in the basement.
The facility was powered by its own on-site plant; for many years, the clinic also maintained its own mortuary. Tuberculosis—also known as "consumption" and still ranking globally as a leading cause of death among infectious diseases today—was a nightmare a century ago. According to Prussian statistics from 1880, one in every two deaths among individuals aged 15 to 40 could be attributed to the disease.
Statisticians calculated that the 30,000 lives lost in the war against France were dwarfed by the 160,000 deaths caused by tuberculosis—figures based on an estimated 1.3 million infected individuals among Germany’s population of just under 50 million.
Even prominent figures such as Friedrich Schiller, Franz Kafka, Goethe, and Niccolò Paganini suffered from "the moths"—as the affliction of the lungs was colloquially known at the time—their lungs eaten away as if they were old wool sweaters.The long corridors and leaded-glass stairwells—now abandoned for nearly three decades—serve today as only a distant reminder of the desperate struggle against this insidious disease.
During World War II, the building—by sheer luck—narrowly escaped an attack by American B-17 bombers targeting a Luftwaffe fuel depot located in the immediate vicinity.
As tuberculosis gradually lost some of its terror thanks to vaccines, medications, and new treatment methods, specialized departments for orthopedics and urology moved in during the GDR era.
However, at the end of 1993, the doors of the sanatorium closed forever. The heritage-listed building became the "Ghost Clinic"—as it is now affectionately dubbed by fans of such fading places. It is said to be haunted, yet the lighting is reportedly exceptionally beautiful due to the building's southern exposure.
Ghosts are rumored to roam the basement—or so visitors whisper to one another online; Nordhausen-based photographer Michael Caspari, for instance, writes on the web that he considers the "Hustenburg" (Cough Castle) a "Lost Place of a very special kind.
The air smells faintly musty. Yet, the building has survived a full quarter-century of vacancy with remarkable dignity. While there are the usual traces left by graffiti artists and illicit parties, anyone wishing to explore this building—which currently awaits a future as a retirement home—need not resort to crawling through basement windows.
A Berlin-based company regularly offers legal access: "Urbex" expeditions free from the fear of criminal charges, and complete with floor plans and directional signage.
You can book Photo Expeditions to the Hustenburg:www.go2know.de
