PLAUEN, GERMANY

- Oct. 7, 1989, the people of Plauen gathered in the town square and demanded change. They had finally had enough.

Their buildings and roads were crumbling. Their young people were fleeing to the West. They were tired of not being able to speak their minds or travel freely. And they were sick of the lies -- a sickness made worse with proof local elections that spring were rigged.

That same day, Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev was welcomed to Berlin to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Gorbachev was a reformer, but Erich Honecker, the longtime ruler of the GDR, would have none of it. He said the Berlin Wall would stand for another hundred years.

He was, of course, wrong. The wall lasted only another month before a peaceful revolution wiped it off the map and led eventually to the reunification of East and West Germany, divided since 1945.

Massive, largely peaceful demonstrations in Leipzig and Berlin in the fall of 1989 grabbed headlines around the world, but it was here in Plauen, 300 kilometres southwest of Berlin, that large numbers of East Germans took their first brave steps toward freedom. Today, many in this tidy Saxon city are proud of what they did that fall, even if much of the world isn't aware of it.

"It was good to go in the streets and go against the whole system of the GDR," said Uwe Täschner, the city's vice-mayor.

Täschner was 32 then. He had helped supervise the spring election in 1989 in which the ruling socialist party claimed victory, despite a campaign by some Plaueners to abstain from voting. He also watched as increasing numbers of people voted with their feet, defecting to the West.

Täschner left his wife and seven-year-old son at home on the day of the protest because no one knew exactly how the authorities would react. Would there be massive arrests? Bloodshed? The fate of protesters at Tiananmen Square in Beijing only a few months earlier weighed heavily on his mind that rainy autumn day.

He soon saw there was strength in numbers: More than 15,000 people in a city of roughly 82,000 showed up. They pushed babies in strollers, carried banners made out of bedsheets and chanted, "Freedom," "Gorby" and "We will stay."

Fifty or so police officers armed with guns and shields were vastly outnumbered and the water cannons and helicopters brought in for backup failed to quell the unrest. People massed at city hall, where they demanded the mayor come outside to hear their pleas.

Thomas Küttler, the Lutheran church superintendent, headed inside to negotiate with the mayor and other city leaders. When he returned, he told the masses they had been heard, and urged a peaceful end to the demonstration. Although about 50 people were arrested that day, most quietly filed out of the square.

Little did they know what they started.

Two days later, a massive demonstration filled the streets of Leipzig, the first in a series of peaceful protests in that city. Honecker was soon forced by senior party members to step aside. But unrest continued to grow, culminating in a demonstration in East Berlin on Nov. 4 that drew half a million people.

Finally, on the evening of Nov. 9, government spokesman Günter Schabowski announced that certain travel restrictions would be lifted. People flocked to the border and soon outnumbered the guards, who began letting people into the West. A trickle quickly became a flood. There was no going back.

When 21-year-old Erika Goetz heard the news, she bought a bottle of champagne and caught the next train to Berlin. She soon found herself in the company of West German relatives and her older sister, who had fled to the West several months earlier.

It was an instant celebration.

"You thought somebody would shake you and you would wake up and it would all be over, but nobody even dreamt such a thing because it all came so suddenly. Everybody was in shock," she said.

The end of the GDR couldn't come soon enough for Goetz, who was born in Plauen and now lives in Victoria. She learned at a young age about the far-reaching powers of the GDR government after refusing to swear allegiance to the state at age 14. The decision had serious consequences. Despite her good grades, Goetz was not allowed to attend high school and wasn't allowed to become a teacher, librarian or psychologist. The government feared she could influence others.

Eventually, Goetz became a pediatric nurse but was sent to work in a hospital far from Plauen. After the wall came down, she got a nursing job in the West, travelled and then returned to Germany to finish high school. Years later, she received a small amount of money and an acknowledgement from the German government for the damage caused by the restrictions placed on her life. She has lived in Canada since 1996.

Goetz wasn't the only person who left Plauen. Täschner, the vice-mayor, recalls a lot of people leaving in the first half of 1990. Unemployment was high for much of the decade, but now sits at about 11 per cent, lower than in other parts of Saxony. Textile factories and manufacturers of printing presses and auto parts are the main employers in the city, which now has a population of 70,000.

The cobblestone square where demonstrators gathered back in 1989 is bustling. There are cafés, theatres and a bright shopping mall. Gleaming in the distance is the first McDonald's ever opened in the former GDR.

A few blocks away, Steffen Kollwitz takes a break from his work as a jewelry designer to recall the demonstration 20 years ago. After the rigged election, he helped found the local chapter of the Neues Forum (New Forum), which led the charge for change.

Now 44, Kollwitz says reunified Germany provides a better life for his two kids than the GDR ever provided him. His son doesn't have to do military service and can study whatever he wants, while his daughter is free to travel, as she did last year to France. As a young man in the GDR, Kollwitz says he could only dream of such liberties.

But liberty for him didn't mean going to the West. In fact, unlike the thousands of other East Germans, he did not cross the border for the first time until a month had passed. For him, liberty meant staying in Plauen, but being free from the rigid controls of the GDR.

"It's my home," he said.

A billboard near the city hall features an artist's sketch of a monument the city hopes to erect here in time for the 20th anniversary of Germany's official reunification next October.

A tower of light shoots skyward, hugged by a copper sheath depicting scenes from the Oct. 7 demonstration. With no sign of financial help from the federal government, the city and local service clubs are raising money to build it themselves. In true democratic fashion, residents chose the winning design out of a possible 14.

People here are proud of their actions 20 years ago and say they wish more people knew the story. They're hoping the monument will spread the word and serve as a reminder of what they endured and overcame peacefully.

"It's for the kids and the next generation," Kollwitz said. "They will see the monument and ask questions: What is it? What was this time?"