Thursday, 19 July 2007

Deutschland über Alles (Chapter 2 - to Stuttgart, Germany)

John Butterworth, head of the NSU distributors in Great Britain, had been anxious that on our way through Germany we should call at the town of Neckarsulm. First to make quite certain that our scooter was in as good condition as possible, and then to let us discover what had been reconstructed from the pile of rubble which not long ago was the NSU factory.

But it was not only Neckarsulm where the Teutonic beavers had been labouring. Once through hybrid Strasbourg, with its semi-French, semi-German architecture and its hybrid language (Bon, d' accord, danke), then the impact of a highly industrious nation was evident to the most casual observer. The agricultural areas near the border were a glowing panorama of efficient farming. A good second-class road which took us part of the way to Stuttgart passed through a countryside bulging with crops. We were surprised to see bullock carts which had apparently not been replaced by mechanization, but their continued use did not seem to have impaired food production.

Everything was neat, clean, and tidy: the villages of cobbled streets; lively Gothic-printed signs; ubiquitous beer gardens and high-eaved brick and timber houses, jutting top storeys, and flock filled mattresses airing from bedroom windows. Coming from France it was strange to find the streets empty in the evenings, and we spent our first day-including a night's camping-without speaking to anyone.

This did not matter. We were in no hurry and for the first day or two Nita and I were undecided whether to like these people or not. It was odd, and it was now ten years since the end of the war, but we were still wary. Although it was a long time since the last bugle call had echoed, it was at first impossible to forget that this was our former enemy. My own childhood was suffused with stories of my father and grandfather fighting these people. And my youth was a still-vivid memory of London in flames at night, our own house severely damaged, and our country fighting desperately for its existence. These thoughts made it difficult to smile and make pleasant conversation and, indeed, for a few days I didn't even try. But gradually the Nazis and the S.S. seemed to become meaningless symbols of a nightmare past which no longer existed in the realm of reality; which is, perhaps, as it should be. After a week in the Fatherland, we began to admire the ex-master-race a great deal.

Unlike the Prima which had originated there, its riders were seeing Germany-as the reader will have gathered-for the first time. And what seemed the most outstanding characteristic of this race who are constantly being described, with grudging admiration, as industrious? It was purpose. An almost tangible atmosphere of purpose filled every village and town. Could we in England visualize our children being in school by seven-thirty in the morning? And construction teams working on building projects throughout the night by floodlighting? Their gods are Efficiency and Thoroughness, and they live these ideals twenty-four hours a day, a day that starts at seven a.m. for everyone and finishes, on a social note, any time between midnight and three a.m. One cannot conceive how it is done, but (to console ourselves) there is a tremendous spur for such a nationalistic race. Unification is uppermost in everyone's thoughts, and they lay each brick and turn every Volkswagen off the production lines with such care and purpose that one is convinced beyond all doubt that, sooner or later, Berlin will once again govern this riven nation as one Germany. It is impossible not to admire such drive and purpose.

The Autobahn, built originally as a Kriegbahn, is of course a perfect means of getting from A to B. But for us, scooter-bound for Stuttgart, it was an everlasting slab of white, wide concrete passing painfully slowly beneath our wheels. A cruising speed of anything less than sixty miles an hour guaranteed all that was worst in motoring boredom and there was little incentive to drag our eyes away from the mesmerizing stone squares. It was like driving along an endless aircraft runway, and about as interesting. The only spots of relief were the neatly cut out lay-bys, sensibly tree-studded crescents and fixed picnic tables and benches.

'Stuttgart 30k.' 'STUTTGART.' Yes, but the designers of the Autobahn were obviously loath to release motorists from their symmetrical clutches. There we were at Stuttgart, but we couldn't get into Stuttgart. An arrowed sign told us clearly enough, 'Autobahn Exit', but a hundred yards farther on the mystery began. We were confronted with the most complex maze of concrete signs, fly-overs, circular sweeps that spiralled into themselves, dead ends that finished in the scrub, and short, sharp gradients that led to bridges from which we could look over and see where we had just come from. Round and round, up and over, through and turn left, with never a sign of the city, until an abrupt stop against a 'T' junction told us that our destination was Stuttgart. We joined a Legion of the Lost, who stood with maps and bewildered expressions in the quiet little out-of-play pocket. There were a carload of Italians, a German motor-cyclist, and ourselves, all keen to get into the city if such a possibility existed.

We joined forces and tackled the problem of exit as a team. Three times we played 'tag' amid the concrete, and three times we finished up with likely-looking streams of traffic which all turned out to be heading for Munich. After that we decided to try solo tactics and, rather miraculously, retraced our way back to the spot whence we had come and started operations all over again.

This time we were more adroit. We waited for a big furniture van, showing that elusive name on the side, and fell in behind. This move, after many devious and irrational excursions, paid off, and we dropped our unerring and unsuspecting pilot in the city centre.

Stuttgart is a city like any others, but cleaner perhaps than many, with extensive rebuilding programmes in progress, wide streets, well-stocked stores, and a number of steep hills. Nita chose an attractively neon-lit food shop for revictualling and of course it stood half-way up one of these acute slopes. With much struggling I managed to park the scooter (there was nearly a hundredweight of equipment over the rear wheel) and, breathing heavily, followed her into the shop.

We filled a knapsack with pumpernickel bread, corned beef, and tomatoes and learned that the obliging little Fraulein who served us had a brother in England. Outside there were a knot of interested characters listening to an animated and self-appointed lecturer who was explaining, with gestures, all about this German machine, with Union Jacks on the side and Australia written on the top of the headlamp. As always, with an audience present, a smooth get-away was well nigh impossible. We talked in atrocious German to the spokesman who was interested, like most of the people we met, to know our route to the far-off destination. The others, including a couple of women, gazed slowly from him to us and back again.

So with studied nonchalance I mounted, pulled the front wheel away from the deep gutter and before I could find the point of balance, Nita began to climb aboard. The extra weight was almost more than I could hold, with the equilibrium already upset and the nose pointing downhill at an acute angle. The front wheel refused to stay straight and we described an erratic, drunken half circle, with my left foot slapping spasmodically and desperately against the cobbled hillside. Wobbling awkwardly away from a speeding Mercedes, we finally gained impetus and got away in a general downhill direction (when we really wanted to go up) and with a herculean effort-of which Nita was totally unaware-I managed to keep the machine upright. Dignity was only just maintained. The onlookers gazed perplexedly (probably that word 'Australia') and Nita said, observantly, 'Aren't we going the wrong way?' All of which clinched my resolve never to stop again halfway down (or up) a hill. As Stuttgart fell behind us my wife remarked, 'Really, Mike, you are disgustingly short-tempered at times.'

We camped early that night beneath some of those majestic pine trees that are typical of Germany. Our bed of sweet-smelling, resilient pine needles made sleeping a pleasure. But beneath a starry night sky, it was hard to relinquish our comfortable positions by the glowing fire and, as always when the camp was a successful one, we retired late.