by Norman Stone
Since 1947 there had been another Germany, and again it was an extraordinary success story. This time it was a Germany minus Prussia and Austria. It was a return to the old Holy Roman Empire, to a Germany where true civilization existed on a very local level, that of the prince-bishopric. And here there was another British historian, Tim Blanning, to do it justice. He was Barraclough’s natural successor, again asking much the same question as to what, in Germany, had gone wrong. It was a measure of the importance for England of Germany, and Germany for England, that British historians were head and shoulders better than any other foreigners when it came to looking at what went wrong. Germany in the British mirror remains an essential question. Since 1815 Germans had been asking why they were not English. After 1950, the question should have been the other way about: why was it preferable to be German? After 1980 the question changed again, and intelligent Germans asked why they had not produced a Margaret Thatcher, just as, in 1900, they asked why they had not produced a Gladstone. But in 1960 Germany was in the ascendant. ‘Neo-Nazism’ would then be shouted from the world’s rooftops. It was vastly overdone: there was never any danger of a Hitler rehabilitation: how could there be? In any case the constitution had sensible provisions for its own defence. It was true that the generation of 1933 preferred to pass over the recent past in silence. It had had to be prodded into recognition of the horrors of the era, and some monsters — though the case of Austria was worse — were allowed to live out prosperous lives undisturbed by justice. But the remarkable thing about the new Germany was the lack of any nationalist revanchism: Nazism slunk back to the saloon-bar-bore level at which it had started.
The German formula appeared to be succeeding along liberal-democratic lines. At Bad Godesberg in 1959 the Social Democrats had solemnly ceased to be a Marxist party, had promised to co-operate with enlightened capitalism (their chief leader, Willy Brandt, knew Scandinavia very well). In any case, this went along with the programme adopted by the trade union paymasters of the party. The institutions allowing trade unions a considerable say in large industry had also made them ‘responsible’ in a way that made British observers gasp with disbelief: no silly strikes, no ridiculous wage demands or inter-craft rivalries. The schools practised literacy; towns were well-organized; you could put your savings in the currency, knowing that inflation would not eat them up. And then the economy was highly successful, producing well-engineered exports that went round the world. Besides, the Germans were doing a great deal to make up for their recent past. They had done what they could to compensate the Jews, with a billion Marks paid from 1959 to 1964, and altogether DM56bn up to 1984. All of this occurred in a context that any German even of twenty knew very well: millions and millions of Germans had suffered and died in 1945-6. There were of course refugee leagues, and sometimes they made problems in political life. But it was an extraordinary comment that they did not endlessly dwell upon their grievances, got on with life, and set up museums and academic institutes where their history could be remembered. Other diasporas with grievances, especially those in the United States, never let go of them, distorted them to the point of caricature, and did damage.
The ‘miracle’ had meant a formula, that of the Ordoliberalen for whom National Socialism had indeed meant socialism. Alfred Müller-Arack had come up with the untranslatable Sozialmarktwirtschaft: private economic effort, legal protection against unfair competition or monopolies, protection for small business, and safety-net welfare that would look after people genuinely in need. These ideas were not entirely new; they had their rather tortured origins in the nineteenth century, when Catholics were looking for an accommodation with liberalism (itself at the time mainly Protestant and Jewish). However, the very word was ambiguous: ‘need’ was an elastic word. As prosperity grew, Chancellor Adenauer had read it to mean generous pensions, and these were to become a millstone round Germans’ necks later on. Housing received subsidies for renting by people of low income — a sensible enough system, provided that the incomes were genuinely low, and provided again that inflation was kept under control. The ‘miracle’ system came under a further strain, caused by its own successful application. The Mark reflected Germany’s success, and there was pressure on her government to support the weakening dollar (with a small revaluation in 1961). A country without a debt then borrowed, slightly. There were protests, but they were drowned by the noise of boom.
In the sixties everything worked well, and even superbly. The great firms — Mannesmann for instance — flourished on a worldwide scale and where the symbol of the fifties had been the Volkswagen, that of the sixties was the BMW. These firms were surrounded by a network of small and medium-sized family enterprises, which did not have counterparts elsewhere (at any rate not in England) and these specialized in a long-term relationship that included banks. These firms co-operated in the local chambers of commerce, and organized apprenticeships; the trade unions did not insist on such apprentices having much the same rate of pay as a skilled man, as happened in an England where young men increasingly did not do anything useful, and where much of big industry was soon to collapse. The chambers of commerce even made themselves useful in the foreign service, because they had their own commercial links and could promote exports with some degree of knowledge. That again was in contrast to British experience. Chambers of commerce were not well-organized, and to encourage exporting the Foreign Office assumed that it must have a role: not a wise measure, as matters turned out, because the diplomats were taken away from their proper functions and did not have their heart in the new ones. Various other factors came to Germany’s aid. There was still a flight from the land, of willing and able peasants; NATO took care of defence, increasingly also of its costs; research and development money in Germany went to the civilian concerns, whereas in England much of it went into military hardware; and then again, while Bretton Woods flourished, the Mark was both strong and undervalued. Exports therefore boomed, boomed and boomed.
When Ludwig Erhard succeeded Adenauer, he showed a timeless verity, that good finance ministers make bad heads of government. He was impatient with platitudes about ‘Europe’, as he was a firm Atlantic free-trader; but on the other hand he mistrusted the Americans over Vietnam, and wanted some control over the nuclear trigger. In internal affairs he also lost ground, finding the powerful Bavarian wing of the party difficult to control because, like so many skilled financiers, he could not understand social conservatism and Catholic moralizing. He was finally overthrown because of a small but significant affair. There was a somewhat larger deficit in 1965, and a mild inflation, to do no doubt with the revaluation. The Bundesbank combated this with a rise in interest rates (to 5 per cent) and opposed Erhard’s plans for social spending. Erhard lost ground in an election (1965) and was then manoeuvred out in 1966.
The Christian Democratic Union had lost its overall majority, had to find a coalition ally, and hit upon the small third party, the Free Democrats. They lacked the trade union or clerical battalions, but on the other hand were formidably educated, and had regional bases here and there, especially in the Protestant parts of the south. They were themselves divided, in the manner of parties lacking a mass base, and though most of them were certainly free-marketeering, they regarded Catholics as slippery; many of them might also agree with the Social Democrats as to ‘progress’ in general. Germany was still an extraordinarily conservative country in matters moral. In much of the country, there was nothing between the mortuary Sunday and the Reeperbahn. Neighbours denounced each other if they did not obey ordinances about clearing the snow; landlords could be prosecuted if they allowed an unmarried couple to stay; rigid shop-hours made the towns lifeless at night, and the capital, Bonn, was a place of the skulls. The school system was built upon a supposition, enshrined in the constitution, that women would stay at home and look after the children: the school day ended at lunchtime, partly because as the children grew up they were expected to work on the farm or in the shop (compulsory education had b
een ‘sold’ with this concession a century before). Schools were also segregated between the academic and the non-academic or ‘vocational’ and the universities were hereditarily middle class (and themselves stuffily run). The Adenauer government even prosecuted a well-known periodical, the Hamburg Spiegel, for criticizing the defence ministry, thereby giving Spiegel a reputation for authoritative but dissident free-thinking that it has never quite lost. The most absurd of such episodes was the row made over the publication by a Hamburg historian, Fritz Fischer, of a book claiming, with vast evidence, that Germany had brought about and deliberately prolonged the First World War for imperialist purposes. There was jumping up and down, his passport was withdrawn, and Fischer was turned into a hero. Here there were grounds for complaint, even contemptuous complaint.
There was another aspect of this, quite dangerous, again for the future. The economic success had meant an influx of immigrants, ‘guest workers’ as they were excruciatingly known — the ‘guest’ was supposed to mean that they would leave once they had made their little pile. Of these, Turks stood out, and they arrived in hundreds of thousands. Generally they were from provincial Anatolia and, often enough, the Black Sea coast; in the first generation, which had grown up in a secular republic, they worked hard enough and of course tended to live together. In France, which was far freer of small-town regulation and prissiness than Germany, such immigrants duly melted, apart from a residue, in the pot. In Germany the process of integration took generations longer and, of all strange things, the third generation of ‘guest workers’ turned out to be quite Islamic, ferrying in its brides from Anatolian villages, such that the non-integration was perpetuated. The same had happened with the millions of Polish migrants in the later nineteenth century: they had their own churches and sports clubs, were cold-shouldered by the German trade unions, and took five generations to penetrate the Hamburg football team or the Politburo of the German Democratic Republic.
West Berlin was an island within an island, strongly affected by the presence of foreign military, and heavily subsidized. The city was led by a remarkable man, Willy Brandt, who was impatient of the small-town pieties of Bonn. He drank, chased women, and told funny stories. He had also had an exceedingly creditable career — an illegitimate working-class birth in Lübeck, a self-propelled rise through the educational system, an immediate teenage detestation of the Nazis, flight to Norway where, learning the language on the boat, he became a left-wing journalist; work for an anti-Nazi resistance network that included false passports and residence in Berlin; friends all over the place. In other countries, such men and women often turned Communist, especially when Stalin started winning, but Brandt, like other left-wing Germans (and Arthur Koestler), had seen the Communists in destructive action in the last days of the Weimar Republic, when they had co-operated with the Nazis in order to destroy the Social Democrats. Brandt (like Ernst Reuter, his predecessor as mayor of Berlin, who had spent the Nazi years in Ankara as professor of Town Planning) knew his Communists, and as mayor of Berlin he faced them down (and subsequently as chancellor also faced down the extreme Left). He understood that in a democracy the political parties should co-operate to maintain the system if the system were not to collapse. That had failed to happen in the pre-Hitler republic, where, in the restaurant of the Reichstag, the lunchtime tables would have a notice, ‘Only for members of the Catholic (Centre) Party’. Rather than face cantankerous negotiations with the Free Democrats (FDP), the two main parties formed a Grand Coalition. In that way the CDU could control the conservative and Catholic Bavarians, the SPD could contain rebellious left-wing anti-capitalists, and the FDP would subdue its vanities. There was a further element. In the mid-sixties, the American involvement in Vietnam, the possibility that Germany might face a Soviet attack in isolation, brought vital matters to the fore — the future of NATO, the opportunity for a German finger on a nuclear trigger, the possibility of an Anglo-Franco-German Europe: matters that required a strong German government. The querulous Free Democrats were sidelined; so were the right of the Right and the left of the Left. The Grand Coalition emerged in 1966, with a bizarre partnership of the Nazi-resisting Brandt as foreign minister, with an oily Swabian, Kurt Georg Kiesinger (whose Nazi past was at once ‘leaked’ from East Berlin), as chancellor.
Even so, the Grand Coalition pulled in different ways — an element of social and school liberalization, but also a ‘Stability Law’ requiring savings. Whatever: the boom went on with growth again at the fabulous 7 per cent while inflation went back to a trivial level. On the whole, it was Brandt’s side of the coalition that profited: if the Left were anywhere near power, and matters improved as the various elements in the old austerity proved irksome, then the CDU, representing the old virtues, would appear nagging and irrelevant. Welfare spending, 15 per cent of the GDP in 1950, edged up in the later sixties to 18.7 per cent, and did not bring about the end of the world. Brandt’s standing rose. Meanwhile, the coalition came under strain. As the dollar weakened, pressure came from Washington for a serious revaluation of the Mark, and that threatened the profits of the exporters. On the Right, Franz Josef Strauss spoke for them; on the other side, Karl Schiller spoke for international finance (he won: there was a revaluation — 8.5 per cent — in 1969, two others following in 1971 and 1973). As the elections approached (1969) the small Free Democratic Party edged towards the Left, talking of educational reform, ‘participation’ and youth: Ralf Dahrendorf, author of a considerable analysis of Germany’s problems, emerged as a radical, and beady liberal eyes were trained on the foreign ministry. In 1969 a new (‘Little’) coalition emerged, with Brandt as chancellor and Walter Scheel (not Dahrendorf, who was sidelined to Brussels) as foreign minister. Schiller and Helmut Schmidt, both of them remarkable and memorable figures, took over the economic ministries, with functioning corporate institutions and a provision for intelligent public spending. In time, this was to cause strain, because debts built up, but Germany, quite unlike England, had a good seventies. Even a foreign policy began to emerge.
In the sixties, bright people among the Social Democrats had argued that some opening should be made towards Moscow, towards eastern European countries especially, and that the way towards change in Berlin would be through concession, not denunciation. One reason for the Russians’ behaviour over Berlin was a conviction that, isolated, it would be drained of people, and there was some truth in that: in order to keep the population up, young men who studied there were exempted from conscription, and there was much studying, accordingly, with, accordingly, a great many students, male and female, with nothing to do except make up grievances. Besides, improvements in Berlin, such as family visits, would hardly be gained through head-on collision: for that, the West was simply, locally, too weak. Even in 1963 a Social Democrat warhorse, Egon Bahr, had told a stout Protestant audience at Tutzing that there would have to be Wandel durch Annäherung, meaning that greater closeness would bring transformation (Brandt had been meant to make this speech, but, to his subsequent resentment, missed the cue). This line may have been encouraged by Moscow, with which another warhorse, Herbert Wehner, an old Comintern hand, still had his links; the speech occurred in the late-Khrushchev-period ‘thaw’, when countries bordering Germany and Austria were taking little steps of their own to make travel somewhat easier.
Then there was Soviet energy, which an expanding West Germany could do with: here, the Austrians, in 1967, were the stalking horse, offering credit terms in exchange for access to Soviet oil and natural gas. But the most important element was the change in the German atmosphere, as the post-war generation grew up and read its Spiegel or Zeit: a certain feeling of guilt spread as to what had been done in Germany’s name to the countries to the east, whether Poland or Czechoslovakia. Had the time not come to revise the rigid fifties policy of recognizing neither them nor the eastern borders that had been fixed in 1945? Once Brandt had managed to dispose of his entanglements with the tiresome Kiesinger, policies of openness towards the E
ast became a prime cause of the new SDP-FDP (‘Little’) Coalition. To be in favour of Ostpolitik was to be radical chic, as the Germans understood it: away from the smug stuffiness of the fifties. On one level, this was just common sense: it was absurd not to recognize reality on the ground, and to withhold diplomatic recognition from countries that recognized East Germany. But there was also an idea, not proven wrong in the outcome, that a soft approach would cause a fatal softening on the other side. The problem was a more general one, that so many Germans had suffered, had remade their lives, wanted unification, and detested the in any case very unlovely German Democratic Republic. The older generation, many of them born in old Prussia east of the river Elbe, had difficulty in swallowing the borders of Potsdam, in 1945, on the rivers Oder and Western Neisse.
Brandt’s memoirs, fascinating up to this point, now turn into wooden language and chronology. Feelers went out to Moscow, obviously the heart of the matter, and at least by implication there was a considerable bargain: recognition of East Germany, at least de facto, in return for access to Soviet energy and some easing of conditions for West Berlin. The process took time, not least because the East German leadership, little Ulbricht in particular, knew their Moscow and knew that they could easily go the way of the Greek and Spanish Communists, sacrificed pawns in the greater game of Soviet foreign policy, itself now beset by fears of China. Early in 1970 Egon Bahr went to Moscow; a surreptitious link for communications was opened, with a KGB man, in a villa in Dahlem, in a prosperous part of West Berlin; a non-aggression treaty was drawn up in August. A face-saving letter, drawn up by the Christian Democrat leader, was attached, reserving Germany’s right to unification; subsequently the Constitutional Court and the Christian Democrats were able to assert improvements for the ordinary existence of East Germans that Brandt and Bahr had omitted to insist upon. But the substance was recognition of East Germany, in treaties of 1971-2, preceded by a visit of one Willi Stoph, the SED chairman, to Kassel, in which he made a grotesque claim for ‘reparations’, and a much publicized return journey by Brandt, in March 1970, to Erfurt, by train (there were tiresome formalities against a journey by aircraft via Berlin), during which he was lionized. In December 1970 there was a treaty with Poland, and in the course of a visit to Warsaw Brandt embarrassed his hosts by kneeling at the monument to the Jewish ghetto and the uprising of 1943: by this stage the Polish Communists were making some use of anti-semitism, and Brandt’s spontaneous gesture took them aback. Borders were now recognized, though the treaty with Czechoslovakia, for tiresome formal reasons, took somewhat longer. One counterpart, as with Romania around the same time, was that ‘ethnic Germans’ who had stayed behind in 1945 were allowed to depart: money changed hands for this.
