The Incidental Tourist Read online

  In July 1989 we were in Berlin for the 7th International Congress of Immunology in West Berlin’s impressive and (for the time) very high-tech International Conference Centre. The Reichstag remained a ruin and the Wall was still in place. Then in August 1990 we were back for the 8th International Congress of Virology. Night had become day so far as the East was concerned. Everything had changed and the political tension had been consigned to history. With the Soviet collapse, the gates were opened in November 1989 and some two million people from the East flooded across in the first few days. When people began to move freely, much of the physical barrier was soon destroyed and bits of the Wall were being sold as souvenirs. We have a piece at home somewhere, along with an ‘official’ Soviet army red star cap badge, which had become surplus to anyone’s requirements.

  Though much was soon to change, the contrast between the Soviet-era architecture of the East and the contemporary West was even more obvious. The old East had, however, provided a gift to all Berliners: the terrible Trabants. Made in a state-controlled factory and ranked high by Time Magazine among the fifty worst cars of all time, the ‘Trabbies’ were now right across the city.

  Prolonging our trip, we stayed on to participate in a much smaller scientific meeting at the new Deutsches Rheuma-Forschungszentrum (DRFZ) that was then located in buildings of the Robert Koch Institute and at the Siemens-Villa on Berlin’s Lake Wannsee, where the meeting was held. Long-term friend and eminent immunologist Avrion ‘Av’ Mitchison had been appointed the first Director of this new Rheumatology Institute, leaving his Chair in Zoology at University College, London, where his uncle (JBS Haldane) had also been a professor. This conference was about ‘hard science’ but innocuous – if you put ‘Wannsee Conference’ into Google you will, of course, come up with the infamous 1942 meeting where, in another villa by the lake, the Nazis endorsed the formal protocol for the ‘Final solution of the Jewish problem’, which we now call the Holocaust.

  As part of the revitalisation of intellectual life in what had been East Germany, the DRFZ Rheumatology Institute (now headed by Andreas Radbruch) soon moved to co-locate with the new Max Planck Institute for Infection Biology at the Charité School of Medicine that, from 2003, combined medical training for the Freie University of Berlin and the Humboldt University. The first Director of the Max Planck Institute for Infection Biology was Stefan Kaufmann, a long-time friend and colleague who asked me to be a member of their scientific advisory board. As a consequence, I visited Berlin regularly through a time of massive renewal that transformed what had been the devastated heart of the city around the Reichstag.

  On 19 April 1999, the German parliament, the Bundestag, convened officially for the first time in the newly restored Reichstag building. The external structure remained largely unchanged, apart from the glass cupola on top that many will have visited. And, though the inside was gutted, physical mementos of its history were kept, including graffiti left in 1945 by Soviet troops when they took the city. Federal government office buildings now cover the formerly vacant land nearby, while both the Brandenburg Gate and the Unter den Linden boulevard have regained their former prominence in the heart of the city.

  A memorable twenty-first century visit was on the occasion of a small symposium to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the 1908 Nobel Prize to Berlin’s own Paul Ehrlich (the ‘father of immunology’) and Pasteur Institute (Paris) Russian émigré scientist Élie Metchnikoff. Among many contributions, including a pre antibiotic-era treatment (the ‘vital dye’, Neosalvarsan) for syphilis, Ehrlich was the first to think deeply about what we now call ‘adaptive immunity’ (the basis of vaccination), while Metchnikoff investigated the macrophage, the phagocytes (big eaters) of the ‘innate’ response that are a major focus of tuberculosis researchers like Stefan Kaufmann. As this was a special occasion, the speakers were accommodated in the magnificently restored Adlon Hotel located next door to the Brandenburg Gate.

  Completed in 1907, the Adlon was Berlin’s most exclusive hotel through the reign of Kaiser Wilhelm II (who once had rooms there) and, though it was not a favoured venue for the Nazis, retained that leading status for the enduring Prussian military aristocracy until it was severely damaged, first by bombing and then by fire during the final, fiercely fought battle for Berlin. Now owned by the Kempinski group, every effort had been made to return the Adlon to its former glory, with the quality of the restoration being very apparent. Seemingly a bit more Art Deco than might be expected for 1907, I’m not sure how faithful it is to the original, but it is both a delightful building and in period for the 1920s and 1930s. For example, rather than lights or numbers illuminating as the elevator ascends, an arrow moving mechanically along a horizontal slot denotes the hotel floors.

  As often happens at the end of a European scientific conference when the official dinners and so forth are over, the locals head off by train and plane, while overseas invitees spend an extra evening before flying internationally to be home on the same day that they left if heading to North America. As I recall, I had an afternoon free to wander around before meeting a few of the other stayovers for dinner. That’s when what had happened through the first half of the twentieth century in Berlin and, more broadly in Germany, really came home to me.

  By 2008, the area immediately round the Adlon and the Brandenburg Gate had been faithfully reconstructed to replicate the cityscape of the inter-war (1919–39) years. Walking around, what hit me almost viscerally were questions like: What was it that allowed such a stylish and sophisticated place to be taken over by Hitler and his band of mediocre, delusional and vicious thugs? How could their absurd mythology, bombast and arrogance have subverted the basic values of many living in one of the best-educated countries in Europe? These are the issues that many Germans of my generation have confronted emotionally all their lives.

  Trying to understand what played out in Europe between 1910 and 1945, I’ve read numerous military and political histories and have some literary and musical acquaintance with the adventurous spirit and liberalism of the Weimar Republic (Christopher Isherwood, Sally Bowles, Kurt Weill, Berthold Brecht and his wife, the singer Lotte Lenya) that preceded the rise of the Nazis. It is indeed extraordinary that, time travelling via YouTube, we can take ourselves back to those Weimar years and hear Lottie Lenya sing the original version of ‘Mack the Knife’ from Brecht’s Threepenny Opera. Even the idea that we could access a musical performance from 1928 would be incomprehensible to anyone alive at that time. But everything comes at a price.

  We are again in an era of massive, uncontrolled (and pretty much uncontrollable) change, with all the dangers that implies. The combination of globalisation, automation and disruptive technologies is having major, unintended social and economic consequences. Superimposed on that are the linked disasters of ever-increasing inequity, global overpopulation and climate change. Captive to unimaginative (or delusional) leadership and immensely powerful vested interests, many national governments seem incapable of acknowledging that there are problems that must, and can be addressed. The lesson that the Berlin experience from 1932 to 1945 (extending to 1989 in the East) provides is that, whether from the political left or right, people can be persuaded (or forced) to embrace simplistic, regressive authoritarian narratives that ignore the underlying realities and, in the longer term, only compound the problems.

  Most thinking human beings accept Thomas Jefferson’s vision that ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty’. Each and every one of us now has the potential for a public voice in a way that, even a decade ago, would have seemed unthinkable. Both social media and sites like YouTube allow us to raise awareness and to highlight good content where we find it. Anyone who cares to make the effort can comment, disseminate reliable information and, hopefully, help breach those walls of distraction and deceit that are intended to both divide and to conceal issues of vital importance. There has never been greater opportunity for individuals of goodwill to be politically active and to make their voices
heard. Even so, as was so clearly demonstrated by the disastrous outcome of the 2016 US presidential election, that in no way diminishes the need for everyone to register and vote in (particularly) national elections.

  CHAPTER 23

  The coalmine

  RUSHING THROUGH THE LABYRINTHINE byways of Frankfurt airport after a late arrival from India, we just made the connection for a short flight to Düsseldorf. Relieved that our checked luggage had also made the tight transit, we met up with the driver (always a plus after a long flight) for the thirty-minute or so road trip to Essen. We stayed in the pleasant, and centrally located Hotel Essener Hof that dates back to 1883. This was our first time in a town that is not, I think, on the bucket list for most international travellers.

  Recovering from an acute gastrointestinal tract infection – bugs fly as we fly! – by self-medicating, I’d used up the broad-spectrum antibiotics Penny had with her. Then it was her turn, so we were really glad to be at a scientific meeting attended by infectious disease doctors who could write an appropriate prescription. As part of a month-long May/June 2012 circuit involving India, Europe and the United States, this invitation to speak at the annual German Society of Virology meeting slotted conveniently between two other commitments. I’d accepted with alacrity, being impressed by the fact that this was a joint event with the Chinese Society of Virology and Microbiology. Regrettably, Penny was too unwell to attend most of the associated social events, but she was feeling better by the time we were due to depart.

  Held close to the hotel in the 1927 Haus der Technik which, affiliated with Aachen University, is a major venue for local advanced education and community events, it was impressive to be in what was clearly a highly valued public institution that promotes science and enquiry. Conducted in English and sponsored by the University of Duisburg-Essen, the meeting proved to be an excellent refresher course in general virology. Apart from my research focus on influenza, I had been somewhat neglecting other areas of virus research with so many speaking commitments. It was, for instance, the first time I’d seen the evidence that HIV/AIDS, which came to broad attention with the 1981 outbreaks in San Francisco and New York, had its deep origins in the 1920s in what was then the Belgian Congo.

  It was only when the speakers were invited to spend a free afternoon visiting the nineteenth century Villa Hügel that it suddenly dawned on me that we were in Germany’s traditional heartland for heavy industry, the Ruhr. The Villa Hügel is the home of the Krupp family, the premier manufacturer of German heavy armaments during both the 1914–18 and 1939–45 world wars. As a consequence, though that was not obviously the case for either the Villa Hügel in its expansive and well-manicured grounds, or for the area round the Essener Hof and the Haus der Technik, much of the city was flattened during the course of the Second World War. Between 1941 and 1945 the British Royal Air Force dropped more than 36,000 tons of bombs on Essen, putting it on par with Berlin as a primary target.

  Krupp’s Essen factory was the source of such powerful weapons as the 88-millimetre anti-tank, anti-aircraft (flak) gun, arguably the most effective artillery piece of the Second World War, and the Tiger tank that initially outmatched (until it was equipped with a bigger gun) the American Sherman in the final year of the conflict. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Friedrich Krupp AG (Aktiengesellschaft, or Corporation) was the largest company in Europe. Starting in the first decades of the 1800s with a steel smelter in Essen, Fried Krupp was, by the 1860s, making cast steel canons and no-weld railway tires, with his commitment to big breech-loading (versus muzzle loading) guns leading to the company’s dominance in the manufacture of heavy artillery. When Krupp’s contemporary (and strong supporter), Prussia’s ‘Iron Chancellor’ and the unifier of Germany, Otto von Bismark delivered his famous ‘Blood and Iron’ (Eisen und Blut) speech – ‘Not through speeches and majority decisions will the great questions of the day be decided – that was the great mistake of 1848 and 1849 – but by iron and blood …’ – he was thinking about Krupp’s product line, not the iron in red blood cell haemoglobin. The inevitable consequence of Bismark’s long-term strategy was that, from 1914 to 1918, blood flowed in rivers.

  With the 1st Australian Imperial Force (AIF) fighting horrific battles and losing massive numbers of soldiers on the Western Front in the First World War, it’s not a big surprise to encounter a massive 210-millimetre howitzer (captured by the 45th Battalion and labelled, ‘Nr1257 Fried Krupp AG Essen 1918’) at the Australian War Memorial. Even more intriguing, though, is to drive through Australian inland country towns and see forbidding pieces of early-twentieth century German field artillery sitting alongside simple monuments carrying brass plates listing the names of those who fell. Of the 331,000 men who embarked with the 1st AIF, 60,000 died and 155,000 were wounded. Only two of the dead were repatriated, General Sir William Bridges (killed at Gallipoli) and the ‘unknown soldier’. Modern armies don’t take slaves, and looting and pillaging the homes of the defeated is out, but surplus-to-requirement weapons are a legitimate ‘prize of war’. Large numbers of big guns were brought back to Australia as a matter of national policy.

  As its share of these now useless spoils of battle South Australia, for example, received thirty-five artillery pieces of one sort or other, 364 machine guns and twenty-two trench mortars. Queensland was allocated thirty-eight of the big guns. Of the 360 men from Childers (a north Queensland sugar town) who enlisted in the 1st AIF, fifty-six did not return. The local council was highly offended when the authorities offered only a machine gun, and stuck it out till they were allocated a bulking howitzer!

  Did returning veterans really want to live with such brutal reminders of this horrific conflict? And, though some who served with the 2nd AIF (1939–45) personally ‘repatriated’ Samurai swords and pistols, that earlier national enthusiasm for transporting captured field artillery to place on permanent public view had greatly diminished. If you do see big Second World War guns in country towns, they are mostly retirees from our own military arsenal. For many years there was no great enthusiasm for these now ornamental monuments to mayhem.

  Standing in the open and with no access to specialist conservators, many of the First World War field pieces (including the Childers howitzer) gradually rusted and fell into general disrepair. The persistent grief that many who served (or lost family members) in 1914–18 and 1939–45 experienced has, with their gradual passing, similarly departed our general consciousness. One consequence has been that, along with a rising romantic embrace of a perceived warrior past, a number of Fried Krupp’s big guns have been restored to their former, grey-painted glory. In economically challenged small towns, any obtrusive artefact that might cause passing tourists to stop and engage with local businesses is worth preserving. Kids climb over the cold steel of these physically imposing death machines, while adults may, for a variety of reasons, be intrigued and/or appalled.

  Modern armies are still equipped with field artillery, though canon shells may take second place to rockets (perhaps launched from high-flying drones) when it comes to targetted murder from a distance. Electronics and lightweight alloys are replacing the iron component of Bismarck’s iron and blood, though there’s still plenty of blood being spilled. But responsibility for this can’t in any way be laid at the feet of either the ThyssenKrupp AG of today, or the citizens of modern Essen. In our time, we’re more likely to encounter Krupp emblazoned on a set of kitchen scales, a coffee maker or the lifts (elevators) in a tall building. Regrettably, though, their swords into ploughshares strategy has by no means caught on across the planet.

  If there is some relic of the old Krupp munitions works that can still be seen in Essen we weren’t invited to go there. But we did visit one great monument to the Ruhr of former times, the Zollverein Coal Mine Industrial Complex. In decades of going to scientific meetings this was the first time I’d had the experience of being entertained and dined at a coalmine.

  Closed down in 1986, the tall towers that house the mas
sive winding gear for the deep pit still stand, as do the associated buildings where the administrators and office workers were housed and staff could eat and socialise. The mine head is faithfully preserved and, seeing the ominously heavy rails and coal wagons, then looking beyond to the shaft diving into the earth, reminds us that this was an even more dangerous life than that experienced by those who still work the big open cuts of Australia and Appalachia in the United States. Being enlightened employers for their time, the Krupps took good care of the miners and their families. Our social get together was in the meeting hall that they built for them.

  It was, for me, an occasion of odd contrasts. Since visiting the Villa Hügel my thoughts had turned to Essen’s role in the Second World War, including the realisation that I’d walked the floors of a surviving house where Adolf Hitler was more than once a welcome visitor. Then the entertainment for our conference dinner was supplied by a local ‘trad jazz’ ensemble that pretty much played a 1940s American repertoire, emphasising the swing and dance music of the Glenn Miller Orchestra! No Marlene Dietrich or Brecht and Weil here – I guess it’s not that easy to dance to ‘Underneath the Arches’, or the music of Mahagonny, and it certainly wasn’t a Strauss crowd.

  It’s intriguing that, while the Second World War British bombers blew the associated coal coking plant (necessary for steel production) to bits, they left the Zollverein mine standing and untouched. Why? One reason we were given is that the victorious Allies did not want to repeat the mistake of 1918–19, when many Germans died from starvation and cold. Through the winter of 1945–46, continued production from the Zollverein mine meant that thermal coal was available for heating.

  Reflecting the post-1918 disaster that resulted from the thirst for financial reparations and revenge, together with the threat of an emerging Russia at the end of the Second World War, the United States, in particular, provided financial help (culminating in the Marshall Plan of 1948) for Germany to get back on its feet. With the September 1945 surrender of Japan, General Douglas MacArthur, who led the invading armies, took much the same line, reinstating the Meiji Emperor, though in a purely ceremonial role, and allowing the social and industrial structures of Japan to rebuild and, ultimately, prosper. Again, Japan turned swords into ploughshares with positive results for all.