On The Autobahn (Germany #10)

SOMEWHERE IN BAVARIA--After all I’d heard about the autobahn, I was prepared to see wild-eyed Germans driving 130 mph, but it didn’t happen.

True, there is no general speed limit on Germany’s “federal expressways,” the nationally coordinated motorway system, but the advisory speed limit is 81 mph and I rarely saw anyone going a whole lot faster than that. Yes, traffic in the fast lane didn’t fool around. But for the most part, the autobahns did not seem all that different from American Interstate Highways. Germans even drive on the same side of the road as we do.

Back in Louisville on the way to the airport, our cabbie (a former G.I. who’d been stationed in Germany) had told us a story about the autobahn that he claimed would illustrate the German character. When you drive on the autobahn, he said, you’re not supposed to be in the fast lane unless you’re passing other traffic. Drivers are taught to respect this, so it’s highly unusual to get stuck behind someone.

But that’s what happened to our cabbie. So he decided to turn off. But another driver rushed up behind him on the exit ramp and said excitedly, “I got his license number. Let’s go to the police station--it’s nearby--and turn him in.” The cabbie made excuses, which I guess is his point about the difference between Germans and Americans.

Most autobahns have multiple lanes of traffic in each direction, separated by a central barrier, but the number of lanes varies widely. In Munich, for example, there are five lanes in each direction. In some parts of the country, they’re three-lane with an emergency lane, but many are just ordinary two lane highways.

Though conceived during the Weimar Republic, the autobahn didn’t really develop until Hitler put 100,000 to work on it all over Germany. During WWII, some autobahns were converted into auxiliary airstrips by paving the center of the road, but most were militarily insignificant.

As we drove in our comfortable bus from Nuremberg to Munich on day seven of our tour, Joachim told us more stories about his childhood days. A precocious student as a boy, he attended his Bavarian hometown's finest school. One day, the principal advised him to collect his transcript and never return; the school soon was closing because of the war and, once it had, all academic records would no longer be available.

Joachim’s father, an engineer, was away serving in the German army. So it was up to his stepmother, who had two younger children, to arrange for him to go and live with an aunt in the east. At his new school, he once again became a top student. Upon graduation, the Nazis wanted him. But by claiming he was too sickly (he was so tall and thin he was nicknamed “Matchstick”), his parents kept him out of the party.

The eastern town where he was living was located near a U-shaped forest bordered by a lake, a handy night-time landmark for American and British bombers. When low on fuel, they would drop their bombs on the way back to their base. Since this happened all the time, it was important for the townspeople to be warned. This became Joachim’s job.

His aunt had a radio in the parlor. There were only two approved channels (one when the Nazis were broadcasting), and it was strictly forbidden to listen to any others. Since the only heat in the house was in the kitchen, his aunt and her family would gather there at night for warmth. But someone had to stay in the parlor and monitor the radio. When a warning came about imminent bombing, he'd run out and blow a whistle to alert the other twelve apartments of the danger.

Cold and bored, Joachim eventually succumbed to the temptation of listening to the BBC World News. At first, he was amazed at how differently the war effort was being portrayed there. Gradually, he learned to distinguish the truth. But he knew he could never tell anyone.