Swiss Watching

by Diccon Bewes

  SPEAKING IN TONGUES

  There’s no escaping the fact that Switzerland is a multilingual country. Catch the intercity train from Basel to Zurich, both German-speaking cities, and you’re exposed to a flurry of languages. The polite lady announcer says everything in triplicate just to make sure everyone on the train understands. She welcomes you on board, wishes you a pleasant journey, tells you that refreshing drinks and appetising snacks can be found in the bistro car in the middle of the train, and that staff are available for any questions or further information. All so informative, and so long-winded when said in German, then French2 and then English that you’re almost halfway to Zurich by the time she’s finished her spiel. Such multilingual announcements are the norm in Switzerland, but what’s interesting is the presence of English. No sign of Italian3 or Romansh, though the former at least makes it on to the written notices dotted around the trains and stations. When signs telling you not to cross the tracks are presented in German, French, Italian and English (they are big signs), there’s no doubting the meaning. Of course they really only need to be in English, as no Swiss person would ever be daft or daring enough to cross anywhere except at a designated point.

  It’s not only the safety signs that come in a choice of languages. Food packaging, for example, has to accommodate everything in German, French and Italian. All the ingredients plus various nutrition, health, allergy and product information are given trilingually; it makes me wonder what the English producers do with all that space on a cornflake box or yoghurt pot. Even those stark health warnings on cigarette packets get the trilingual treatment, with the basic ‘Smoking Kills’ warning becoming Rauchen ist tödlich, Fumer tue and Il fumo uccide. You certainly get the deadly message. By the time you’ve read all that you’ll probably have lost the will to live, let alone to have a smoke.

  For Switzerland is indeed a nation of polyglots, with many Swiss able to switch easily between languages. Starting in primary school Swiss children have to learn another national language; typically children in the German- and French-speaking parts learn each other’s language, while Italian-speaking kids have to learn both the others. In many schools this is all alongside English, which begins at much the same age. Zurich caused a bit of a storm a few years ago by deciding that English would take preference over French in its schools, as it was far more useful to children in the outside world. The problem is that though they may learn another national language at school, most Swiss need only their own one on a daily basis, unless they move to another part of the country or work for the government.

  An added twist to the linguistic conundrum is that the German-speaking Swiss don’t actually speak German, or at least not the German you find in Germany. They speak Swiss German or Schweizerdeutsch,4 an umbrella word for the various dialects found across Switzerland. It’s largely a spoken language that wasn’t seen in written form until quite recently. Books, newspapers and magazines are all pretty much still published in Hochdeutsch – High German (or ‘written German’ as they call it in Switzerland). Even on television there’s a distinct variation in usage of the two forms: the main national news is given in High German, but the weather and local news are in Swiss German. In general most Swiss Germans would far rather speak their dialect than the more formal version from the north. And the difference?

  To the Swiss they are like chalk and cheese, with their German clearly being the latter, but to outsiders they sound remarkably similar. Swiss German is more singsong and at the same time more guttural – almost as if a Swedish tourist is speaking High German but keeps having to clear his throat mid-sentence. Swiss German also throws in a French word or two, as if to say it’s as Swiss as the country. So poulet, trottoir and velo5 are all used in preference to the High German words. This French–German mix reaches its high point with the very Swiss way of saying thank you: merci vielmal.

  However, French and Italian Swiss schoolchildren learn High German not dialect, which doesn’t sit very well with their Swiss German compatriots. Of course, it doesn’t help that most French speakers seem to forget every word of German once they’ve left school. In the French-speaking cantons the locals can be as bloody-minded as the French themselves about only speaking their own language, but if they do deign to switch, it’s far more likely to be into English than German. In a way, the encroachment of English into everyday life, where it can be the sole common language, has deepened Switzerland’s linguistic divide. Instead of being as multilingual as expected, some Swiss now speak their mother tongue (be that German, French or Italian) and English. And quite a few can only manage the former – rather like citizens of most other countries.

  For the Swiss Germans, their dialects are a defining feature of their nationality, proudly and vociferously defended. How strange, then, that one of the most celebrated Swiss icons of all time doesn’t speak the language of her country. She is a much-loved personification of Switzerland, but since she existed originally only in written form, she was created in High German. She’s as Swiss as red penknives. She is Heidi.

  TEN OF THE BEST

  At Zurich airport the satellite terminal is linked to the main one by a connecting shuttle train. The yodelling starts as the train leaves, followed by jangling cowbells and deep-throated alphorns, all from the loudspeaker system. And then she appears, as if by magic, larger than life outside the window. She turns her head of golden, braided hair towards us, blows a kiss and vanishes. It’s all an illusion, of course, her motion mere animation resulting from our moving past her series of pictures on the walls of the tunnel. But it’s clever and kind of cute, and brings home just how much of a Swiss icon Heidi is. No one comes close to having such cult status, but perhaps that’s because she’s fictional. It’s far easier for the Swiss to adore someone who never existed.

  Celebrity isn’t a big deal in Switzerland, probably exactly the reason so many stars come here to live, though the tax laws might help as well. Swiss magazines are more likely to have Prince William or Angelina Jolie on the cover than anyone Swiss. And chat shows? They don’t really exist; the idea of watching one celebrity interview another is rather alien to most Swiss viewers. As with almost all of Swiss life, it’s about privacy and modesty. Keep a low profile, even if you’re stinking rich, and both of those can be achieved. Roger Federer is the big exception, Switzerland’s one world star, but even he manages to have a homespun solidity about him. How many other stars put their baby pictures on Facebook instead of selling them to Hello! magazine? It is Switzerland that is famous, not its people. But who would the Swiss choose if they had to? Who are their big cheeses?

  In 2010 Der Bund newspaper listed the ten most important Swiss people ever, and the choices say so much about the Swiss themselves. There are no monarchs or presidents in the list, as the Swiss have never really had any, and no one born after 1906, as if it’s too soon to judge anyone so recent. Instead, this Swiss list is made up of:

  Two wartime army leaders, as befits a militaristic nation obsessed with self-defence: Henri Guisan (Second World War) and Jürg Jenatsch (Thirty Years’ War).

  Two who were born abroad, mirroring the 20 per cent of the population who are not Swiss: Albert Einstein and Jean Calvin.

  Two men of words, just as Switzerland itself is a grand talking shop: Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Henry Dunant, though he at least acted on his words.6

  Two pioneers, fitting for a nation of innovators: Albert Hoffman (the LSD man7) and Alfred Escher, who founded Credit Suisse and funded the early railways.

  And the last two? They are perhaps the most intriguing of all. No sign of William Tell, or General Dufour, or even such Swiss notables as Le Corbusier, Carl Jung or Max Frisch. No, the last two are both women. And both fictional. I’m not quite sure what it says about the role of women in Swiss history that the two most famous examples never actually existed, but Heidi and Helvetia both make the list. Two very different pictures of Swiss femininity: one all sweetness and innocence, the other Athena-like in her stature and ar
mour. The real Swiss woman must be someone between the two. Or perhaps she starts out as Heidi and grows up into Helvetia.

  In some ways a naïve little girl is a fitting choice for a country that doesn’t crave figureheads. She’s certainly no Uncle Sam or John Bull. But can a fictional character really represent a nation? For the Swiss, and many more foreigners, Heidi is Switzerland personified. She is the national identity. She is someone I have to meet, though perhaps where I least expect.

  WHEN RONALD MET HEIDI

  It’s Heidi Week at McDonald’s, and for the first time since I stopped eating dead cows ten years ago, I am strangely drawn to the golden arches. Going over to the dark side will be easy enough; in Bern, as in most European cities these days, it’s not far to a House of Ronald – there are three within spitting-fat distance of each other.

  I struggle to envisage what awaits me. Japanese Week means teriyaki burgers, and for Mexican Week a bit of salsa is thrown in between the buns. But Heidi Week? What can they possibly do to a burger for that? Dress it up in gingham? Make the burger box yodel when you open it, like those little round toys that moo when you turn them upside down? Trouble is, my expectations of Heidi Week are severely limited by my lack of knowledge about the girl herself. She’s the original Swiss Miss, but as hard as I try I can’t remember much of her story. Then a distant memory emerges from my mental fog: Saturday mornings in the summer holidays, and somewhere between Champion the Wonder Horse and Flash Gordon was a grainy, jumpy Heidi with dodgy dubbing and schmaltzy music.

  At that moment I am 10 again, lying on the sitting-room floor with my sister, head on hands, watching television: the impossibly cute Heidi, the gruff grandfather, the silent Peter (probably just as well given the dubbing) and the goats. There were lots of those. Maybe that’s it: maybe they’re doling out goatburgers. And why not? We already have beef, chicken and veggie varieties, so why not goat? Then again, they don’t sound too appetising – all gristly from bounding along mountain slopes. Even if I ate red meat, when it came to a goat-burger I don’t think I’d be loving it.

  The jangle of a tram bell brings me back to Bern and I dash across the cobbled street. A helpful poster tells me it’s only 15 seconds to the next McDonald’s, but I’m there in 10, so eager am I to see the expected pigtails and cowbells, goatburgers and gingham. But what do I get? A shiny American takeaway that could be anywhere, dishing out monstrous towers of cholesterol – beefburgers with Rösti and Emmental cheese layered between the meat and buns. Not a yodel to be heard, not one square inch of gingham. And definitely no goats.

  It seems that Heidi has been hijacked by the outside world. She is no longer that sweet girl of my youth and, unlike Red Riding Hood, has been eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. As the airport encounter showed, the Swiss themselves have realised her potential, using her to sell Switzerland and its products. It’s a canny marketing ploy, but one which depends on Heidi representing the essence of all things Swiss. Time to see if that’s true.

  AT HOME WITH JOHANNA

  After that close encounter with a Heidi-burger I get another Heidi surprise in Migros. Rows of little Heidis stare back at me from the chiller cabinet. She is a brand – for anything and everything that could have a dairy connection. Milk, yoghurt, cheese, cream, all of it plastered with a picture of a cherubic girl and ‘Heidi’ in big red script. The only problem with it is that there really aren’t many cows in the story. It’s all goats. Clearly a marketing version of poetic licence.

  It seems that Heidi is everywhere in Switzerland. She may be a national icon, both at home and abroad, but she is the ultimate advertising campaign for anything and everything Swiss. It really is time I met this little Swiss girl, time in fact to find out more about Heidi and, in doing so, more about the Swiss national identity. Clearly I can’t actually meet her, except on the label of a yoghurt pot, so I will have to settle for reading her story and meeting her maker.

  In the realm of one-name women, Heidi is up there with Cleopatra and Cher on the name-recognition front, but what do I actually know about her? Not even her surname, it seems. In the Swiss Interest section of Stauffacher English Bookshop is a shelf of local authors, where Heidi can be found easily enough under S for Spyri. The cover picture shows a suitably wholesome blonde-haired girl striding up a grassy hill, her red dress and white apron adding a nice patriotic Swiss touch. A quick flick through the helpful intro reveals that Johanna Spyri wrote almost 50 stories, but there are few details of her life. The creator of the most famous Swiss person in literature and she remains something of a mystery. My best bet is to start with Spyri’s end and go to Zurich, where she lived much of her life and died.

  On the train there I settle back and immerse myself in an English translation of a Swiss book written in German. Given that it’s a children’s book with fairly large print, the pages go past almost as quickly as the towns. Here is Heidi’s tale, part one: Having been deposited with her surly grandfather by an unwelcoming aunt, orphan Heidi wins the old man’s heart with her innocence, befriends Peter the goatherd and his blind grandmother, frolics through endless meadows, feeds those goats and even finds time to grow a little (she’s only five when the book starts). By the time I reach Zurich, I feel quite exhausted on her behalf.

  Switzerland’s second largest cemetery doesn’t seem like the obvious place to look for a fictional incarnation of Swiss nationhood, but finding Heidi means finding her author. It might seem strange to begin with Johanna Spyri’s death, but her grave is my most concrete starting point, if I can locate it. Inside the gates of Sihlfeld Cemetery is a plan posted on a notice board, but there’s no clue where Johanna is buried. Having expected a slice of Swiss efficiency to help me find the grave, the prospect of searching the whole cemetery is less than appealing.

  Salvation comes in the shape of a porter’s lodge and its promise of help makes me smile, possibly not the best thing to do when entering a cemetery. Perhaps that’s why the lady in the lodge looks at me so sternly; more likely is that it’s 11.57 and her lunch starts at 12. Determined to get the most from my three minutes, I confront the formidable opposition behind the counter. This woman could have been an Olympic shotput medallist, though her severe demeanour is a little undermined by the Tropical Sunset on her head. Her hair is two shades the other side of puce, but perhaps you need a bit of colour in that job. And Frau Tropischer Sonnenuntergang is actually very friendly and helpful, giving me far more than three minutes and a list of famous people buried in Sihlfeld. Apart from Frau Spyri I recognise only one other name; no doubt they’re all famous in Zurich, or maybe even Switzerland, but this Englishman has never heard of them.

  Directions in hand, I set off to find grave number PG 81210/D, otherwise known as Johanna Spyri. Sihlfeld is hemmed in on all sides by houses, but it still has a remarkable sense of space. Miss Tropical Sunset told me that it was full, as in there’s no room for any new graves, which seems hard to believe. Walking down the pristine gravel paths I begin to doubt that it is a cemetery at all. Wide avenues lined with trees and expanses of green grass make it feel more like a public garden, helped by the fact that four men are raking the already flawless paths and lawns. It’s all so very Swiss, more sculpture park than place of mourning; I rather like this verdant oasis of death in the middle of a busy city. It doesn’t feel depressing, but calming and uplifting. A place for truly quiet contemplation.

  Graves seem to be an afterthought, peeking out from between bushes and flowers, and those that can be seen are stylish, modern and look as if each has a personal carer. Immaculate is the best word for them. Most just have names and dates engraved on them; no cloying sentimentality, no trite euphemisms for death, nothing but the barest facts in true Swiss style. Many are family affairs, even if that means an extended family; one covers 146 years of lives and six different surnames, each linked to the last like in that mental challenge where you go from cold to warm by changing one letter at a time. This family managed Gloor–Pfenninger to Oppiker–Schweitzer in six moves,
giving a whole new meaning to six degrees of separation, especially seeing as they all ended up together in the end.

  Compared to these family reunions, the Spyri lot is rather empty. Set against the back wall of the cemetery, with ivy trailing all around, is a simple white stone embossed with a large cross. Along with Johanna Spyri’s name and dates (12.6.1827 to 7.7.1901) is a quote from Psalm 39 in German.8 Her stone is flanked by matching white crosses for Diethelm Bernhard and Johann Bernhard, who both died in 1884. Her son died aged 28 from tuberculosis and her husband followed soon after, unable to cope with the loss. Twin crosses, twin dates, and twice the pain for Johanna. All rather sad.

  Before leaving, I take a detour to visit the grave of the other recognisable name on Miss Tropical Sunset’s list of not-so-famous people: Henry Dunant, founder of the Red Cross.9 His grave is a much grander affair, almost the grandest in the whole place. A square stone pergola covers a white statue of two men, one lying wounded, the other propping him up as he tends to him. Both are naked to the waist, giving the statue a forlorn Pietà-esque quality, albeit with homoerotic overtones. Faded red roses, burnt-out tealights and garlands of folded paper birds adorn the grave, while a mournful hint of incense lingers in the damp air. On the back wall is M Dunant himself, in the form of a relief of his bearded face. Like a giant cameo brooch, it’s so life-like that it’s almost like a death mask, and a shiver ripples down my spine. Even in death, Henry Dunant makes an impression.

  At the cemetery’s side entrance is a large white sign detailing all the things not allowed – No Jogging, No Beachwear, No Cycling, No Dogs, No Littering – before ending with Keep Quiet. I can relate to most of them, this is a cemetery after all, but No Beachwear? This is not Barcelona or Brighton. Zurich is perhaps 500 kilometres from the nearest beach, so it seems highly unlikely that any of its residents will be wandering round in bikinis or Bermudas, least of all in a cemetery. They may be far from the sea, but the Swiss still like to have as many rules as possible covering any eventuality; in this case it’s probably because you can swim in Lake Zurich, though that’s quite a way from this cemetery.