by Roy Jacobsen
Two weeks later the ground forces have advanced up to the German border as it existed before 10 May, 1940, along the River Our. But there they find the bridge across the border at Dasburg has been blown up, so they have to rig up a temporary one as fast as possible, a Bailey bridge they’re called, a British construction. And the easiest way of doing this is to attach cables to the other side, so the commanding officer of the 25th Armored Engineer Combat Battalion of the American 6th Division, Colonel George W. Mitchelson, casts his eye along the line of weary soldiers to find a volunteer to send across the icy torrent of water. Then he notices a civilian standing next to him in the freezing cold, a boy of eleven or twelve, in shorts and German army boots, with a peaked cap and otherwise no clothing apart from a filthy, ragged shirt.
“There’s a little bridge south of here, monsieur le commandeur,” the boy says in French.
This sentence is translated by a G.I. from Louisiana. Colonel Mitchelson searches his pockets for some chewing gum or chocolate and orders one of his soldiers to give the boy his lined jacket and then follows him through the forest along the bank to Frankmühle.
“Do you call this a bridge?” Mitchelson says.
The man from Louisiana translates:
“The Colonel is wondering whether you call this a bridge.”
“Oui,” the boy says.
“Yes,” says the man from Louisiana.
Twenty men cross the Frankmühle bridge with drilling equipment and walk along the German side up to the remaining piers at Dasburg. They throw the ropes over, the cables attached to them are dragged across and secured, and that same night the project is complete, a Bailey bridge, the 6th Armored Division can roll their trucks across and bring the war to an end.
4
Then the bridges remain untouched.
For many years. It is peacetime. And they are barricaded off. The German properties on the Luxembourg side were confiscated by the exiled Luxembourg government in London in 1944 and they stayed confiscated well into peacetime. The German land in Luxembourg is sequestered, as it is known, which means it isn’t shared out among Luxembourg farmers, like war reparations for example, but lies fallow, which may be good for it. And since a war doesn’t end in a draw, but has at least one winner and one loser, the Luxembourg land on the German side is not confiscated. There is some divine justice in this.
This means that the Luxembourgers have to cross the river, they need to mow the grass over there, they need to milk the cows, and since the poverty is greater there than here, they are likely to have to do some business and carry out the odd job or two. But there are no bridges. That is, the bridges that do exist are rickety, they are makeshift constructions or the battered remains of Allied engineering and, what is more, access is regulated by Luxembourg border guards who demand to see a passport and a border pass from their defeated brothers on the German side, while they let their own through without raising an eyebrow. They do this by agreement with the French occupation forces, who at present are in administrative control of the Rheinland Pfalz and who with peevish indifference ensure that the Germans stay at home, in Germany, which is now called the Bundesrepublik.
And you don’t get bridges if only one party wants to cross. Even a child can see that. Nor does it help that the mayor of the Luxembourg village of Rodershausen sits down to write a letter, as has been done many times in the history of this border river, to his German colleague in Dasburg/Daleiden, wondering whether it isn’t time, now that almost five years have passed since the war, to build a new bridge in a joint venture so that civilian traffic can return to its normal levels, in the same way as the River Our has always been able to follow its normal course without interruption. All this leads to is that the local council in Dasburg answers citing the resolution of 27 November, 1949:
“This is not our bridge.”
The bridge belongs to the French and the Luxembourgers. They can keep it.
But if this German land is no longer in Luxembourg, God still is. And God lets His church bells ring out in Rodershausen and broadcast their dulcet tones across the world, also over the River Our into Germany. On 15 August, 1951 the editor of the German Trierische Landeszeitung has had enough: “There is something amiss when the villagers on the German side who belong to the Rodershausen parish want to go to Mass in the Luxembourg church and cannot do so. They would rather not wade across the river in their Sunday best, and they are not allowed to use the bridge at Eesbisch, a kilometre further down. It is prohibited by law.”
The priest in Rodershausen, Father Rampart, preaches brotherhood and conciliation in one and the same breath and comments that the farmer on the German side who now has his land lying fallow in Luxembourg is not identical with the soldier who under the barbaric command of General Manteuffel plundered and burned like a man obsessed, no, the farmer who has his land sequestered here, Uncle Franz, that is, who with chattering teeth and trembling limbs sought refuge in this very church in Rodershausen, along with his terrified family, when Hitler marched in, the first and second time, indeed also when the Americans came, may God be with them, the first and second time, and God let Franz come unto Him and protected him, look, there he is, to this day, but his legs are wet, he is wet all the way up to his crotch, it is a shame for all of us.
5
So once again the bridge at Frankmühle has to support people on its unsteady shoulders, the boldest of them, that is, and those with the best knowledge of the area. But it is as it has always been both too small and too big, if it is there at all indeed, and it probably is, for while the two nations interpret the new pact – of 10 January, 1950 – between Luxembourg and the French occupation force in wildly differing ways: the Luxembourgers think it opens the way for free traffic in both directions and across all the bridges, while the Germans think it only opens the way for “limited traffic”, while the French for their part are convinced that if there really is to be a new bridge built here it certainly shouldn’t be them who finance it – the people who use it should, and we don’t want to use it, we want to go home to France, furthermore we have certain demands to make regarding the technical specifications of this potential bridge, we reserve the right – in our capacity as the highest military authority in the region – to determine that it should be equipped with an explosives chamber.
“An explosives chamber?”
“Yes, filled with dynamite so that it can be blown up at the touch of a button if there is any more trouble here, from either side.”
This conversation took place between the Head of the French Gendarmerie in Kreis Prüm, Colonel Henri X. Thibault, and the mayor of the German town of Dasburg. But it was interpreted by a fifteen-year-old Luxembourg boy who crossed the river every day, using the Frankmühle bridge, to earn some money by doing just this, as the Germans don’t speak French and the French don’t speak German but the Luxembourgers speak both, in addition to the language they speak among themselves which no-one understands – this is the same boy who earlier informed the American Colonel Mitchelson about the existence of Frankmühle. Now, of his own accord, he asks the French colonel the question the German mayor has been dying to have answered but dare not ask – the mayor himself is an advocate of the new bridge; it is the financing side he doesn’t want to have anything to do with:
“The mayor was wondering,” the boy says, “if le colonel has considered on which side the detonator would be situated.”
The Frenchman’s jaw drops and then he roars with laughter:
“And he dares to ask me that!”
“I thought so,” the boy says.
“Thought what?” the colonel says.
“The mayor says he thought you’d say that,” he translates and then translates everything back to the mayor, who heaves a deep sigh. The boy, however, reminds him that since the French have dominion over Germany but not over Luxembourg, and therefore presumably will only make things difficult for their German subjects, if not out of sheer revenge then maybe as a result of their normal French con
trariness, thereby presumably also making things difficult for the Luxembourgers, then it may be best to do our own negotiations, as we always have done.
“You’re a smart lad,” the mayor says with a wry smile. “I would never have thought you were from Luxembourg.”
6
And so begins a new phase of hectic correspondence. It is all about money, not about goodwill, so when the Germans decide that perhaps they do want a bridge, yes, apparently they do, Kreis Prüm public works department has to be brought into the picture and they have to draw up plans. But they are unadventurous plans which envisage recycling steel girders from Hitler’s defunct Westwall line of defences, one lane of traffic and a total budget of a measly 15,500 Deutschmarks. And that is too little. It is not even enough for a decent construction at Frankmühle, and that is already built, if we are to believe the rumours coming in from down the valley, but as we know we have to be wary of them. Das Staatliche Hochbauamt in Trier, however, has more money, more responsibility and higher goals, so they draw up their own plans for a bridge with two lanes, no scrap from the Westwall and at a guaranteed total cost of 36,000 Deutschmarks.
In the late summer of 1951 Der Trierische Volksfreund writes: “When will the Dasburg bridge finally be rebuilt?”, “Important border crossing still closed!”, “Bridge necessary for everyday traffic”, etcetera.
Over in Luxembourg they have already been campaigning for a while to have the link restored, and on 18 February, 1952 the Luxembourg Minister of Public Works, Dr Bodson, summons representatives from the regional authorities on the German side to a meeting in the Luxembourg border town of Vianden, at which it is decided “to build a huge, two-laned bridge over the Our Valley without delay”.
But there are many dissenting voices raised against the German plans. From the Luxembourg side. An engineering company in Diekirch, Luxembourg, is commissioned to draft new plans, which it does, and another company, on the German side, in Konz, adds the finishing touches. These plans are approved by both countries, after some debate. The job is put out to tender and won by an engineering firm from Trier, where poverty is highest and prices are lowest, with a stipulation, however, that they also use Luxembourg manpower according to an agreed ratio, after some debate.
The costs are to be covered solely by the Germans, by Dasburg Council, which has no money, but which will not be thwarted for that reason, for now is the time, cost what it may, so the council immediately starts negotiations with its own regional government in Trier about financial support, negotiations which, four years later, result in the sum total of 110,000 Deutschmarks. Dasburg – or the Bundesrepublik – thereby gains full ownership of the bridge and consequently also bears responsibility for its maintenance. There will not be an explosives chamber; that is a matter of trust.
7
The demolition of the provisional army bridge and the sinking of the two new concrete pillars can therefore begin on 26 September, 1952. And this is where Léon comes in again. For three years he has been driving himself (and Agnes) mad at home in Dorscheid, hearing the cries from the holes in the ground at Sinzig P.O.W. camp, they won’t stop, so his sisters Leni and Gertrud have got him into the quota of Luxembourg workers as a hodman and cement labourer on the Dasburg Bridge Project. And Léon’s reacquaintance with the world is not as painful as he has been convinced all these years that it would be. He is hard-working and unsociable and, moreover, has forgotten all his German. His French is not much use, either, because now bridges are being built and reconciliation is being promoted, and the time is approaching when the French actually ought to leave, so Léon speaks Letzebuergesch and has a seventeen-year-old from Rodershausen to interpret whenever problems arise, not that he says very much, but the little he does say he would prefer not to repeat, however trivial it may be.
The work progresses quickly, at an incredible speed, as if all the time that was wasted sitting on each side of the narrow river staring longingly across at each other has to be recaptured by force. And the site manager, an efficient, goal-orientated engineer from Frankfurt an der Oder, wants more men, more and more all the time, because he lives by the motto that two work twice as fast as one, while the local Catholics, both the authorities and the workers, both the Germans and the Luxembourgers, are more inclined to believe that two men often work just as slowly as one, but then the quality might well be 50 per cent better, all depending on your point of view, so the work progresses in fits and starts, some things go quickly and some things slowly, including Léon’s return to civilian life. He thrives on the work with a wheelbarrow, spade and cement mixer, but not on being surrounded by all these people dressed in more or less the same way, and who slave away to the roared commands from a German foreman. So when night falls over the site and the fraternisation usually continues, for all the others, in Dasburg’s only bar, Léon strolls down the Our bank on the German side in silence, to Frankmühle and across the small bridge there, “home”, to sit in Father Rampart’s library in Rodershausen and talk about God and also less weighty matters, such as the bridge he is trying to construct at home in Dorscheid, between him and Agnes. He can never bring himself to bring up the subject, but Father Rampart can see what is going on inside his mind and gives him a helping hand with remarks such as:
“You know, Léon, that both men and women are indispensable in God’s design, non est bonum esse hominem solum.”
And Léon would answer:
“Indispensable to whom?”
“Well …to us all, we are all indispensable, to humanity no less, you too, Léon.”
Léon gives this some thought and says:
“How do people actually know they can trust each other?”
There are in principle two answers to this question, as with so many others, and Father Rampart has tried both. The first goes as follows: “You feel it.” But as Léon does not have feelings he can rely upon, in his view, and for that very reason tries to find more tangible proof, here from his friend the priest, this conversation ends with Léon saying no more and Father Rampart understanding from his silence that he has given the wrong answer, at least if it is his intention to bring together these two no-longer-so-young people whom the war tore asunder.
The second answer goes as follows, and Father Rampart is inclined to think that this is the truest answer he can give: “You can never be absolutely sure that you can trust someone, but it is a social duty nonetheless to behave as if you can.”
To which Léon says it wasn’t himself he had in mind but the other party, and moreover he doesn’t know how to behave in a way which would inspire trust without it being misunderstood.
This remark is also followed by silence. Father Rampart has twice tried to follow up with casual gestures and a few words about Léon brooding too much, he should just watch and wait, take the first step and make a decision. And then Léon leans forward in his chair and looks down at his hands and says he will do one day, he can feel it, he can’t live without the notion that one day she will be his, it is there at least, this thought, even though he is trying to cast it out of his mind, anyway it doesn’t matter.
“What?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
Léon is on his feet. “To think that I should have bothered you with this again,” he says. “Goodnight, Father, and I’m sorry I let my tongue run away with me. This won’t happen again.”
8
By the end of October the bridge pillars are ready and they can start on the job of putting in place the enormous iron girders that will carry the road linking the two countries. A committee has also been set up for the official inauguration, with a master of ceremonies, a band, treasurer, priest and event organiser. The priest is not Father Rampart from the nearest parish. It is Father Claesen from the rival German town of Daleiden, and the explanation given is as clear as the water the bridge spans: it is the Germans who have footed the bill, every Pfennig, while the Luxembourgers have only contributed with the minor achievement of not allowing themselv
es to be tempted by the absurd French idea of explosives chambers and detonators on their side, and that is too little, it is nothing in a civilised world, but they are very welcome to join in the festivities and the procession, which starts at the bridge – as soon as Father Claesen has consecrated it – and moves up the hill on the German side, to Daleiden, where the man resides who will declare the bridge open, Saltin, the provincial mayor.
But then tragedy strikes the area, a one-year-old child is found dead in a field on the German side, and since Léon is away that day, driven by a sudden need to sleep in his own bed in Dorscheid, the suspicions of people in the district fall on him, this strange, introverted Luxembourger who lives there, deep in the woods, and says “Doosber-Breck” instead of “Dasburger Brücke”, on the rare occasions he does open his mouth.
But that same evening Father Rampart is visited by one of the building workers, a young, agitated man of German descent who confessed to the crime, the child had been crying so much, he said, tears streaming from his eyes, day and night, it was a nightmare, and an accident, no, it wasn’t his child, he didn’t know who the father was, he just slept with the child’s mother on the quiet, a German girl he went to see in the dark and left again in the dark, and he did this because his wife lived in Ernzen, which is a long way away…
Father Rampart received the young man’s confession on God’s behalf and told him to confess the murder to the French gendarmerie, too; people were going around with the mistaken belief it was someone else, they thought it was Léon.
The man promised to put his fate in the hands of the law. But it transpired that instead of Father Rampart giving the sinner an admonition he gave him a good idea, he didn’t confess, he returned home and went to bed, and at work the next day his mouth was sealed with seven seals.