Berlin breach: the fall of the wall on 9 November 1989 changed the Soviet Union almost as much as Germany. Photo: Chute du Mur Berline/Gamma-Rapho/Getty
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Why the fall of the Berlin Wall was a disaster for the right

To those on the right, the end of the Iron Curtain 25 years ago was a moral and ideological victory – but they have found some of the consequences dismaying.

One of the guiding ambitions of right-of-centre politics in Britain, America and most of the west during the 1970s and 1980s was to effect an end to the Soviet Union or, at least, to its imperialist domination of eastern Europe. This was bred most obviously of self-interest, given the threat this superpower was assumed to pose to the security of the west. Many on the right went further, harbouring an ideological desire to have communism removed from the map of Europe. Though far from unknown in Britain, this view was most common in America and attributable not just to the influence of hard-line Republican politicians – Barry Goldwater was there long before Ronald Reagan – but also to writers popular in American culture such as the Russian refugee Ayn Rand.

In common with fellow democrats on the centre and left, the right also sincerely deplored the lack of freedoms in the Soviet system and the violations of human rights caused by the repressiveness of the state. However some, following a tradition of isolationism that stretched back to the 1890s and the Marquess of Salisbury, embraced the doctrine that what happened domestically in those countries was no concern of Britain. Yet others, notably Margaret Thatcher and her adherents, regarded the suppression of individual liberty in the Soviet Union and the eastern bloc as morally unacceptable and a stain on any nation that condoned it; and in the case of countries in eastern Europe that had functioned as democracies before 1939, it represented a shocking reversal of progress compared with the period between the two wars.

Then, with the toppling of the Berlin Wall 25 years ago this weekend and the dissolution of the Soviet Union on Christmas Day 1991, both the end of the eastern bloc and the emasculation of its former masters came in quick and inevitable succession. One commentator, Francis Fukuyama, declared that history had ended. A bright and irresistible future beckoned for the west; Russia could join the family of free and progressive nations; swords could be turned into ploughshares; liberty and, in its wake, prosperity would sweep the old world once more. The right rejoiced at this near-bloodless toppling of an evil empire and celebrated the triumph of its ideals of liberty and capitalism. Mrs Thatcher, of course, fretted about the reunification of Germany, as did many of her generation who recalled the megalomaniacal wickedness of Hitler, his conquests and his genocide – but such reservations were not to be allowed to spoil the party.

A quarter of a century later it is apparent that things have not turned out so well as the right of 1989 had hoped. Russia, humiliated in a fashion similar to Kaiser Wilhelm’s Germany after Versailles, its empire lost and its clout enfeebled, has sought to rebuild a place in the world by resorting to a means familiar from its history – auto­cracy and not necessarily a more enlightened and just one than was practised by the Romanov tsars. Eastern Europe is nothing like the mythologised fairy tale of the Austro-Hungarian empire or even the inter­war model of new, earnest statehood: the right especially is having to come to terms with parts of it being a breeding ground for organised crime (something that flourishes under capitalism), an entrepôt for the drugs trade, a back door into Europe for immigrants and a source of tension with Russia that, because of the enthusiasm with which Nato and the EU embraced the former Soviet bloc, has become our shared problem. The European Union has expanded to include many former client states of the Kremlin and has therefore supplied the influx of legal immigrants causing so much difficulty to the present Conservative Party and providing such an opportunity for Ukip.

If all of that weren’t proof enough of the soundness of the adage “Be careful what you wish for”, the lifting of the Iron Curtain also led to strategic and foreign policy developments that most on the traditional right would never have chosen. The decision in Britain to wind down the country’s defence capabilities, even before the cuts enforced by the present coalition, was informed by the notion that Russia was no longer a threat. After the events of the past 12 months in Ukraine and with mounting evidence of destabilisation in the former Baltic states because of the alleged mistreatment of ethnic Russians, that may no longer be the case. And the US, which since 1945 has increasingly seemed a country seeking an enemy in order to define itself, appeared temporarily destabilised after 1991, as if part of its raison d’être had been removed. After disastrous foreign wars it now seems reluctant to engage at all with Europe and came half-heartedly and late into the Ukraine imbroglio. The fall of the Wall began a long process of detachment by the US from Europe, helped on by other factors of its own making, leaving its former enthusiasts on the right without the paternal guidance so many of them had come to rely on.

None of this is to dispute the great benefits that came after the Wall and the Iron Curtain were taken down. The regime had liberalised since the murderous days of Stalin but life in the east in the 1980s, a time of expansion and rabid consumerism in the west, remained controlled, monochrome and underpinned by fear. The inhumanities went on almost to the end. The imposition of martial law in Poland by Wojciech Jaruzelski and the intense activity of the Stasi in East Germany right up to the fall of Erich Honecker were but two testimonies to that – and the rough justice meted out to the Ceausescus, executed by a firing squad on Christmas Day 1989, betrayed the effect on the people of living under totalitarianism.

Those trapped in eastern Europe before 1989 rarely desire to return there. The want of freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, freedom of movement and freedom to grow outside the Soviet model was truly repressive and is well rid of. The reunification of Germany was a magnificent achievement even if, after all this time, parts of the old east still show signs of relative poverty and deprivation. But what the west failed to handle properly – indeed, failed to handle at all – was the new Russia, with consequences that, many fear, have yet fully to play out.

Mikhail Gorbachev may eventually be seen as one of the greatest lost leaders of the 20th century, one who deserves comparisons with F W de Klerk for the enlightened way in which he resigned himself to the morally inevitable and enabled some measure of representative democracy to be brought to his country. But de Klerk was fortunate to be passing South Africa to a statesman of the calibre, integrity and vision of Nelson Mandela: Gorbachev had only the increasingly drunken, corrupt and venal Boris Yeltsin. Under Yeltsin the poor had their meagre savings devastated by his economic mismanagement, while the cunning became fabulously rich. A kleptocracy was formed. All that changed when Putin succeeded Yeltsin at the millennium was that the kleptocracy was taken over by the government itself and therefore became more systematic and better organised.

Given the nature of Yeltsin, the novelty of the conditions in which he was operating, the ease with which he was manipulated by others even less scrupulous than himself and the bruised condition of a Russia shorn of its empires in eastern Europe and in the former Soviet Union, it was never going to be easy for the west to influence him, let alone bring him onside. Once he left and an apparently more rational being succeeded him in the shape of Putin, hopes were high, until Putin showed himself to be uninterested in liberal ideals and very interested in sequestering as much power and money as possible for his own use.

Perhaps it was because the end of the Soviet system came so precipitately that the west had such unrealistic, or half-formed, expectations of what would follow. What the New Statesman, in its editorial last week, described as “the havoc being wrought by the forces of globalisation: the free flow of capital and people, open markets, the dominance of a deracinated plutocracy” are as much a consequence of the end of the cold war as of anything else. The right, which advocated globalisation as part of the inevitable march of capitalism, has shown itself incapable of dealing with its realities.

The EU is one obvious example. In the early years of the century prominent Conservatives, then impotent in opposition, were among those leading the cry for the expansion of the club to include those countries that had for decades been impoverished by Soviet control. Their eventual admission was represented almost as a reward or a compensation for what they had endured between 1945 and 1990. However, in moments of honesty those same Tories who wanted eastern Europe brought into the EU expressed the hope that the numbers would become so unwieldy that there would have to be extreme subsidiarity if the club were to continue to function: which meant a return of sovereignty to nation states, while only those matters essential for the maintenance of a single market remained in Brussels.

In did not turn out like that. The European Commission wields as much power with 28 members as it ever did with six, nine or 15. The EU may be over-bureaucratic, deficient in democracy and even in some senses corrupt but it still functions and it still restricts the sovereignty of its members. What the right certainly did not envisage was that the liberation of eastern Europe from the Soviet empire would lead to a mass migration of its former citizens, or their children, to Britain. The idea that eastern Europe post-liberation would revert to a kind of Slavonic Hollywood musical, with happy, smiling locals industriously and cheerfully confining themselves to the development of their own nations, was always going to be nonsense. One of the principles of a free market – which Europe notionally is – is that it entails mobility of labour, even if that means workers going from Bratislava to Bradford or Tallinn to Torquay. The EU, with the earlier complicity of the right, has become a structure that is the inevitable consequence of the end of the Soviet system (and indeed in some structural ways replicates it), just as the Soviet bloc was the inevitable consequence of Stalin’s part in the defeat of Nazism.

The other main consequences of 1989 have been equally unwelcome to the right. Even before the attacks of 11 September 2001 the US was scaling down its presence in Europe, its need to engage with the continent diminished since the cold war. This was of sufficient concern to the then prime minister, Tony Blair, that when asked to endorse George W Bush’s foreign policy in the aftermath of those attacks he did so rather too wholeheartedly, not least, as was widely perceived at the time, to renew US engagement with Europe. Blair, absurdly, saw himself as the “bridge” between the two continents. And, for a time, the US not only tried to stay friends with Europe but it also sought, through the G8 and bilateral relations, to make a liberal westerner of Vladimir Putin. It failed in that, too.

America’s first reaction to those failures was to withdraw wherever possible, Barack Obama realising, when he succeeded Bush, that his country was not wildly popular in the world. Obama did, belatedly, engage with Europe over Ukraine, resuming a role familiar to presidents from Truman to Reagan in warning Russia not to overstep the mark or it would be punished. Russia has been punished with sanctions but remains in Ukraine, suggesting it lacks the respect for Obama’s America that Khrushchev reluctantly had to show to Kennedy’s during the Cuban missile crisis. Obama must wish he had stuck to the state department’s original message, which was to tell those who asked that Russia was primarily Europe’s problem and Europe should solve it. In reality, Ukraine has proved the absurdity of the EU’s claim to have a security function in keeping the peace in Europe: the EU simply abandoned Ukraine to its fate after years of increasing its vulnerability by attempting to seduce it and Russia has revealed itself as being as ruthless as it ever was in the days of the Soviet Union, if not more so.

But there are two harder consequences to swallow still. Germany may not have fulfilled Thatcher’s fear that it would start a third world war and most would think it highly unlikely that it would ever do so. However, it has established an economic hegemony over Europe that may yet destroy the euro and, with it, much of the European project. Far from unifying the continent through the institution of the EU, Germany has divided it. The French rail against its economic policies; the Greeks brandish swastikas when Angela Merkel pays them a visit; the Hungarians have an unpleasant, anti-Semitic government whose brand of politics, mixing kleptocracy with totalitarianism, bears an alarming resemblance to that of Vladimir Putin; across the Mediterranean from Spain to Greece the German-led policy of austerity has led to youth unemployment rates of up to 60 per cent.

In the wake of the liberation of eastern Europe, many of the liberated countries have been condemned to follow German-backed economic policies and have started to feel not so liberated after all. Because of the German memory of the hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic, the rest of the eurozone must suffer: so much for the rampant prosperity that was advertised as being the result of a wider, freer Europe.

Russia is now going out of its way to make friends with China, a move calculated to ensure Putin gets the last laugh over his detractors in the west and which could yet be the furthest-reaching consequence of the end of the Soviet system. America is in its fortress, isolated and disappointed. Europe is impoverished, financially if not morally. Bloody old Britain, home to so many who longed for the end of communism, ought to be bemused. That the repression ended was wonderful. But is the world really safer now than it was in 1989 and is it inevitably happier? Or will those who write the history of this period in 200 or 300 years’ time conclude that the world had a once-in-a-century chance to start again in 1989 and that through insufficient support to Russia, overambition in Europe and some wild misjudgments in the US, it blew it? 

Simon Heffer is an author and columnist for the Daily Mail

Simon Heffer is a journalist, author and political commentator, who has worked for long stretches at the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail. He has written biographies of Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Vaughan Williams and Enoch Powell, and reviews and writes on politics for the New Statesman

Photo: STEFAN BONESS/PANOS
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What Britain needs to understand about the profound and ancient divisions in Germany

As Angela Merkel campaigns for re-election, the balance of power in Europe is changing.

On 24 September, Angela Merkel will be re-elected chancellor of Germany and that, we might think, will be that. With Merkel and France’s Emmanuel Macron in control of the European project, populism will surely be vanquished and the old Franco-German core of the EU restored. Yet things are changing, and if western Europe wants Germany to keep singing “Ode to Joy” as enthusiastically as “Deutschlandlied”, it will have some work to do. Our Brexit negotiators need to see how important this is to Macron, to other European leaders and, above all, to thinking Germans.

For we may all soon miss the old, self-effacing Germany. Despite having such economic power, it always seemed to have no greater wish than to exist as part of a larger whole. Konrad Adenauer, its first postwar chancellor and founding father, made Westbindung (“binding to the West”) the heart of West German politics. Adenauer came from the deeply Catholic Rhineland, “amid the vineyards” as he put it, “where Germany’s windows are open to the West”. His instinctive cultural sympathy was with France, but he knew that West Germany’s existence depended on keeping America in Europe. France he courted out of profound conviction, the US out of clear-eyed necessity, and he was worried that after him this twin course might be abandoned. His demands for reassurance during his final year in office led to John F Kennedy’s “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech of 1963. Every West German knew about that, and about the Berlin Airlift: these became locations of national memory from which West Germany triangulated its sense of self.

There were some Germans for whom this was too much. Anti-Americanism was ingrained among West Germany’s hard left, the early Green Party and the tiny hard right. But even Germans who were suspicious of America had no fear of tying themselves closer to Europe. On the contrary, that was exactly what they wanted. The standard explanation of this is guilt. West Germans, in this argument, felt so remorseful about the horrors of the Second World War that they wanted to make amends. This idea fitted with others’ belief that Germany did indeed have much to feel guilty about.

A nuanced version of this held that the western Germans thought they had somehow “got away with it”, compared with their brethren in the east, who had felt the weight of Soviet vengeance: rape, pillage, occupation. Accordingly, Germany’s willingness to subsume itself so thoroughly, even as it footed the bills for the European Economic Community and later the European Union, was accepted with little gratitude, almost as an ongoing war debt repayment.

This guilt thesis is based on a misunderstanding of German history, especially of the experience of western Germans. The most graphic illustration of this comes from Adenauer. In 1955, he privately informed the British that while he was obliged to act in public as though he wished for reunification, he intended to devote his remaining years to blocking it. In 1961, he secretly proposed to the Americans that they offer the Russians a swap: they and he should, he said, give up West Berlin in return for Thuringia (the region containing Leipzig and Weimar). He wanted, in effect, to make the River Elbe the eastern border of Germany.

Why did Adenauer dislike the eastern Germans, think Berlin was expendable and consider the River Elbe to be the natural frontier? Simple: he knew that the Elbe was Germany’s Mason-Dixon line. Beyond it lay the flat, grim Prussian heartlands, which until 1945 stretched into present-day Russia. This vast region was known to Germans as “Ostelbien” – East Elbia. Adenauer viewed the “unification” of Germany in 1871 as East Elbia’s annexation of the west. That’s why in 1919, as mayor of Cologne, and again in 1923, he tried to get Britain and France to back a breakaway western German state. Having failed, he is said to have muttered, “Here we go, Asia again,” and closed the blinds every time his train crossed east over the Elbe.

Prussia was a different country. The victorious Allies agreed. On 25 February 1947, they declared: “The Prussian state, which from early days has been a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany… together with its central government and all its agencies are abolished.” The name Prussia was eradicated. The Prussian hegemony of 1871-1945, an anomaly in the two millennia of German history, was over.

If we understand this, we understand what West Germany really was and why it acted as it did; why the “reunification” of 1990 – or, at least, the way it was handled – was such a mistake; why we may all have to stop taking Germany quite so much for granted now that East Elbia is back; and why our Brexit negotiators are on a hiding to nothing if they believe that the Germans have no more urgent business to consider than their car exports to us. Far more important to liberal Germans is keeping safe the western soul of Germany.

***

West Germany was anything but an artificial construct. It was the historical Germany, being almost geographically identical to what was, for almost 1,200 years, the only Germany. Julius Caesar named the land, together with its people, in 58 BC; 49 years later, Drusus, the greatest commander of the infant Roman empire, is said to have been supernaturally advised that after defeating every tribe he met in Germania, he should halt at the River Elbe. By 100 AD, Roman rule was shown by a fortified border, the Limes Germanicus. You can still walk large stretches of it; it encompasses most of the richest land in modern Germany and all of the great cities except Hamburg, Berlin and the 19th-century industrial monocultures of the Ruhr. Even these last were born as trading posts or forward bases within what archaeologists call the “market region” of Germania – the lands beyond the limes where commerce with the Roman empire defined the whole culture. Southern and western Germany’s cultural roots are almost as Roman as France’s.

But what about 9 AD and the destruction of three Roman legions by the German tribes under Arminius? There is a popular myth that this kept all Germany free and different. We owe this idea to Martin Luther and his supporters: Luther claimed from 1520 onwards to be a German, anti-Roman hero and identified himself with the newly rediscovered tale of Arminius. More decisively, the events of 9 AD were an obsession of later Prussian historians, who had an interest in claiming that the real Germany was one that was pure and un-Romanised. Yet the reverse is true. Under the Romans, then the Merovingians, then the Franks, the Rhine/Danube super-region of Germany remained politically and culturally a part of western Europe. After Charlemagne, a Rhineland German, “restored the Roman empire” (as his seals put it) in 800 AD, western Germany was the very centre of things. It was never a nation state, but always the key part of a greater whole, the Holy Roman empire.

Along the Elbe, things were different. Charlemagne extracted tribute from the pagan Slavs across the river, and his successors tried to build on this, but the German conquest and settlement of East Elbia only really began with the Wendish Crusade of 1147, the northern arm of the Second Crusade. Three centuries later, the entire region was still hotly disputed by Balts and Slavs, with German supremacy threatened by major defeats at Tannenberg (1410) and in the Hussite Wars (1419-34).

Long-contested frontier lands breed a special kind of society. The German incomers cowed the natives, such as the pagan Pruscie from whom they ultimately borrowed their name, through brute force. Where they couldn’t, they had to make armed deals with local elites. In this new sort-of-Germany, the Junkers, an aggressive landowning caste, lorded it over the Slavs and Balts – as well as poorer Germans, who knew that the locals would cut their throats if the Junker castles fell, so were loyal and subservient to their masters. East Prussia remained like this within living memory.

In 1525, Prussia named itself and declared itself the first Protestant state. From then on, it had absolute rulers, the Hohenzollern dynasty, backed by a quiescent Lutheran state church. The Junkers swore loyalty in return for exclusive access to all officer-level jobs in the army and the administration. By the mid-18th century, Voltaire quipped that while other states had armies, the Prussian army had a state. The overriding strategic concern of Prussia was always with the east. In his 1758-59 campaigns, Frederick the Great was shocked to find the Russians extremely hard to beat. He bequeathed to his successors a policy of keeping the tsars onside. Partitioning Poland between them was the sticking plaster that masked this Russian-Prussian rivalry, right until 1941.

This thoroughly east-facing power was, by the normal standards of European statehood – history, social structures, religion, geography – a different country from the Rhineland, Swabia or Bavaria. It defeated them all in 1866, laying the ground for the “unification” of 1871. The Prussian empire (for that is what it was) could now enlist the wealth, industry and manpower of Germany in pursuit of its ancient goal: hegemony over north-eastern Europe. By 1887, the future imperial chancellor Bernhard von Bülow was already musing on how to destroy Russia “for a generation”, cleanse Prussia of its Poles, set up a puppet Ukrainian state and take the Prussian armies to the banks of the Volga. This is the bloody Prussian – not German – thread that leads directly to the Nazi onslaught of 1941. In 1945, that centuries-long struggle was settled, in almost inconceivable violence. Half of East Elbia was ruthlessly stripped of Germans and handed over to Poles or Russians; the rump became the German Democratic Republic (GDR), a mere satrap of the Red Army.

So while it is easy and comfortable to say that the otherness of eastern Germany today is the result of that 40-year Soviet occupation, history says otherwise. East Elbia has always been different. Take the voting patterns: from 1871 to 1933, East Elbia outside Berlin (always a left-liberal political island) was the main electoral reservoir for the authoritarian right. The Prussian Conservative Party under the empire, the Deutschnationale Volkspartei until 1928 and the Nazis from 1930 depended on rural and small-town East Elbian voters. It was they who (just) swung things in 1933, by going 50-60 per cent for the “Hitler coalition”. Had all Germany voted like the Rhineland or Bavaria, Hitler and his Junker allies would have got nowhere close to a majority. Small wonder that Adenauer didn’t want East Elbia back and was secretly delighted to have it safely fenced off behind the Iron Curtain.

***

West Germany (1949-90) – Germany shorn of Prussia – was, then, no historical fluke, and nor was the supra­national way it acted. This was the real Germany. But the hasty reunification of 1990 (there was no referendum or election on the issue) changed things. Why should the inhabitants of the former GDR, rather than Poles and Czechs, get immediate access to the wealth and benefits of the West? Because they were Germans. With that, the chancellor Helmut Kohl embraced the notion that being German overrode all considerations of social, economic or historical difference. He also subliminally revived the idea, common to the Second Empire and the Third Reich, that East Elbia was special and needed subsidising by the rich west of Germany. The director of the Bundesbank, Germany’s central bank, resigned in 1991 over this abandoning of economic sanity for political nationalism.

Since 1990, the former East Germany has received more than €2trn from the old West Germany, for a fast-ageing, shrinking and disproportionately male population of only 16 million, including Berlin. That’s the equivalent of a Greek bailout every year since 1990, and as a straight gift, not a loan. This represents a huge shift in financial priorities, overshadowing Germany’s annual net EU budget contribution (currently €15.5bn). In 1990, Kohl promised that western German aid would soon turn the new states into “blooming” areas, but they have become, instead, proof that age-old differences resist even the most gigantic subsidies.

Between 30 and 40 per cent of voters in East Elbia have declared over the past two years that at the general election, they intend to support either Alternative für Deutschland (Germany’s Ukip), Die Linke (heirs to the old East German Communist Party) or the all but openly neo-Nazi National Democratic Party (the NPD, currently represented in the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern state parliament). Though theoretical enemies, these three parties are united by cultural affinities: all despise economic liberalism, oppose Nato and the EU and want closer relations with Russia.

East Elbia no longer has the population to swing the entire German electorate of more than 61 million but many liberal western Germans are nervous. They recoil at the sight of anti-asylum-seeker attacks, which are proportionally far more common in East Elbia than in the west, or when they see Merkel heckled by right-wingers. They call East Elbia Dunkeldeutschland (“Dark Germany”) and joke bitterly that if Britain can have a Brexit, why can’t the old East Germans, whom they lump together under the name of Saxons, have a “Säxit”? But it’s no laughing matter. They know there are those only too aware of any anti-western drift in Germany and eager to give succour to it.

Alexander Saldostanov, the rabid leader of Russia’s “Night Wolves” bikers and a public friend of Vladimir Putin, recently told Germany’s bestselling daily, Bild, that he dreams of a grand union between Germany and Russia: “We have so much in common. You simply have to free yourself at last from America, that scourge of humanity. Together, we can, should and must take power.”

There’s no danger of that, but there is a sense in which eastern Europe is, to Germans, no longer “the other”. It’s the place whence natural gas flows from Russia, where labour is cheap but skilled and where the people are keen to work with Germany on setting up new sites of joint national memory. From Kaliningrad to Prague, museums and projects are springing up in which the horrors of the past are neither denied nor used as ammunition in today’s negotiations. In eastern Europe, perhaps because Russia is so close, the Germans are rarely made to feel guilty for their grandfathers’ sins. Meanwhile in the west, from Greece to Britain, people can’t resist mentioning the war whenever the Germans don’t act as desired.

***

Germany’s resources are not infinite. Nor is the patience of the 40 per cent of Germans who “have net worths of essentially zero”, as Die Welt reported last year – largely because German home ownership rates are the lowest in the EU. They are disproportionately concentrated in the old east, the region that never had supranational, western European connections. From them come ever-louder voices saying that Germany’s EU contribution is too high. And with Britain out, the maths will look even worse to such voters. If south-western Germany’s taxes have to keep bailing out the country’s east, while also helping out the old and new EU lands, what is left for, say, the post-industrial Ruhr, which has financial and social problems of its own? There are tough choices ahead, and it’s not hard to imagine a day when Germany decides to aim its subsidies and investments where they seem most welcome. The old idea of Mitteleuropa – a multi-ethnic, German-centred Middle Europe, neither of the West nor of the East – no longer seems so antiquarian. Nothing would gladden Putin’s heart more.

So, yes, Merkel will win the election and will have a chance to revive the EU’s Franco-­German core. Yet the relative strengths of France and Germany are different now. As for their leaders, while Adenauer was a devoted Catholic Rhinelander, Merkel is a Lutheran vicar’s daughter from the east. Bonn was physically close to Paris, Brussels, The Hague, even London; Berlin is closer to Prague and Warsaw.

With Donald Trump’s wavering on Nato and his noisy anti-German protectionism, along with Brexit, the West may no longer seem vital to Germany’s future. During Merkel’s election debate with her main challenger, Martin Schulz, on 3 September, Brexit was not even mentioned. The old EU core will have to work to keep Germany anchored, resisting any new call from the east. Macron and German liberals know that; that’s why there will be no Franco-German split over Brexit just to sell us a few more Audis. The sooner David Davis and Liam Fox realise that the Germans have far bigger issues to deal with, the better.

James Hawes is the author of “The Shortest History of Germany” (Old Street Publishing)