SURREXIT DOMINUS VERE! RIP Onkel Abt!

Almost simultaneously with the Holy Father, another eminent prince of the Roman Catholic Church has passed: Former Abbot Gregor von Henckel-Donnersmarck. For the weekly Tagespost, Germany’s largest Catholic newspaper, I have written an account of his final days. I had the honor of witnessing how tenderly the monks of Heiligenkreuz Monastery (near Vienna) accompanied their dying confrere on his final journey. Below is the English version, and here is the original German text.

Angelic Choirs at the Deathbed

An Eyewitness Account of the Final Hours of Former Abbot Gregor Henckel-Donnersmarck

It may seem a whimsical notion, but I cannot help but it: the Pope and the Former Abbot of Heiligenkreuz arriving at the gates of heaven simultaneously, only to pause and graciously allow a few ragged homeless souls to pass through before them, forgoing the VIP entrance.

Former Abbot Gregor, who preceded the Holy Father by mere hours on his final journey, hailed from the ancient and affluent Silesian lineage of the Counts Henckel von Donnersmarck, and thus possessed a refined sense of protocol. He would have fully understood St. Peter’s approach, yet he would also have been delighted to know that his friend (and distant cousin), Cardinal Christoph Schönborn, is set to celebrate his Pontifical Requiem at Heiligenkreuz Monastery on April 30—provided the events in Rome permit.

Every death is a catastrophe, for with the passing of a person, especially one like Former Abbot Gregor, who lived and worked so long (he reached the age of 82), an entire universe is lost. Moreover, the Former Abbot was not only revered but deeply loved, not least by his large family and extended kin, of which I am a part. During a two-week visit to my uncle, the Former Abbot, in his final days, I had the privilege of witnessing how the Cistercians of Heiligenkreuz cared for their confrere, accompanying him with song and prayer in his last days and hours. What I experienced set my heart ablaze, compelling me to bear witness here. The boundless love I saw in the monks’ care for my uncle at his deathbed will remain with me forever, forever binding me to Heiligenkreuz, this nearly 900-year-old Cistercian monastery in the Vienna Woods, this profoundly sacred place.

The manner in which the Former Abbot was tended to was like a living enactment of the Song of Songs. He was cared for like a king. His confreres were constantly at his side—for months—above all Father Martin and a young candidate named Tobias, born in 2003. In his final days, they held his hand without cease and cooled his brow with a damp cloth. In the background, on a tablet, and at times audible across the courtyard, the dignified and solemn liturgy of the monks resounded. When, on Easter Sunday evening around 8:30 p.m., the death knell was rung, within minutes some 40 monks gathered in his room in the infirmary. Led by Abbot Maximilian, who wore a violet stole, they prayed the traditional Benedictine prayers for the dying.

It was an indescribable privilege to witness: The Abbot steps to the bedside of his predecessor and says, “Peace be to this house,” to which the monks respond, “And to all who dwell therein.” The Abbot continues: “Sprinkle me, O Lord, with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” Then the beautiful voices of the monks intone the Asperges. It was as though a choir of angels sang. All knelt. The Litany for the Dying followed, after which the Abbot prayed the Proficiscere, anima christiana (“Go forth, Christian soul”), succeeded by further grand prayers in Latin. By the time the monks, masters of Gregorian chant, began the Subvenite, Sancti Dei, and at the very latest when they softly sang In paradisum deducant te Angeli, I knew: If life is a liturgy, my uncle had done everything right. To die in such a manner, on Easter no less, is a grace befitting the motto he chose for his abbatial coat of arms: Surrexit Dominus vere!

It was not yet late in the evening, and so the Abbot commanded that all the bells be rung: “From the smallest to the greatest!” The windows stood wide open, a gentle breeze wafted in, the hum of the monks’ voices mingled with the pealing bells—it was, for lack of a better word, heavenly!

Anna Maria Countess Henckel-Donnersmarck, the widow of his beloved brother Leo-Ferdinand (+2009), arrived from Berlin just in time before his final hour. I could assure her that, given his condition—he suffered from cancer—her brother-in-law had been remarkably well until mid-Holy Week. “I sleep well, I have an appetite, and I have no pain,” he had told me. His only regret: that he spoke no Slovak. He wished he could converse with his historically inclined caregiver, he said. Did he have a wish? Yes, a book with facts and sights about Slovakia, ideally with an appendix of simple Slovak phrases. Thanks to Amazon, the book arrived two days later.

On Tuesday of Holy Week, he insisted we visit the monastery’s beer garden together. The aforementioned caregiver deftly maneuvered his wheelchair over the cumbersome cobblestones. In keeping with Holy Week, our menu was modest (a cheese roll for him, a coffee for me), but it was a feast nonetheless. We spoke at length about the parable of the Prodigal Son and the workers who come late to the vineyard yet receive the same wage as those who labored from morning.

I teased him, noting that, as a former manager at the logistics firm Schenker before his late vocation, he should have a sense of fair wages, and that neither parable seemed to speak of justice. Grace, he explained, is not just: “It does not count, it does not weigh, it does not calculate, it is not just—it is, in its unfathomable generosity, far more than just.”

Bonum est diffusivum sui, as Saint Thomas Aquinas said—the good has a tendency to pour itself out, even to the point of prodigality. In his sermons, the Abbot often noted that the repentant son had prepared a litany of apologies and a plea to be given the lowliest job among the day laborers, but—and this was key—the father ran to meet him. “The son never got to recite his carefully prepared words of repentance. The father’s rushing to meet him—that is the sensation!”

We then spoke of how he managed to lure Pope Benedict XVI to Heiligenkreuz in 2007, and of his time in the 1980s at Rein Abbey, where he served as a crisis manager. Suddenly, he spotted Ingeborg Gabriel passing by the chestnut tree. Ever gregarious, he invited the renowned Viennese social ethicist to join us. We discussed and debated, joked and chuckled, until it grew chilly. We spoke of Max Weber’s view on greed (in short: not unique to capitalism, it’s always existed), the race for progress and technology in our time, which, as the professor noted, was arguably sparked by the Benedictines in the 12th century.

We touched on the delicate topic of young Muslims converting (allegedly a significant phenomenon in Vienna), the question of whether burials in so-called “peace forests,” now possible at Heiligenkreuz, were pagan—the professor thought so—or whether one shouldn’t be too strict. And we spoke of epitaphs. I mentioned one I find particularly polite: “Forgive me for not getting up.” That made my wheelchair-bound uncle laugh. He laughed often. He was a radiant man, one who did not need to feign Easter joy. And he was someone who refused to let cancer rob him of his zest for life.

A bit like the bird in the poem by Wilhelm Busch, which his sister-in-law Anna Maria recited, to the astonishment of some guests, at the Former Abbot’s 80th birthday celebration in Heiligenkreuz. It perfectly captures his mood that day in the beer garden:

Es sitzt ein Vogel auf dem Leim

Er flattert sehr und kann nicht heim.

Ein schwarzer Kater schleicht hinzu,

Die Krallen scharf, die Augen gluh.

Am Baum hinauf und immer höher

Kommt er dem armen Vogel näher.

Der Vogel denkt: weil das so ist

Und weil mich doch der Kater frisst,

Will ich nur keine Zeit verlieren

Und noch ein wenig quinquilieren

Und fröhlich pfeifen – wie zuvor.

Der Vogel scheint mir, hat Humor.

[The poem describes a bird caught on a branch, unable to fly home, as a predatory cat approaches. Accepting its fate, the bird decides to spend its final moments chirping joyfully, displaying a sense of humor in the face of doom.]

The Former Abbot had an enormous sense of humor too. Until the very end. 

And he was surrounded by immeasurable love. It doesn’t get better than that.

A Princely Farewell

Kary Schwarzenberg (1937-2023) was the last of his kind. I attended his Requiem Mass which was celebrated in Vienna's Stephansdom shortly before Christmas. 

Here is what I wrote about it for Zurich's daily NZZ.

Onkel Kary will be greatly missed. As is often the case with intellectual giants, his perception in the public differed from the one in his own family. The film his daughter Lila made about their difficult relationship bears witness to that. 

I highly recommend it. You will have to find out how to stream it in your region, in some countries "Mein Vater der Fürst" is available on Amazon Prime.

#ServusHarry Eine deutsch-englische Liebesgeschichte

Die Mail hat mich gebeten, für ihre Sonntagsausgabe ein paar Gedanken zum Thema deutsch-englische Beziehungen beizusteuern. Der Anlass ist der Wechsel des Teamcaptains der englischen Fußball-Nationalelf von Tottenham Hotspurs in London zum FC Bayern nach München. Man versteht den Text besser, wenn man die Fawlty-Towers-Folge "The Germans" kennt.

Hier die ungekürzte Fassung meines Beitrags in der Mail on Sunday:

Don’t mention the war? It is hard to avoid when discussing Anglo-German affairs – and discuss them we must as this is a defining moment. We are witnessing history in the making. England’s football idol number one, the captain of the Three Lions’, Harry – or shall we now say Harald? – Kane is joining Germany’s most glorious football club Bayern Munich.

The circumstances of his arrival in Munich on Friday night had epic qualities and will be talked about for years to come. After weeks and weeks of nail-biting negotiations, after last-minute interventions from various invested parties that almost killed the deal, after a mysterious hold-up at the airport of the private jet supposed to take England’s captain to Germany, Kane finally touched down in country with virtually every news outlet out there following and reporting his every step as if it was the Pope, the President and possibly even Elvis Presley who was going to step out of that plane at Oberpaffenhofen airport near Munich. Germany is celebrating the arrival of England’s football captain like a moon-landing.

Willkommen, Herr Kane! This is a historic moment! Not since the Beatles (who, by the way, started their career in Hamburg) has anyone from your isles created such a buzz over here.

This juncture in Anglo-German affairs seems like a good moment to put old rivalries – from beach towel tussels to Brexit – aside to celebrate what really is the world’s most intriguing love-hate-relationship, a relationship so strong and fraught with consequences that it has shaped today’s world like no other.

My first love was an English rose (of German-Jewish descent), my best friend is a born and bred Londoner (an Arsenal supporter regrettably), I went to school and studied in your country, my heart jumps joyfully every time I put my foot on your shores, yet I never try to hide my Germanness and my German accent when I visit, feeling like the living proof of the affinity of both our cultures. I am German. In fact, I am Saxon. We Saxons are regarded as the most German of the Germans. A bit too serious and a bit too eccentric in the eyes of most. The crazy genius composer Richard Wagner was from Saxony. As was Martin Luther. And Caspar David Friedrich whose eerie Romantic landscape paintings showing tiny humans dwarfed by the elements allow a glimpse into our love for the irrational and our strange fascination with nature.

But, then again, as a Saxon am I not quintessentially English? At school we were taught that the lands that around the year 900 gradually came to be known as “Englalonde” were originally inhabited by various Germanic tribes, most notably Saxons, Franks, Frisians, Angles and Jutes. So are the English really Germans? It’s not quite as simple as that. 

When the troops of Julius Caesar entered the shores of what the Greeks called “Bretaniki” at 55 BC they found a great variety of tribes. When the Romans left again, roughly 500 years later, the population of South-East England, having enjoyed the civilized life of Roman culture for generations, took a dim view of those they called barbarians who started coming in from the north and threatened their lush, latinised way of life with their hot baths and massages and theatres and all that. Where did they appeal for help? The Romans were busy with their own empire falling apart so they, according to the works of Gildas the Wise, the only substantial source for history of this time, the Romanized Brits reached out to their closest relatives on the continent: the Saxons and Angles, Germanic tribes in what is now the north of Germany.

So, when we Germans started moving in from around 500 AD, we did that – I must insist – because we were asked to. It was definitely no invasion! In fact we were supposed to help fend off invasions from Celts and Picts and all that northern lot. 

As is often the case with relatives moving in, they outstay their welcome or, even worse, make the rest of the family come over and move in as well. That’s regrettably what we did. The English Channel already then was a very poor natural hindrance for undesired immigration. The ease with which one could cross it from Saxon territory at Germany’s northern coast allowed not only warriors but whole tribes and families to make the move. The show of force must have been so overwhelming, the cultural supersession so complete, that, rather like British colonialists in ages closer to our own, local Roman customs and languages disappeared and were replaced by Anglo-Saxon ones. Until, roughly another 500 years later the Normans arrived and added another layer of cultural diversification.

So, in essence, just as the German tribe of the Franks that moved west across the Rhine became the French, the German tribes that came across the Channel, the Angles and the Saxons became the English.

Why though, if we are that closely related, do we squabble so much? I believe it is because we are too closely related and hence simply too similar. Just as most of us are irritated when hearing one’s own recorded voice, we see our own flaws in those who are closest. The tussle of the beach towels between Krauts and Brits, one of the most die-hard Anglo-German clichés, is a case in point. We are so similar, that we do exactly the same things (including ending up with embarrassing sunburns) and tend to deride each other for it. It is a bit like laughing at one’s mirror image really. 

Also, the closer you are, the more you are prone to envy. 

When Kaiser Wilhelm, Germany’s last reigning monarch, ambitiously started building up his navy and founded colonies in far-flung corners of the world, he was driven by envy. He aspired to be on eye level with the British Empire. He wanted Germany to be more like Britain. He adored his grandmother Queen Victoria and loved wearing his British Army uniform (he held the honorary position of colonel-in-chief of the 1st Royal Dragoons). The First World War gave Britain the opportunity to put Germany back in its place. When Germany rose again and Hitler came to power, the feeling of abhorrence was anything but unanimous. There were many prominent figures, in the establishment, among the workers, in government and right up into the highest royal circles who sympathized with Germany during the early years of the Third Reich. But: Shht! This is not something one should dwell on festive occasions like this, I mentioned it once, I think I got away with it alright, as Fawlty the Great would put it. What I actually want to say is: We are frightfully similar. Frightful in the most literal sense sometimes.

It takes one to know one. Maybe that is why Margaret Thatcher was not exactly delighted when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989. "We beat the Germans twice, and now they're back”, she said after Helmut Kohl unveiled his 10-point-plan for German reunification one month after the wall’s fall. I was friends with Britain’s ambassador at the time, Sir Christopher Mallaby. Years later he told me how he pleaded with the then-Foreign Minister Douglas Hurd for Britain to show support and not to resist history – Hurd agreed and pleaded with Mrs. Thatcher as well. To no avail. She remained a bitter opponent of German reunification. Ralf Dahrendorf, the German philosopher who taught at Oxford, told me in an interview at the time: “I fully understand Mister Thatcher.” Why, I asked. He answered by posing a question and giving the answer himself: “Do you know why Germans are so keen about building a ever more united Europe? Because Germany is afraid of its own power and wants to be tied down in supranational structure like the EU. Of course you distrusts someone who has fear of himself.” Dahrendorf was certainly one of the view of understood both, the Germans and the English. Today, modern Germans can simply not comprehend why a country would hesitate to sign away what in their eyes are abstract notions like sovereignty. Just like Merkel did not get Boris Johnson. Merkel hated Boris, to be precise. He was too flamboyant for her taste. But there was also a whiff of envy in the way figures of the German political establishment like Merkel looked at Boris. Germans prefer their politicians to be dull. Listening to our chancellor, Olaf Scholz, is about as inspiring as having someone read out the user manual of a Miele appliance. Hence we envy you for the sense of entertainment that engulfs even your political sphere, while you envy us for politicians who are a little bit dull but do to get things done. The grass is always greener on the other side…

There is one thing though that we absolutely do not have and have reason to envy you for: Love for tradition and the respect for one’s own culture and history. The pictures of the Queen’s state funeral made us shiver in respect and painfully aware of the old anti-republican witticism: “There are no fairy tales about presidents.” When King Charles chose Germany for his first state visit, our cities stood still in awe for the occasion and when the King, in a gesture nobody thought possible, came to Hamburg and laid a wreath at the ruins of St Nikolai church, a little-known memorial site for the civilian victims of the air raids carried out by the RAF, the German media was so astonished that they tried to play down the significance. 

Here is another reason why we Krauts love you Brits! For obvious reasons, we have difficulties embracing large junks of our history and heritage, so we love you, our closest relatives, your history, your heritage, your way of celebrating the pride you have for your nation, the way also you celebrate football because we do not dare to love ourselves.

Moments like these when we can stand side by side to cheer on the same team therefore feel like a relief. And cheer on together we will. Just you wait until Bayern faces some Spanish or Italian football giant in the Champions League with Harry Kane up front. Even Spurs supporters, after some understandable heartache, have reasons to join in cheering for Bayern with Kane, given the proud Jewish heritage of both clubs. Of both clubs? Indeed. Bayern Munich was originally founded by a circle of mainly Jewish football enthusiasts, one of the first chairmen was the Jewish businessman Kurt Landauer who was put in the Dachau concentration camp by the Nazis and managed to flee to Switzerland before returning after the war to rebuild the club from ruins.

My most beloved tenant at Fawlty Towers has always been the Major. A gentleman to my liking, slightly deluded and always friendly. But his dictum “Bunch of Krauts, that's what they are, all of 'em. Bad eggs!” is not true. Landauer for one was no bad egg and his FC Bayern is a fantastic choice for an English lad from north London. And the fact that the fourth child of Mr. and Mrs. Kane will be a “Munich kindl” – as the children of this beautiful town are known – puts a huge smile not only on my face.

Roar and Order in Berlin's suburbs

For a while now I have been living outside of Berlin in a quaint neighbourhood called Stahnsdorf. My impuls this morning to drive into town to pop into my newspaper's office went quickly out of the window when I learned that staying at home might be more newsworthy. There is an app called NINA on my iPhone which is supposed to set off an alarm in case of floods or similar catastrophic events - this morning it had set off this warning: 

"Cat of prey on the loose." The app (sceenshot below) showed me in the centre of the area in question.

I switched on the radio. There they said to stay indoors and to lock up one's pets. A big cat, apparently! A lioness! There is a circus nearby, but it quickly transpired that they were not missing any lions. Later, there was a zooogist on Berlin's local TV station, explaining that the mob, those who have made it and live in villas at the southern fringes of town, are known for keeping exotic pets illegally. They are being supplied these poor animals "from Rumanian sources", apparently. There was heavily armed police everywhere, helicopters searching the fields from above, streets and woods were cordoned off.

And me in the very center of the paramater. So my dog and I went for a little safari afternoon and later filed this report to my paper. The airgun I am carrying for ornamental reasons only. P.S.: The big cat turned out to be a wild boar.

Und da Dinge heutzutage erst real sind, wenn sie auch in der Twittersphäre Niderschlag finden, hier ein Ausschnitt der Reaktionen:

Hunger gestillt bei #FelixJud in Hamburg

„Diese Buchhandlung ist mein intellektuelles Delikatessengeschäft, ohne sie würde ich verhungern.“

Das sagte Karl Lagerfeld über Hamburgs berühmte Buchhandlung Felix Jud. Es ist – noch vor John Sandoe in London – meine absolut liebste Buchhandlung.

Ich durfte dort in der zurückliegenden Woche mein aktuelles Buch "Was bleibt, was wird – Die Queen und ihr Erbe" vorstellen.

Ich danke Robert Eberhardt und Marina Krauth für ihr großzügige Gastfreundschaft an dem Abend, der aufs Gemütlichste im Café de Paris bei allerlei Tartare-Variationen endete.

Robert Eberhardt führt nicht nur fort, was Wilfried Weber aufgebaut hat, er verhilft diesem Schlaraffenland für Bibliophile zu neuer Blüte. Er schafft dies, weil er verstärkt auf das zweite Standbein des Geschäftes baut – den Handel mit wertvollen Erstausgaben und antiquarischen Leckerbissen.

Man kann von dort aber natürlich auch seine ganz normale, regelmäßige Bücher-Ration beziehen. So hat es auch Karl Lagerfeld gehandhabt, der, egal wo auf der Welt er sich aufhielt, sich seine Bücher von Jud in Hamburg schicken ließ. Der Webshop von Felix Jud funktioniert genauso einfach wie Amazon (nur ohne dass Jeff Bezos was davon abbekommt).

Hier ein paar Fotos, die am Abend meiner Lesung entstanden sind.

Mit meiner verehrten Nessrin Königsegg

Der Literaturfürst Jens Jessen, ich, der Öko-Rockstar Professor Michael Braungart, meine Lektorin Anne Stadler (macht sie sich um ihren Autoren Sorge?) und Ingeborg ("Pingel") Schleswig-Holstein (v.l.n.r.)

(c) Robert Eberhard

Mein neues Buch ...

 ... ist fertig. Es erscheint am 27. April

Out in Africa

Bis auf auf weiteres halte ich mich in Afrika auf. Deswegen wird hier auf absehbare Zeit nichts gepostet werden. Ich muss mich schließlich konzentrieren (schreibe an einem neuen Buch). Im übrigen, so habe ich mich neulich von Katja Riemann ermahnen lassen, klingt es arrogant und ahnungslos, wenn man von "Afrika" spricht. Besser sei "afrikanischer Kontinent". Mmh. Da der recht groß ist, hier zur Präzision: Ich halte mich in der Region Laikipia (Kenia) auf, nur wenige Meter entfernt vom Äquator, somit recht nah an meinem Geburtsort.