Four Football Matches and a Concentration Camp – Part 1 of 3

1. SC Freiburg vs Bayer Leverkusen (26 January 2013)

Germany is one of those pleasures I discovered late in life, like tinned artichokes. My first ever visit was for the Hamburg Marathon in 2005, followed soon afterwards by the series of work trips to Dusseldorf. I liked it then, and I like it now. Enough to think about living there one day.

From where I currently live, the border is less than an hour away in the car, so I have few excuses for not visiting more often. It’s the Tower of London syndrome — the UK’s most popular tourist attraction with 2 or 3 million visitors a year, but a place I’ve never been to, despite living in London for a total of 25 years. It’s easy for something that can be visited anytime, to become a place never visited at all.

Since living in Switzerland, I’ve thought of Germany as that huge, cheap, out-of-town supermarket, worth a special trip once in a while to stock up with verboten pleasures like beef, a kilo of which would save enough to fund the petrol bill.

My last two visits have had a more specific purpose. I’m indebted to the redoubtable @sweder for unintentionally encouraging an interest in Bundesliga football. His casual question, uttered in a rare moment of alcohol-free coherence (on the part of both us) during his visit a few months ago, had unintended consequences. He asked me which local football teams I’d adopted. My answer, “None”, set me thinking. I ought to attend the odd game.

Back at the end of January, Switzerland was still on its mid-winter break, but the Bundesliga, Germany’s Premier League, had returned from its own shorter pause a couple of weeks earlier. A little more probing with the help of www.footiemap.com revealed that SC Freiburg, based in Freiburg im Breisgau, Baden-Württemberg, was my nearest club — a theoretical drive of about 1 hour 45 minutes.

“Theoretical” because I opted for the longer, scenic route across country. This took me through Zurich and over the border into Waldshut. From there, or so I had planned, my sat nav would guide me through the southern reaches of the Black Forest, up through Todtmoos and Todtnau, arriving in Freiburg mid-afternoon. I would check into the hotel then wander the mile or two to the ground, perhaps taking in a beer on the way. All in good time for the 6.30 kick-off.

This putative rustic meander didn’t go to plan. The sat nav didn’t want to play by my rules, and kept dragging me off towards the French border and the motorway. Neither of us surrendered. Even when the bloody thing agreed to go the way I wanted, it warned me it would take so long that I’d miss kick off. I drove on regardless, through ethereal pine forest and along precipitous roads with bracing views across the snowy landscapes of first Bavaria then Baden-Württemberg.

The scenery was glorious, but as the afternoon ticked on, I seemed not be making the progress I’d hoped for. Eventually, in a u-turn worthy of a place alongside the Pasty Tax, I conceded defeat and raced back south. Once across the border I joined the motorway to Basle, then northwards into Germany again, tracing the French border and the distant outline of the Vosges Mountains of Alsace.

Freiburg is a small but very fine medieval city. The Altstadt — Old Town — is a beautiful place, but it will never shake off some sombre personal associations. I was here last September with my wife. We were in the cathedral just before midday when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I stepped outside to take the call, which would tell me that my older sister had just died. As I stood there, not quite knowing what I should be thinking, a tremendous tumult of bells suddenly exploded across the city centre. The timing was perfect. It made the need to talk, or even think, superfluous. As this demented sound continued to fill the void vacated by rational thought, I walked slowly across the square to the Currywurst stall. Here I bought a glass of beer and raised it skywards to toast Susan’s memory.

We left Freiburg soon after, leaving me with a sense of unfinished business that I’ve made some effort to deal with. This latest visit was now my third time in Freiburg, and despite its ancient loveliness, will always be the place I happened to be when the life of my sister finally drained away.

Freiburg on a freezing black January evening has a different feel to it. I was in danger of being late for the match, so drove straight to the stadium and spent a feverish 30 minutes trying to find somewhere – anywhere – to dump the car. In desperation, I parked illegally in a private residential spot and legged it to the stadium, hoping my return would not be greeted by a quivering forest of angry pitchforks.

For a sentimental Custodian of the Football Anorak like me, there are few things to match the appeal of an illuminated stadium on the evening of a game. The roar of 30,000 inebriated oafs has a symphonic grandeur unmatched by anything the Royal Albert Hall might muster. Add the exquisite aroma of onions frying on the Bratwurst stalls and the beguiling volcanic glow as you approach the venue on a cold dark night, and you are being handed the promise of something truly tremendous.

Even before I got to the ground, I was entertained and enthralled by the violent noise of the supporters. The 6.30 kickoff had offered an opportunity for an extra beer or two that few Freiburgers seemed to have passed up. Although elements of this scene were profoundly familiar, I was instantly aware that the style of music and singing – martial, stirring, and lusty — were quite different from the sound of a British football crowd.

Once inside this pleasantly clapped out arena, I was met with the spectacular sight of a terraceful of excitable, flag-waving fans. A terrace, you say? Ja, Germans are still trusted to stand up at football matches. It explained the volume (in both senses) of the choir. With standing you can easily move towards or away from, depending on your predilections, the singing hoardes, thus giving the rough and ready vocal ensemble a concentration guaranteed to produce a decent racket and thrilling atmosphere.

In truth, the fans offered more entertainment than the players on that sub-zero January evening, shredding their vocal chords through 90 minutes of bellicose anthems while the floodlit soldiers of Freiburg and Bayer Leverkusen played out the mildest of 0-0 draws.

More memorable was the simple sight of the terraces, which pumped me full of nostalgia that evening. A further blast of sentiment hit as I noticed that Germans are allowed to smoke and drink beer – while actually watching the game. Just imagine that. The two chaps next to me got through six half litres each – three either side of half time. We were sitting near the top of a steep stand, high above the corner flag. They took it in turns to fetch the big cups of frothy liquid from the beer and sausage dispensary at the foot of the stairs. Their ability to negotiate their way to the top of the steps with the two plastic glasses declined as the game wore on. The first couple of rounds were conveyed with a haughty confidence while the final two excursions of the night were as nerve-wracking for the spectators as they must have been for the two performers, who looked more like jittery amateurs on a tightrope than thirsty men in pursuit of refreshment.

The entire experience was jovial and exhilarating, but later reflection turned it into a forlorn reminder of what football  used to be in England pre-Hillsborough, before the wet blankets were pompously lowered to muffle the true sound of our anguish and joy.

Footnote:
The following morning, while wandering around the cobbled streets of Freiburg’s old town, I noticed occasional flashes of gold beneath my feet. Investigation revealed these to be the Stolpersteine, or brass ‘stumbling blocks’, so-called (according to the Wikipedia article) because it was once customary, before the Holocaust, ‘for Non-Jews to say, when they stumbled over a protruding stone: “There must be a Jew buried here”.’

A Stolperstein commemorates a Jewish person sent to one of the Nazi extermination camps, and will be found directly outside the house or apartment where they last lived, and from where they would have been taken.

Germany is full of such reminders.