There is a
new German question. It is this: Can Europe’s most powerful country lead the
way in building both a sustainable, internationally competitive eurozone and a
strong, internationally credible European Union? Germany’s difficulties in
responding convincingly to this challenge are partly the result of earlier
German questions and the solutions found to them. Yesterday’s answers have sown
the seeds of today’s question.
Before I
explore those historical connections, however, let us reflect on everything
that this new German question is not. Twenty-three years after unification, the
enlarged Federal Republic of Germany is about as solid a bourgeois liberal
democracy as you can find on earth. It has not only absorbed the huge costs of
unification but also, since 2003, made impressive economic reforms, lowering
labor costs by consensus and hence restoring its global competitiveness.
This land is
civilized, free, prosperous, law-abiding, moderate, and cautious. Its many
virtues might be summarized as “the banality of the good.” Asked by the
tabloid BILD-Zeitung what feelings Germany awakes in her,
Angela Merkel once famously replied, “I think of well-sealed windows! No other
country can make such well-sealed and nice windows [dichte
und schöne Fenster].”1 Yet
the place is not altogether so banal. Opening the well-sealed windows of my
hotel room in Berlin, I look across Unter den Linden to the illuminated,
translucent dome of the Reichstag building, at the heart of what is now, after
London, Europe’s most exciting city.2
An Israeli
friend who has taken German citizenship describes Germany to me as a “balanced”
country, and that feels just right. The French leftist politician Jean-Luc
Mélenchon caused a stir when he said that “amongst those who have a zest for
life, no one wants to be a German.”3 In
that case, there must be an awful lot of people who have no zest for life, because
according to a twenty-five-nation BBC poll,
Germany is the most popular country in the world—ten points ahead of France.4
It also has
weaknesses and problems. Who doesn’t? Germany has a rapidly aging population.
On a gloomy, no-change extrapolation, it could be down to a ratio of just over
one working person to each pensioner by 2030. Without any immigration, its
population might fall from over 80 million today to under 60 million in 2050.
Immigration therefore has to be a large part of the answer to its demographic
challenge, but Germany lags behind France and Britain, let alone Canada and the
United States, in emitting those vital, elusive social and cultural signals
that enable people of migrant origin to identify with their new homeland.5
Having made
an irrational, short-sighted political decision to abandon its own nuclear
power program, following the Fukushima disaster in Japan, and relying heavily
on coal and gas, Germany’s industrial energy
costs are some 40 percent above those in France. Its economy is brilliant at
making things that people in countries like China want to buy—cars, machine
tools, chemicals—but weaker in services. German companies are outstanding at
incremental technological improvements but less good at what is called “disruptive
innovation,” of the kind you find in Silicon Valley. The country that invented
the modern research university in the nineteenth century has many very good
universities, but no world-class one to compete with Oxford or Stanford. Berlin
boasts a delightful Café Einstein, but since the 1930s the Einsteins of this
world have tended to work elsewhere.
If these
weaknesses were eventually to result in economic decline, a domestic German
question could again arise. For Germany’s well-balanced liberal stability and
national identity are deeply bound up with its economic prowess. One cannot
entirely exclude the possibility that, in such an event, we could again see a
revival of cultural pessimism, political extremism, and what the tennis
champion Boris Becker once conversationally identified as his compatriots’
“tendency to flip their top.” But there is far more hysterical top-flipping in
the United States than in Germany at the moment—and sufficient unto the day are
the German questions thereof.
In the
global competition for business, German companies are as tough and
well-organized as German regiments used to be in war, and they are skillfully,
systematically supported by their government. Geopolitically, however, this
Germany manifests absolutely no neo-Wilhelmine ambitions to dominate its
neighbors, or anyone else. The only “place in the sun” its citizens seek is on
the holiday beaches of the Mediterranean. The only warlike victories it
celebrates are on the battlefield of soccer, a game at which it is so good that
it sometimes ends up playing itself. This year’s European Champions League
final, in London, was between two German teams, Bayern München and Borussia
Dortmund.
At the time
of German unification, there were fears that Germany would come to dominate a
new Mitteleuropa. Economically, Germany does now have
a preeminent position in East Central Europe. German manufacturers such as
Volkswagen have transferred important parts of their production to take
advantage of East Central Europe’s lower-wage, high-skilled workforce, while
still being inside the EU. If you treat the four Visegrad countries—Poland,
Hungary, the Czech Republic, and Slovakia—as one unit, they are Germany’s
biggest single trading partner. But this new Mitteleuropa has been achieved by
consent, and is seen by most Slavs, Magyars, and Germans as being largely to
mutual advantage. German-Polish relations are the best they have been for a
thousand years, and Poland is now Germany’s best friend in the EU. In 2011,
that country’s foreign minister, Radek Sikorski, memorably declared, “I will
probably be the first Polish foreign minister in history to say so, but here it
is: I fear German power less than I am beginning to fear German inactivity.”
To
understand why Germany is so reluctant to lead, you have to realize that the
European monetary union forged during and after German unification was not a
German project to dominate Europe but a European project to constrain Germany.
To the German question of 1989—what should we do about a rapidly uniting
Germany?—the answer given by François Mitterrand of France and Giulio Andreotti
of Italy was: bind it even more tightly into Europe, through a monetary union.
Yes, plans for a single currency to complement the single market were already
to hand, Chancellor Helmut Kohl was for it in principle, and there were
economic arguments for introducing it. But the timetable then hastily agreed
for the monetary union we have today, and some of its fundamental design flaws,
resulted from the politics around German unification.
We saw this
at the time, but the story can now be followed in fascinating detail in the
published German, British, French, and American documents. To give just one
example, according to the German record of a December 1989 conversation, Kohl
explained to US Secretary of State James Baker his attempts to allay European
fears about German unification thus:
He [Kohl]
asked himself what more he could do than to contribute to the creation of
European monetary and economic union. He had taken this decision [to commit to
the monetary union] against German interests. For example, the president of the
Bundesbank was against the current development. But the step was politically
important, for Germany needed friends. No distrust should be allowed to arise
in Europe against us.6
Kohl
cogently argued that a monetary union would need a fiscal and therefore also a
political union to accompany it; but Mitterrand and Andreotti were having none
of this. The idea was that they should get a handle on Germany’s currency, not
that Germany should get a handle on their national budgets. And so some of the
fundamental defects that the eurozone is struggling to correct today—monetary
union without mutual oversight of budgets, debts, and banks—emerged from the
turgid politics of its inception. As the historian Heinrich August Winkler
observes: “To solve the German question with the consent of Europe, the
European question had to remain open.”
The Germans
were never asked in a referendum if they wanted to give up the deutsche mark,
which was to postwar West German identity what the queen is to British
identity. If the Germans had been asked, they would probably have said no; but
the mighty Kohl pushed it through. In the first decade of the euro’s existence,
they got used to it, but they never learned to love it. Hardly anyone pointed
out to them that Germany was the biggest beneficiary of the single currency,
since it created excellent conditions for the country’s exports, both into and
beyond Europe. According to one estimate, Germany’s cumulative trade surplus
with the rest of the EU, from the introduction of the euro in 1999 to 2011, was
more than $1 trillion.7
Then came
the reckoning. In the electric storm of the financial crisis that broke in
2008, intensified by the hysteria of the bond markets, all the flaws of this
half-baked currency union were brutally revealed. That open European question
now had to be addressed. Because it was a question of economics, or more
accurately of political economy, all eyes turned to what was now—thanks to its
own long-standing economic prowess and post-2003 reforms, but also thanks to
the euro—Europe’s undisputed leading economic power.
Germany had
not sought this leadership role in Europe. After 1990, most Germans would have
been quite happy to master the challenges of national unification and otherwise
go on being rich and free, in a kind of Greater Switzerland, with high-quality
exports and plenty of sunny holidays on the Mediterranean. Instead, the
monetary union intended by Mitterrand to keep France in the driver’s seat of
Europe, and Germany in the passenger seat, ended up doing the precise opposite.
It put Germany in the driver’s seat as never before. Suddenly the Germans found
themselves paying to bail out others, and their government telling countries
now lumped together as “South European” exactly what to do in return: cut your
budgets, make structural reforms, become more like Germany.
Germany thus
slid unwittingly into the part that Bismarck, in a great speech to the
Reichstag in 1878, had warned his country not to take: der Schulmeister in Europa, Europe’s schoolmaster.8 Or
rather, since the occupant of Bismarck’s chair was now a lady, the
schoolmistress of Europe. Berlin’s reward? Cypriot street protesters holding up
placards saying “Hitler Merkel” and Greeks accusing Germans of behaving like
Gauleiters. In a Harris poll conducted in June this year, 88 percent of
respondents in Spain, 82 percent in Italy, and 56 percent in France said
Germany’s influence in the EU is too strong. As Merkel herself once wryly
remarked to me: we’re damned if we don’t lead and damned if we do.
The chancellor’s pragmatic, low-key, step-by-step approach partly
reflects her personal style. But one reason her popularity has held up so well
in Germany throughout these years of crisis is that her manifest reluctance to
do more than the seemingly unavoidable at every stage of the eurozone crisis
has both mirrored and defined the reluctance of a nation. The one really bold,
decisive action in the eurozone crisis so far was taken not by Germany but by
the Italian president of the European Central Bank, Mario Draghi, when he said
in July 2012 that the bank would do “whatever it takes” to preserve the euro.
As a result, the eurozone has survived but is not yet prospering—especially not
in the debtor countries of the south. In Spain, for example, youth unemployment
exceeds 50 percent.
Now,
however, we are approaching a moment of truth in the whole European Union.
Across the continent, north and south, there has been a dramatic decline in
trust in that Union, and the emergence of protest parties. Between the German
parliamentary elections on September 22, 2013, and the elections to the
European Parliament that begin on May 22, 2014, there will be just eight months
to convince these growing legions of skeptical Europeans that Europe’s leaders,
established parties, and institutions know a way out of the darkness.
Otherwise, we shall get a European Parliament that is both wild and blocked.
The anger in some southern European countries could also boil over at any
point, unless their peoples see light at the end of what many regard as a
German-imposed tunnel.
The German
foreign minister, Guido Westerwelle, rightly observes that this is a formative
period in three respects: for Europe’s credibility with its own citizens, for
Europe’s standing in the world, and for the way Europe and the world view
Germany.9 By
sheer chance, this historical crux coincides with the hundredth anniversary of
the outbreak of World War I in 1914.
Soon after
Germany’s peaceful unification in 1989–1990, Fritz Stern unforgettably
described it as Germany’s “second chance.” Europe’s economically dynamic
central power had had its first chance in the years before 1914. “It could have
been Germany’s century,” as Raymond Aron once remarked to Stern. It blew that
chance in two world wars and the Holocaust. Now it had another.
Nearly a
quarter-century later we can confidently assert that, in its domestic affairs,
Germany has used its second chance well. This is a “European Germany” of which
Thomas Mann could be proud.10 Externally,
however, in shaping a new European order and addressing the European question
left open at the time of unification, the real test of how Germany uses its
second chance is upon it only now.
Although the
term “hegemon” is widely used, Germany’s position in Europe today is that of a
leading rather than a dominant power. This is not the outright hegemonic
predominance of Napoleonic France in continental Europe, or the United States
in the Western world after 1945. The Berlin republic has just 16 percent of the
EU’s population and 20 percent of its GDP. This
awkward, in-between size is, alongside the country’s central geographic
location, a recurrent feature of modern German questions. “Too big for Europe,
too small for the world,” Henry Kissinger famously quipped. Yet the issue today
is whether Germany is even big enough for Europe—not just objectively but also
subjectively, in its spirit and strategic imagination.
Unlike the
United States, Europe’s central state is preeminent only in one of the three
main dimensions of power. Militarily, it does not compare for impact with
Britain and France. Having roused itself to participate in the Kosovo
intervention, to prevent another Serbian genocide there (still, in my view, one
of the finest hours of post-unification Germany), and again to join its Western
allies in Afghanistan, it has sunk back into a rather complacent pacifism.11 A
senior government minister talks to me almost dismissively about his country’s
“decent” army, before arguing that the real battles of the twenty-first century
will be geo-economic.
And soft
power? Yes, as that twenty-five-nation BBC poll
suggests, the Federal Republic has considerable power to attract—Joseph Nye’s
classic definition of soft power. Yet this still does not compare with the
cultural pulling power of the land of Harry Potter, David Beckham, the Royal
Shakespeare Company, the BBC, English-language universities with students from all over the world,
the royal family, the London Olympics, and Mr. Bean.
But economic
power—here it’s Germany, Germany above all. And political power, too. Thus, in
the corridors and councils of Brussels, everyone waits to see which way Berlin
will go. All Europeans used to have one subject in common: America. Now they
have two: Germany and America. As we look for German answers to the European
question, there are three crucial areas to watch: economic policy; European
institutions to oversee and legitimate that policy; and, last but not least,
the poetry to accompany this economic and institutional prose, inspiring
Europeans once again to believe in the dream we call Europe.
Talking to
German politicians and officials, I’m struck by the place their own answers
start. That place is not Germany, or Greece, or Italy; it is China. In 2012, 46
percent of the EU’s exports to China came from Germany. Britain has globalized
its financial services, but no European manufacturing sector is more
international than Germany’s. What my German interlocutors want for the other
eurozone countries is that they should become strong, competitive, export-led
economies like Germany. Then, and only then, would we have what they call die Selbstbehauptung Europas, a Europe able to stand up
for itself in a rapidly changing world. Hence their iron, schoolmasterly
insistence on a combination of fiscal consolidation and structural reform in
the weaker economies of the eurozone.
Their
greatest worry is France, especially under its Socialist president François
Hollande. France is both the most important country to Germany in the history
of European integration, since the 1950s, and one dramatically failing to
reform. How can they keep up the “reform pressure” on France, they fret, when
it is effectively sheltered by Germany’s creditworthiness? (France’s government
bond yields are much closer to Germany’s than those of Spain or Italy because
the markets correctly judge that France is the last Mediterranean country
Germany would ever let go.)
You see,
says one senior German politician, I let my daughter use my credit card, but I
check the transactions record. I tease out the point: “And if the French girl
is blowing it all on beautiful couture dresses…?” “Exactly!” he snorts. German
officials say privately, “We have to pretend to treat France as an equal.”
Their last, best hope for economic reform in France is that French national
pride will not abide that country’s own relative decline and Germany’s palpable
condescension.
The trouble
with the German prescription for the eurozone is that it is—according to
taste—either just not working or not working fast enough. One simple,
theoretical point seems to me worth stressing. Germany, the export champion,
has been described as Europe’s China. Just as not everyone in the world can be
China, and if everyone were like China, China could not be China—for who would
then buy its exports?—so not everyone in the eurozone can be Germany, and in
the unlikely event that they did become like Germany, Germany could no longer be
Germany. Unless, that is, you assume that the rest of the world would
cheerfully expand its domestic demand to buy an all-German eurozone’s increased
supply of exports.
In the end,
the only thing that matters is what works. The challenge to Germany, after its
election, is to find the policy mix that brings the eurozone what everyone
wants—investment, growth, jobs, and hence also the reduced unemployment benefit
bills and increased tax revenues that will alone durably reduce public debt.
The outcome will of course depend on world economic trends that, in places such
as China, are hardly favorable.
The rhetoric
of German policy remains sternly dogmatic, with German economics often sounding
like a branch of moral philosophy, if not Protestant theology. Merkel, the
daughter of an East German Protestant priest, once incautiously suggested that
the southern European debtor countries must “atone for past sins.” The reality
of Berlin’s policy, however, has been more pragmatic. For example, earlier this
year it authorized state-controlled German banks to help create jobs for the
unemployed youth of southern Europe. The chances of seeing more such
constructive pragmatism, including wage increases that could stimulate German
domestic demand, would certainly increase if the Social Democrats were to enter
government, perhaps in a “grand coalition” with Merkel’s Christian Democrats.
But even if
the country’s leaders are prepared to do whatever turns out to be necessary,
can they take the German people with them? Germans are understandably
preoccupied with the danger of having to pay with their own hard-earned wages
and savings for other Europeans’ self-indulgent mistakes. I lose count of the
number of times people say to me, “When outsiders ask us for leadership, what
they mean is money.”
They are
also obsessed with the danger of inflation. One poll found that Germans fear
inflation more than they fear getting cancer.12 The
shadow of history again: in this case, the trauma of two dramatic inflations,
after the first and after the second world war. Yet as the economic policy
correspondent of the liberal weekly Die Zeit argues
in a spirited polemic, they misunderstand both the past—it was deflation, not
inflation, that immediately preceded Hitler’s rise to power—and the present
reality of that danger.13
Two of the
country’s most influential institutions also place limits on the power of any
German government to act decisively. The Bundesbank, as skeptical about the
euro now as it was when Kohl confided in Baker back in 1989, has been pressing
its objections before the Bundesverfassungsgericht, the powerful constitutional
court. As an expert witness, Bundesbank president Jens Weidmann suggests that
the way Draghi saved the euro last year, with the promise of so-called outright
monetary transactions, may violate the European Central Bank’s treaty mandate.
Not for the first time, all Europe waits with bated breath for the next verdict
of this German court.
Here we are
led back to the answer to yet another German question, that of 1945. To ensure
that no Hitler would ever again come to power, the Federal Republic was
designed not only to be as geographically decentralized as possible but also to
have a plenitude of institutional checks and balances, including a very strong
constitutional court. So the state from which decisive executive leadership is
demanded today has a political system intended to make such decisive executive
leadership very difficult.
If Germany
does manage to do what is necessary in economic policy, together with its
eurozone partners, Europe will need some new institutional architecture, most
urgently for the oversight of national budgets in the eurozone, but eventually
for the whole structure of the Union. Berlin today is a building site, with
vast cranes and diggers tunneling a new subway line right in front of the
(fortunately well sealed) windows of my hotel room and, just down Unter den
Linden, the foundation stone now laid for what promises to be a wonderful
reconstruction of the Prussian royal palace, which was demolished by the East
German Communists after World War II. Berlin is also an intellectual building
site, with alternative designs for Europe being swung around like giant
girders. A friend hands me a postcard saying, “The European Republic is under
construction.” An internal Social Democratic discussion paper calls for ein anderes Europa—another (and better) Europe.
So will this
be Bundesrepublik Europa, the Federal Republic of Europe?
Like other European countries, Germany certainly starts by thinking of Europe
through the prism of its own constitutional tradition, just as the French
imagine a centralized secular republic and the Brits dream of a baggy
commonwealth. Federal, in the German sense, could also mean bringing powers
back down to the national and state levels—something many skeptical Europeans,
and not just English Euroskeptics, would welcome. But the German debate is
broader than this.
Merkel
herself oscillates between envisaging a greater role for the directly elected
European Parliament and a strong pragmatic preference for intergovernmental
agreements, such as last year’s fiscal compact for the eurozone. With a growing
emphasis in German debates on the importance of democratic national
sovereignty, encouraged by judgments of the constitutional court, there are
also calls for the voices of national parliaments to be heard more directly in
Brussels.
So the
Germans, like everyone else, are intellectually juggling three kinds of
legitimacy: supranational, through a European Commission overseen by a directly
elected European Parliament; intergovernmental, in the Councils of the EU,
which bring together representatives of democratically elected national
governments; and the involvement of national parliaments. Whatever eventually
comes out of the sausage factory of Brussels negotiations, probably several
years hence, will not be neat and tidy, and it will not be made only in
Germany: less a Bundesrepublik Europa, more a Holy Republican Commonwealth.
While the
wheels of economic policy and institutional negotiations grind slowly and
exceeding small, there is a crying need for poetry. Europeans are desperate to
be given a sense of direction, purpose, and hope. A German federal chancellor
once offered a superb example of such visionary leadership. Willy Brandt
wrapped his new Ostpolitik, originally known as a
Merkel-like “policy of small steps,” in inspirational rhetoric. The Germans, he
declared, should be “a nation of good neighbors, at home and abroad.”
As Merkel’s
biographer Stefan Kornelius observes, she has many strengths, but
pulse-quickening oratory will never be among them. Unfortunately, this is not
just true of her. The entire German political class uses a kind of sanitized
Lego-language, snapping together prefabricated phrases made of hollow plastic.
Most German politicians are more likely to fly unaided to the moon than they
are to coin a striking phrase.
Why? Partly
because there are so many ghosts in the German language. As the former foreign
minister Joschka Fischer has noted, you can have a conference of young leaders,
but junge Führer…? I find people often slip into
English to use the word “leadership.” So, because of Hitler, the palette of
contemporary German political rhetoric is deliberately narrow, cautious, and
boring. Then there is the fact that, for a long time now, talented people have
preferred to go into business, or to study and work abroad. (I could fill a
whole government with our outstanding German students at Oxford.) While German
business has globalized itself spectacularly over the last quarter-century,
with companies holding board meetings in English, and managers being as much at
home in Shanghai and São Paulo as in Stuttgart, the political class has become
even more provincial than it was before.
Again, this
provincialism partly goes back to the answers given to earlier German
questions. Since the country’s political system was deliberately decentralized,
politicians have generally worked their way up through the politics of the
federal states, the Länder. But didn’t
Brandt, and Helmut Schmidt, and Helmut Kohl come up that provincial ladder too?
Yes, but at least, unlike today’s professional politicians, they had done
something else before they became politicians. And they were shaped, given a
continental and global perspective, by the experience of two wars: World War II
(which Schmidt experienced as a soldier, Kohl as a teenager) and the cold war.
Since the answer to the post-1945 question of Germany’s division was only to be
found in Moscow, Washington, Paris, and London, the leaders of the pre-
unification Federal Republic simply had to be global. Hence the apparent
paradox that while German power has grown, its political class has shrunk.
So, who will
speak for Europe? Starting on September 23, the day after the Bundestag
elections, the European conundrum must be addressed more decisively by Germany.
But this Germany is neither objectively nor subjectively big enough to solve it
on its own. The Berlin republic can be, at best, first among equals. Its
leadership must be understated, collaborative, building on carefully cultivated
relations with small as well as large states—which is, after all, the
distinctive foreign policy tradition of the Federal Republic. And it knows it.
Germany therefore needs all the help it can get from its European
friends and partners. Only together can we generate the policies and
institutions, but also that fresh breeze of poetry, to get the European ship
sailing again. The answers to this new German question will not be found by
Germans alone.
