It was many years ago. I was visiting my uncle who is a Jesuit priest and professor of Theology at Georgetown University in Washington D.C., where I attended. It was a brilliant day, sunny, warm, with a light breeze. Walking across Healy Circle, located at the front of campus, a smallish, skinny black man aged about twenty-five with a heavy backpack weighing him down approached me with a smile. I returned the smile, we greeted each other, he put down his load.

He was from a West African country, from which one I cannot remember. He spoke of the civil war there, the persecution of his tribe, family and of him, and of the good fortune he had in escaping it. How he made it to the U.S. I cannot recall either. He made a sincere and serious impression on me. I listened carefully to his story and felt empathy. The signals then became clear that he would ask me for some kind of help.

Roughly the same age, having recently gone into business for myself in Philadelphia, I was hardly in a position to do anything for him. We continued to talk. He then asked for help. Apologizing for not being able to, I gave him my business card and said: “Well, if you‘re ever in Philadelphia, let’s get together”, hoping it would be a friendly but clear way to remove myself from the conversation, and that he would understand that I cannot help him out of his difficult situation.

“A strange black man waiting at your door”

He studied the card carefully, then with a smile, he said “Thank you, John. Thank you very much”, in an English formal, polite, right out of the textbook he must have learned from many years before, and like so many well-educated Africans. We shook hands. I departed quickly so that he could not continue the conversation. I went on with my activities in the nation’s capital over the next day without ever thinking again about that West African.

Until I returned to Philadelphia, that is. At Ninth and Spruce Streets in Center City, as the Philadelphians call their downtown, is where I lived, in the third floor apartment under the roof of an old townhouse. One of my cousins, Helen, lived with her former college roommate in the apartment just below me. As I walked up the stairs, she opened the door ever so slightly, I suspect after having heard me open the front door. With wide and alarmed eyes Helen whispered: “John, there is a strange black man upstairs waiting for you in front of your apartment.”

A strange black man? I don’t know any strange black men. In fact, I don’t know too many black men at all. Well, I did after about ten more steps. “Oh, no”, I thought, my business card, damn. What do I do now? I put on a happy face, smiled, greeted him heartily and said something like “Great to see you, again. Come on in!” The stairs up to my loft apartment were very steep and narrow. He trudged up schlepping his heavy bag. What was I supposed to do with this guy?

Say “yes, mean no”

Many of the details I no longer remember. But I do recall that I took him out for dinner, gave him a brief walking tour of Center City including the historical sights, allowed him to sleep in my bed while I made do with the couch. The next day, after some breakfast, I drove him over to 30th Street Station and put him on an Amtrak train up to Boston, where he said he had some contacts from West Africa. I was happy to be rid of him.

His story was certainly bigger than mine. A refugee from civil war in a faraway land, seeking a safe and secure life in America. Hoping for help. From anyone. And my story? A safe and secure white American male with a solid education and the kinds of advantages and opportunities a “strange black man” from Africa could only dream of. Looking back, shameful of me.

But for us, as Americans and Germans collaborating across the Atlantic, this little story is about agreements, about how Americans will communicate a “yes” which is not meant as such. Since we seldom feel comfortable saying “no” to someone – a family member, friend, neighbor, colleague, certainly not to our boss or to a customer, or to a stranger – we find ways to say “yes” in a way which communicates “no.”

These were rather clear signals.

Why would this guy from West Africa suddenly show up at my door in Philadelphia, a three-hour train ride from Washington, DC? We don’t even know each other. We have nothing in common. We‘re strangers. In our conversation of a few days before I had given no indication that I was in a position to help him. On the contrary, my response to his request was crystal clear. It was short, polite, I gave him my card and got on my way, and rather hastily.

But wait! That’s American thinking. I did give him my card, and did show sincere interest in his situation, then did say to him: “Well, if you‘re ever in Philadelphia, let’s get together.” These were rather clear signals. But from whom and to whom? For any American witnessing the interaction the message was very straightforward: “I am sorry to hear about your plight, but I cannot help you. Good luck.”

But for a person from another culture? From his? Or from Germany? Why should my behavior and statements not be taken literally, sincerely, at face value? Or how about this question: Why would I not simply state what I was thinking – honestly, transparently, from the heart – by saying: “I am sorry to hear about your plight, but I cannot help you. Good luck.”

Well, I did, in fact, say that. In my way. In an American way.

We were sitting in his office in the U.S. A very special customer of mine. Intelligent, active mind, great sense of humor, but also a serious human being. A German, who had lived in the United States for at least five years up to that point. Some of his direct reports came and went as we talked on a warm summer end-of-week afternoon.

With a smile on his face he said: “I really still cannot understand why every time I come into the office and several people greet me at least one person says ‘Good morning, Dieter. How are you doing?’ Then I stop, say ‘hello’ back, and begin to tell him or her how I’m doing, only to notice after a few seconds that they‘re not the least bit interested in how I am doing. It’s unbelievable!”

I smile back at him and respond: “Dieter, they’re just saying ‘hello’ in another way. It’s not meant literally. Who wants to always use the same greeting?” There aren’t that many options, frankly. Hi. Hello. Good morning. “Besides, depending on the context it could be meant sincerely.” Dieter wanted to know more.

Not just in day-to-day interactions

“What if you and a colleague arrive for a meeting early. Just the two of you are sitting there. She knows that you‘re not doing well. Perhaps you’re overworked, not feeling well health-wise, problems at home, or simply you look down. 

If she were to greet you in the meeting room with ‘Hello Dieter. How are you?’ and you are fairly close as colleagues, well then, you would know that she means it sincerely. You then have the option to either respond to her concern by letting her know how you are or you could give a brief answer indicating that you prefer not to, ‘Oh, not so bad, how are you?'”

The context was clear to both Dieter and his colleague that a “How are you?” is meant sincerely: two of you in the room, no one else present, you have a fairly close relationship, you’re not doing so well and folks close to you notice it. 

Whereas the context of the morning greeting is equally clear: at the beginning of the day, when everyone is anxious to get started with work, passing each other in the hall or going up the stairs, or it’s someone with whom you have a working relationship but not a particularly close personal one.

“Right, I get that, John” he says. “But, in general how do I know when Americans mean what they say? And I mean in serious business situations, not just in day-to-day interactions.” I continued:

Different degrees of commitment

In the American culture, therefore American business culture, a “yes” can have varying levels of reliability, from 98% to 68, to 38, 18, 8 and even to -8, -18, -38% and so on. These numbers are arbitrary. The message, though, is that it depends.

“Depends on what?” On whether the person making the promise is known for being reliable or not reliable. Some colleagues take on more than they can get done. Others are much more conservative when making commitments. 

On whether the substance of the promise – the agreement – is such that you know that he or she is likely or unlikely to deliver. In other words, on the degree of difficulty or complexity of it. And especially it depends on the signals given by that person about whether she or he both wants to deliver and can deliver.

About that last point Dieter wanted to know more. I went on. If the person says “Yes, I can get that done for you”, but also says it was a while ago since he worked on the project, that he was not a member of the core team, that he isn’t sure on which server the data which Dieter requested was stored, and that his boss had just loaded him up with two or three new tasks, and finally that his daughter has an important volleyball game on the weekend.

Then those are obvious signals that he would very much like to help Dieter, but there are factors and circumstances over which he has little control and which might, or most probably will, prevent him from delivering.

Direct, but not definite

In other words, his “yes” is conditional. And depending on the amount and nature of the conditions Dieter needs to judge how reliable that “yes” is. Most likely closer to 38%, or even 18% than to 68%.

Dieter then asked: “Why don‘t Americans just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? How hard can that be?” My response was that in principle Americans always want to help a friend, neighbor, relative, colleague at work, and definitely their boss, and very definitely a customer. It is considered to be poor form, uncooperative, even selfish to ever respond instinctively with a ‘no’ in the American context. The immediate American response is almost always ‘yes.’ Immediate, but not definitive.

Also, Americans tend towards over-promising. They prefer to say ‘yes’ and then try their best to deliver. The context signals which accompany their ‘yes’ are meant to indicate to the other party their own sense of delivery probability, in the sense of: 

“I want to deliver, Dieter. I want to help you. And I’ll do my best. However, be warned, I have a lot going on. And I may not be the best person to ask for this information. Other colleagues were more involved in the project than I was. So, you might want to ask the others on the project, too. Besides, my priority is to deliver for my boss, who just gave me additional tasks. It‘s your choice.”

Things began to click in Dieter’s mind. I could see it in his eyes. Then he asked: “But wait. What if the other person does not offer that context information, those conditions? How can I then judge the degree of delivery probability of the ‘yes’?” A very good question.

I replied, “You need to ask the famous w-questions.” Who, when, where, why. And, how. It goes like this: “Hi Sam. How things going? Hey, did you work on that XYZ Project a few months back? I need some of the data the team produced. How involved in the project were you? Can you get it for me? Do you know where it is stored? Do you even have any time for this? I don’t want to burden you, but it would be very helpful to get that data within a few days. Can you manage that or should I contact another person who was on that project?”

In other words, Dieter needs to qualify the ‘yes’ himself by asking context- or reliability-defining questions. Doing so is seldom a sign of mistrust in the American business culture. Quite the opposite. It gives the other person an opportunity to give reasons why they may not be able to deliver or to deliver reliably. It also obligates them. If their responses are all affirmative, then they are committing themselves to following through on their ‘yes.’

This is not a trick or a way of manipulating another person. It is how Americans get a read on, how they gauge or anticipate the degree of reliability of an agreement. The context is always critical. The situation can change. Americans prefer to commit conditionally rather than to not commit at all.

A DAX30 company. Industry. Engineering and manufacturing. A senior-level manager. German. Let‘s call him Heinrich.

I had done about six months of work for his organization. Several times I sat in on their staff meetings, having been asked to play „fly on the wall“ (or Mäuschen, little mouse, as the Germans would say), to observe the interactions.

Like any team they, too, had their areas of improvement. Heinrich asked me for my recommendations. Since I had only my impressions, I suggested that I do a Check, an audit, which is a series of background interviews with his staff and selected subject-area experts within their respective groups: design engineering, product management, testing, materials, processes, etc.

Listen carefully

Audit, from Latin, means to listen. Which is what I do, asking the right questions, in the right sequence, listening carefully and taking down notes as accurately as possible. I then take time to rewrite my notes, analyze them, in order to then go back to my client to present and propose what could be done to improve things.

As is always the case, if you gain the trust of the folks being interviewed – and there is room for improvement – they open up, especially the Germans. Well, one of those areas concerned the communication between Heinrich and his direct reports.

Both sides, the German and the American reports, stated that Heinrich simply did not take the time, or make the effort, to spell out sufficiently what his strategic thinking was. They felt a bit left in the dark, and asked me to please address this with him.

That the Americans would voice this concern did not surprise me, for the reasons I give in the core content on German leadership. But that the German reports were equally concerned signaled to me that this must be an area of improvement.

„I refuse to spell out . . . . “

Thinking this would be easy to improve, and therefore not requiring any kind of team session or workshop, I raised the topic over lunch with Heinrich. His reaction was not at all what I had expected. Heinrich became impatient, almost a bit angry: „I refuse to spell out my strategic thinking anymore than I currently do. If my folks don‘t understand it, then they‘re not the right people for their positions.“

I was taken aback, but kept Heinrich in the discussion on this topic, looking for ways to get him to see things from the perspective of his team: „But, Dr. Künow (not his real name), you know that you think on several levels at one time, and in very sophisticated ways (which was true. I was not patronizing him). Even very capable people cannot always follow you.“

This did not help. He stuck to his initial reaction, at least in that conversation with me. Later I would find out that he did, indeed, put a bit more effort into making clear what he expected from his organization.

“I might just as well do it myself!“

During our conversation, which had lasted no longer than half an hour, Heinrich said something which over the years I have heard dozens of times from German managers: „If I have to spell out in detail the work (meaning tasks, mandates, missions assigned), I might just as well do it myself!“

This is pure-form German leadership logic. Germans expect the next level down in hierarchy to understand the overall purpose of a generally-formulated task, mandate, or assignment in such a way that they can figure out on their own the details of its tactical execution.

The key terms here are „generally-formulated“, „mandate“ and „ figure out the details.“ Why? Germans in leadership positions, regardless of where they are in the hierarchy, believe that it should not be necessary to „spell out“ the how (tactics). Next level actors – management, subject-area experts, support staff – should have the required training, expertise and self-initiative to spell out the mission for themselves. If they can‘t, or are unwilling, they are not qualified to do the work.

On the flip side of this logic is the desire of the Germans to do that „spelling out.“ This is why they feel uncomfortable – and even reject – tasks, mandates, missions or assignments which include too much information about how the work should be done (tactics).

Too prescriptive, limiting, restrictive

An assignment with not only a description of the overall mission (strategy), but also details about the how (tactics), is considered by Germans to be too prescriptive, limiting, restrictive. They want maximum freedom in interpreting the mission and then executing it as they see best, based on their understanding of the situation. „That‘s what I was trained for, and that‘s what I get paid for. The next level above should not get too involved in my work.“

Dr. Künow and his team were a very high-performing transatlantic organization. In many ways they were the forerunners in their company when it came to addressing how to integrate German and American approaches. Yet, they had their areas of improvement, too.

Heinrich continued to „fly too high“ for his organization, but they learned to adapt to him. For his part, Heinrich found other ways to make more transparent his strategic thinking. It was a dance they would do for several more years.

Breadth and depth means gathering, analyzing and presenting alot of information. The semester papers at the Freie Universität Berlin were really long. One submitted by a graduate student was over eight-five pages! 

The longest one I had ever written at Georgetown University was twenty, which back in 1980 was not considered short. My German Master’s thesis was one-hundred and twenty. Some doctoral theses in Germany go well beyond five-hundred pages. An American Ph.D. advisor would most likely not even accept such a tome.

It’s not much different in German print media. Even if you were to remove the advertising, weekly magazines here are very long. Who has the time to read all of that material? Over a five-year period I read Die ZEIT. A first-class weekly newspaper on politics, business, culture, and the arts. 

But the length of the articles was simply too much. To Americans the Germans are simply too long-winded. TV and radio segments are long and detailed. The interactions among guests on talk shows can be painfully long, differentiating, minute. Yes, German books are excellent. But it would be equally excellent to leave out all irrelevant content.

Everyday interactions among the people are not much different. If you get lost in an American city and ask a stranger for directions, the response is typically brief. Often the person gives practical and effective advice: “Go three blocks down, turn right, cross over Main Street, then ask another person how to continue from there.” 

That’s perfect! No need to listen to a long-winded speech. Nor to remember it. Saves time. Saves brain-power. You simply ask the next person a few minutes later. It also reduces the risk of mistakes. Germans are very helpful. But when they give long, detailed answers to relatively simple questions, I think: “My goodness, am I the stupid one or does this perfectly nice person not consider what a guy from out of town can possible remember?”

Rigor means mastering a craft, physically and mentally

If the approach taken is systematic – in the sense of “everything is connected to everything else” – then there is no alternative to gathering information in breadth and depth, in order to analyze all of the decision-making possibilities.

And all of this information should be from objective sources. Objectivity. This is another roter Faden (literally red thread, or common theme) in German thinking. A red thread in the topics Persuasion, Leadership, Process Philosophy and Conflict Resolution. 

My impression is that Germans see information primarily as data. And data should be scientific. Measurable, quantifiable, independent of intuition. To gather information in depth and breadth means to gather facts in depth and breadth.

And, in order to analyze those facts in a competent way you need the right analytical tools. Another area of contention between Germans and Americans in their collaboration. For tools are the manifestation of how people, disciplines (i.e. engineering, marketing), companies, and cultures, fundamentally think. 

You can get a sense of the work performed by a carpenter, a machine-tool maker, a baker, an architect, of a thinker of any kind, by looking at their tools. In Germany rigor is a key to quality and to success. Quality has to do with processes. And processes have to do with tools. Many tools. And they are fine, as in precise. Precision. For all processes are work processes. And work is supported by physical and mental tools. Rigor, therefore, means mastering a craft, physically and mentally.

I supported Stefan and his team for well over a year, as part of a larger organization. He was in his early 40s, spoke great English, had a clever sense of humor, managed a team with roughly one hundred people in Germany and the U.S. each. His staff of seven managed well the two hundred. Stefan travelled to the U.S. three to four times per quarter.

During dinner after a two-day workshop Stefan turned to me and said: „John, I get the feeling whenever I come to the U.S. that my people here don‘t even know who I am.“ He had a funny kind of smile on his face, perplexed.

I sensed what was going on. „Well, Stefan, when you come over who do you typically meet with?“ He went through the list: his direct reports, senior-level management in other departments, a handful of selected subject-area experts in testing, manufacturing, supply chain, and two or three German delegates to the U.S.

„Am I leaving a vacuum?”

My response: „Remember what we‘ve discussed over the last few months about American leadership logic. If you‘re not present in the eyes and minds of your team here, they will automatically orient themselves towards the strongest of your American direct reports. They won‘t have any other alternative.“

„Am I leaving a vacuum which is being filled?“, Stefan asked. I nodded. Both of us had gotten through our burgers, were eating our fries and drinking our juices. The background music was loud, but we could discuss further, nonetheless. We were in a college town, it was the middle of the Fall semester. Thursday evening. The place was full with students, faculty and university administration types.

„Americans like to know who their team lead is, and the strategic direction“, I said. Visiting as often as Stefan did was good. „But, you have to take the time to visit the troops, as we Americans say.“

“Your organization and people.”

„Town Hall meetings and such?“ I responded with a yes. „And have open office hours at set times and make sure folks know ahead of your visit. If you can fit it into your schedule, got out for lunch and dinner with members of your organization. Give them a chance to interact with you in an informal setting. They‘ll bring up what‘s on their mind if they feel comfortable with you.“

Stefan paused, ate a few more fries, took a sip of his juice and responded: „Yeah, but I don‘t want to get too involved. That could bother my direct reports. I mean, it‘s their organization, their people. I don‘t want to interfere in their work.“

That was pure form German leadership logic. You see it in the German military, where an officer from one level has to formally ask an officer at the next lower level for permission to visit that officer‘s troops. An American manager reserves the right to reach out to anyone in their organization, at anytime, and almost anywhere, with just about any question.

„You determine to what degree you get involved.”

My advice to Stefan was that he would in no way be perceived by his American reports as getting too involved in their work. On the contrary, they would be very happy to have a boss who is involved, who takes the time to become familiar with their teams, their work, the details.

„You determine to what degree you get involved, Stefan. At a minimum be present, ask questions, listen carefully, respond to their questions, observe. Most importantly, take what we are discussing now to your American direct reports and decide together the appropriate level of interaction you should have when you‘re in the U.S.“

I then added: „And while your at it, keep your eyes open for American colleagues in senior-level management who might be applying their leadership logic to their German teams, and possibly causing some irritation by perhaps being too present when they are in Germany.“

Stefan smiled in a mischievous way. „What?“, I asked. „I can think of at least three Americans, all first-rate team leads, who do just that.“ We laughed.

I reflect, try to imagine how it was back then. It is 1944. My mother is fourteen years old. No father at home. Killed in an automobile accident in 1938. My grandmother at the time with seven small children. The oldest was nine. The youngest an infant. My grandmother carrying her eighth child. The coal supplier comes by the house. He informs my grandmother that he can no longer supply her. He demands that she pay the bill. Money was very, very tight. Grandmother is behind in her payments.

It is winter. Unusually cold. My mother is hiding in the corner, hearing for the first time how her mother pleads with the coal supplier to give her more time. He does. My mother has never forgotten that day, that conversation. It put its stamp on her, made a deep impression. Thirty years later, her husband, my father, Frank, would die at the age of forty-four. Heart failure. My mother then, 1974, with six children. His first heart attack was at age thirty-five.

“What does it cost to heat those places?” A question my mother asks spontaneously whenever we drive by oversized houses in suburban Philadelphia. Not just one of those curious questions, but a question of survival. For my mother, back then.

True, not to be compared with the experiences of the German people in terms of limited resources during certain periods of their recent history. Nonetheless, an imprint on my mother, 1944 and the coal-man. A far greater influence on Americans is living in a country of abundance, in many cases over-abundance. Land, natural resources, freedom and opportunity. I’ve never been to the Upper Midwest – Wyoming, the Dakotas, Montana. Big Sky Country it is called. Literally: “Land as far as you can see!”

This must have been what the multitudes of immigrants to America had imagined, as well as the recently-arrived immigrants who moved west from the cities of the East Coast. But not only they, also the Germans. Yes, the Germans, back then. Many generations grew up reading Karl May, the author of best-selling books of fiction about the American West. 

Cowboys and Indians. Germans of today, who travel through the U.S., who live there a few years, who dream of settling in America, see, imagine and experience that abundance. Who in their imagination is not attracted to the idea of no limits?

These days, to have to accept that there are limits, to reorient one’s own thinking, through self-reflection and self-critique, to change deep-seated habits of mind. Who wants to do that? Is able to do that? Painful and disconcerting. Verzicht. To do without. To do with less. To accept limits.

You’re an excellent swimmer. As a child, on the school swim team, as an adult once or twice a week still. Suddenly you find yourself in the water. It’s dark. Not a pool. Neither river nor ocean. A lake. Pitch black.

You swim, call out, listen. Nothing. Just your movement and the water. Remain cool-headed. Swim in one direction. Stop. Dip down. Seek the bottom with your one foot. Nothing. The water is still. Good. You change direction, swim five minutes, felt like an hour. No shore, no beach. Nothing. You change directions. Another five minutes. Nothing. Again and again. Each time your breathing becomes more unsteady. Muscles hint at cramping. Your mind is racing.

You cannot sustain your weight indefinitely. Suddenly light comes. Like a dimmer switch. The sun. In slow motion. Vaguely you see trees, a shoreline. Just a few hundred meters away. The water is clear. No more than five meters deep. Your heart no longer races, breathing becomes steady. Your strokes are powerful and uniform. You make it.

So it is often for Americans working in a team led by a German. Like swimming in the dark.

The American people have always benefitted from a very generous supply of natural resources. The United States in its over two-hundred year history has never known scarcity of resources. It is a land of abundance. And its economic history is one of constant growth.

Generations of immigrants were welcomed to support that growth. Dealing conservatively with natural resources was seldom a key to economic success, seldom a factor in the nation’s decision making. Far more important were such factors as innovation and rapid reaction to the demands of a competitive market economy.

The structure of American cities and towns is such that an automobile is required. Germany is different. It is the size of the U.S. state of Montana. German cities and towns – large or small – are well planned, well structured. They’ve grown based on structures going back as far as the Middle Ages with the core consisting of the church, the market square, the post office, perhaps a river running through or along it.

Over the centuries the towns grew outwardly, organically. Life and work were – and are still for the most part – integrated. Modern transportation and logistics adapted to the town’s layout. Trams (streetcars) linked the city’s neighborhoods. The underground (subway) did the same. Life can be lived in German towns and cities without an automobile.

A car in every garage and a chicken in every oven

In this, as in many other, senses, the quality of life in Germany is higher than in the U.S.. America experienced a huge growth spurt after the Second World War. Baby boom. People were tired of rationing. They wanted to consume. Eisenhower – and his military and civilian colleagues – were impressed by the German autobahn system and wanted the same for the U.S..

Not only because he saw it allowing for the rapid transportation of heavy military armor necessary in the case of defense of continental USA. A national highway system would make civilian transportation modern and efficient. It would further spur growth. The automakers in Detroit were thrilled. The automobile took over, pushing aside public transportation. “A car in every garage and a chicken in every oven” was the motto of the 1950s.

Then came the flight of white Americans from the cities (primarily in the North) to their suburbs. There were two main driving factors: First, families had more children, needed and wanted more space, in the home and in the yard. The automobile, and the building of streets and highways, made it possible. Secondly, more and more African-Americans migrated from the South to the North attracted to better-paying jobs. White Americans wanted to live among themselves.

Resources. I think of the family I grew up in. Mother, father, six children, a house with five bedrooms and two full baths, on a half-acre of land, in a neighborhood full of children (mostly boys): the Moses family with four, the Heidts with three, the Argyris family with four, D‘Aquila two, Bridi three, we Magees five.

“Don’t be wasteful” was only every said in terms of food.

Up the street lived the Plames. Mother, father, daughter. A few years ago I learned from my mother that Mr. Plame had developed the land and had built the ten or so houses, including ours. He had been a retired officer of the U.S. Air Force, his last years spent in Alaska.

“Hmm”, I thought, most likely Strategic Command, where the U.S. had long-rang bombers stationed in case of war with the Soviet Union. Then I read in the newspaper and online about Valerie Plame. The name was immediately familiar to me. Valerie attended grade school with my youngest brother, Tom. Valerie Plame: exposed (perhaps by the U.S. government itself) as a CIA undercover agent. Her husband, an American diplomat, was openly skeptical of the reasons the Bush administration took the country to war in Iraq.

Like most American families we were very active as children, which continued into high school. School, sports, visiting friends, all possible in the suburbs thanks to cars. As soon as three or four of us had our drivers licences we had three or four cars. This was the 1960s and 70s. One can imagine how much energy we used: water, electricity, gasoline, packaging for all sorts of products. And we were just one of millions of similar families. “Don’t be wasteful” was only every said in terms of food. That’s what the suburbs in the U.S. were (and are still) like.

 Cheap energy is the motor of American society.

They were built quickly. They had no center, no village old town. There was open land. Streets were built. Houses were built. Developments they were called. Whenever my mother visited Germany she marveled at the elderly women riding their bicycles from their apartment houses to the various stores. We did not grow right in the U.S., not thoughtfully. I doubt that there was a discussion back then among town, city or civic planners about how to grow (expand) intelligently, not only in the sense of impact on the environment, but also in terms of quality of life.

The two are not mutually exclusive: growth and quality of life. Jimmy Carter made an attempt in his speech Energy and the National Goals – A Crisis of Confidence on July 15, 1979. He spoke about limits, about energy policy. Carter was criticized heavily. Energy is the motor of American society. It makes our life simpler and more comfortable. In the last years, however, we have realized that we need to make some changes. Gasoline prices have climbed steadily over the years. The second Iraq War did not go well, to put it mildly. Russia uses natural gas as a weapon against the Ukraine and as a lever against Western Europe.

Dramatic environmental catastrophes have become a yearly – often monthly – occurrence: Hurricane Katrina, the forest fires in California and the Southwest, hurricanes in Florida, the rapid changes in temperatures. Think of the impact on the ozone layer by air conditioning set on high and running from April until October in countless homes, schools and office buildings in the states of the Southeast stretching across the Southwest to the Pacific Coast.

“My goodness, what does it cost to heat those places?”, my mother always asks whenever we drive by so-called McMansions in the Philadelphia area, the houses built during the boom years of the 1990s: oversized, ugly, without style or character or imagination. Neureiche (noveau riche, new rich). Yes, people can do as they please with their money. Yes to private property. But individual interests often have impact on collective interests.

The history of Germany, as well as the historical consciousness of the German people, continue to impress and attract me. Today, just as strongly as a quarter century ago. You need only to go into a bookstore in Germany. Their books are not only solid, well bound and have great covers. The Germans have a very special relationship to books. There are always many older and newer publications about history, about their history. For those Germans who want to know their history there will never be a shortage of opportunities.

Every city in Germany, large and small, has museums in which history, but not only theirs, is told, is kept alive and relevant. In my early years in Berlin and Bonn I was astounded by how many fascinating and well-made documentary films were shown on German television. There was never a day without at least one in the evening. The German language is worth learning if only to read their books, to visit their museums, and to watch their documentaries. Although not a documentary, but one with the look and feel of one, was Heimat.

It was the summer of 1992. I watched episode for episode of Heimat. My eyes were glued to the television, my mind racing to understand every word, to pick up on as many nuances as possible. What an opportunity for me to gain insight in Germany of that time period, between the world wars. Time and again I had to turn to my German wife to get the meaning of this or that word, for the dialogue was in the dialect of that region of Germany, the Hunsrück, along the Moselle River, between Trier and Koblenz. After every episode I was in a kind of trance, reflecting about what I had just taken in.

The history of another people

Then another time. I was in the car. Driving through Bonn. Evening. I turned on the radio. Deutschlandfunk. A book review was being read. It was about the immediate post-war years in then West Germany. The first sentences grabbed my attention. They flowed: complex, clear, rich, full of substance, critical, analytical, yet elegant. That feeling had come back, from when I was a student at Georgetown. History. German History. The history of another people. In another part of the world. And when I read the books by John Lukacs. Trance.

The reader continued. I was captured, drove further, but as if on a soft cloud just a few inches above the road. I think of the many war memorials in Germany. When I walk or ride my bicycle down the hill from the Venusberg in Bonn to the former government quarter on the Rhine, I pass through Kessenich where there is such a memorial. It’s round, cement, encircling a lovely oak tree. Six pillars about eight feet high. Plenty of space between them to step in and out. The tops of all eight crowned – or held together – by a cement ring providing the tree with space to stretch out its branches. Just below the top each of the eight the face in cement of a German soldier with the iconic German steel helmet from the World War I.

Chiseled into the pillars, from the top to just about the bottom, are the names of the men who died in the two world wars. Six pillars, three sides each. Longs lists. Names. Of men, and boys, from that part of Bonn, from the neighborhood. Yes, boys, many no older than seventeen or eighteen years old. Sad. Especially sad for me, as one of five Magee boys, to read the same last names. Meyer. Schmitz. Leyendecker. Two, three, sometimes four of the same last names. Brothers. Cousins. Imagine the deep, deep sadness of the mothers and fathers who saw their boys go off to war only to kill and be killed. 1914. 1915. 1916. 1917. 1918. Four long years for an entire continent. Then on the other sides of the pillars. 1939. 1940. 1941. 1942. 1943. 1944. 1945. Many of the same names. The sons and nephews of those fallen between 1914 and 1918. The Germans suffered, too.

Tiled Stoves: in apartments and homes, to burn coal, in order to produce heat.

Use resources respectfully, protect the environment. I recall the debates in Germany years ago about recycling. At that time the Social Democrats and the Greens were in power. Jürgen Trittin was Umweltminister, literally Secretary of the Environment. 

German business was against any recycling laws. It’s been reality for years now, though. How could there have been a debate at all? Quite the contrary. Protecting the environment should be foundational to the politics of the Christian Democratic Party in Germany (CDU). They and their sister party in Bavaria (CSU – Christian Social Union) were clearly on the wrong side of that debate.

I’ll never forget the smell of coal back then in West Berlin. Late Fall of 1988. I live in a boathouse in Konradshöhe, on the Havel River, on the other side the DDR (Deutsche Demokratische Republik, German Democratic Republic). No wall between, just the river. On the other side a strange stillness. Just a road along the bank and streetlights giving off a weak, halfhearted yellow-orange glow. Evenings and mornings the smell was strong. A weird feel to it, somehow historical.

My girlfriend then lived in the Schöneberg section of West Berlin. On the fifth or sixth floor of an apartment house built in the early 1900s. Back then I was reading Sebastian Haffner’s Deutsche Revolution 1918. Dry cold days in Berlin, the smell of coal smoke from the houses ever-present, Rosa Luxemburg murdered and thrown into the Spree River, Stahlhelm, Rätherrepublik in Munich. I think of my grandmother who back then was eighteen years old and living in Cincinnati.

I imagine what Berlin was like in 1918 and 1919. I, the grandson and great-grandson of coal merchants in Philadelphia. Our great-grandfather, Alexander Magee, started out with a horse-pulled wagon, going from house to house. Years later his sons, Frank and Alex, would join the business. I see the images in my mind’s eye. The coalyard in the Kensington section of Philadelphia located right next to the train line.

The war over, but experiences continue to form us.

The coal was delivered from Northeast Pennsylvania. The Allegheny Mountains cut through the state from the northeast to the southwest, continuing into West Virginia. The business grows a bit, two trucks, a handful of employees. They’re not wealthy, will never become so. They pay the bills and have more than enough left over.

After the Second World War they convert to oil. Magee Coal & Oil. During my father’s freshman year at Amherst College in Massachusetts his father dies of a heart attack. His younger brother, Ken, uncle to my father, takes over the business. My father does not go into the heating fuel business, instead becoming a business consultant.

We six children of Frank and Laura Magee growing up in suburban Philadelphia have no connection to Magee Coal & Oil. But the constant coal odor in Berlin during those winter months of 1988-89, the dirt in my nose, cleaning it out a few times a day, brought me back into contact with the days when my recent ancestors lived from coal. And today? I, management consultant, put food on the table by supporting those who build coal-fired power plants.

Use resources respectfully, protect the environment, yes, the Germans do that better than the Americans. The war ended more than seventy years ago, but those experiences continue to inform and form us. During a long walk through Bonn with my son I try to describe to him what the town looked like in 1945. I repeat the stories of his German great-grandmother – my ex-wife’s grandmother. And why we are taking a walking and not driving tour by car or bus. Besides, walking is healthy.