At First His Was a Typical German Story. War Had Touched His Life Early When His Father

HORST KELLER.

It is a morose task this morning to bid a collective adieu to our friend and colleague (Dr.) Horst Keller who died in the Summer of a heart attack, a passing which marked the last, or almost the last, of his generation’s membership of the AEJ. He was 76.

At first his was a typical German story. War had touched his life early when his father was killed in the conflict and he was brought up by his mother and grandparents. In those uncertain times, his career ambitions were not obvious – even to him – though perhaps with more foresight than enthusiasm he studied electronics and in due time qualified as a technician.

But wanderlust took hold and he embarked, with his sister, on a two year motorcycle of the Middle East, Nepal and India. On his return he got a slot as a “volunteer” (I suppose an unpaid intern in today’s terms) on the Rheinische Post in Dusseldorf and in that way, like so many of his contemporaries, sort of slipped into journalism for want of any greater option or anything better. No journalism schools in those days: either one learned on the job or one didn’t learn at all.

Though in black and white, often with a smudgy and uncertain reception, television was beginning to change the traditional structures of journalism. And at the start of the Sixties Horst saw an opportunity in this new medium, joining Deutsche Welle in Cologne and later the ARD channel.

The Treaty of Rome had been signed in 1957, the year Horst took off for his Asian adventure and, by the time he returned, that Treaty’s consequences had begun to move steadily up the news schedules. In this specialism, Horst saw the shape of things to come. In due time he joined the newly launched ZDF and really came into his own just at the moment Bonn had become a BIG Town in Germany.

It was a period of great anxiety and self-doubt for the Germans as they were again becoming the continent’s top dog. And they didn’t know how to respond to the prospect. Politically and diplomatically the then temporary German capital was an intimate place, a village where any number of neighbours, friendly and otherwise, were peering over the fence on an urgent need-to-know basis and there were almost as many hacks in town as there are today in Brussels. Bonn, the former garden community known for academics and winemakers suddenly became thick with intrigue, machinations, aggressive diplomacy, espionage and high octane domestic politics – all of which needed analysis and explanation, a “Bonner Perspectiven” if you will, which was the name given to Horst’s regular TV spot.

He had a high old time in those days. He was, and remained, a shy man but his sudden Bonn-Bad Godesberg celebrity nonetheless suited him very well. The news flow was as fast as the Rhine in Spring flood, the air heavy with cigar smoke when the whispered aside was the compressed currency of the period.

John LeCarré has a lovely image of Bonn-based journalists in those days, bobbing like sea horses behind the glass panels of the bar in the now-demolished French Club. Horst was one of those sea horses, bobbing up and down everywhere, gulping information, relaying much of it on the small screen.

Later in the early Seventies he was promoted up river – to the ZDF Mainz bureau– where he became the senior editor responsible for all EEC questions and was again given his own programme, acting as editor as well as interviewing all the relevant German heavyweights, yet never succumbed to what we might call the electronic narcissism of his trade. Needless to say, he also moved fluently between all the EU capitals over the years and was a frequent visitor to this city as well as Strasbourg; the European Parliament had a particular hold on his interests during his forty years at the top end of German TV.

In fact, the EP owes him a debt of gratitude for making that institution seem more important than it really was in the pre Lisbon-Treaty days. Horst had a tetchy relationship with his pet parrot called Nero which he had taught some 150 words. Using these as weapons the bird kept nagging and commenting, often indecently, while Horst was trying to write his books.

By the time Horst retired in 1994 he had already extended his talents into narrative writing, having authored two political thrillers plus an account of dirty dealings on Germany’s former frontiers. He followed this up with an “environmental thriller” called “The Eco-Twisters”. He wrote eight books altogether, and a very eclectic collection, they were. The first was an essay on technological utopianism and his last published work was a book for kids, “The King of the Ants”, which was dedicated to his grandson, Tom.

He had meanwhile been appointed to a chair at the University of Trier where he became a visiting professor of media sciences. His next oeuvre was “The Robber Barons”, which went to a second printing, billed as a political satire but which he swore (I tackled him about this) was actually true – for example, that his municipality had introduced a Laugh Tax, that is, a fine of €3 per person for every minute of public hilarity.

He also quoted in the same book an anonymous Christian Democrat who was urging the introduction of a tax for “Wrong Movements.” What are those? Horst asked him. I don’t know, the politico replied. “What they are can be resolved later on.” With that Horst guffawed characteristically into his drink, diffident and understated, as usual.

Whenever I hear the cliché that Germans don’t have a sense of humour, I think of Horst who could coax the funny aspect out of most things political and personal -- and off-screen nearly always did. On the box, though, he had the droopy, melancholy, features of a hound and as an editor was never happier than when the news was bad, a characteristic he shared with many of his TV colleagues, with many of us.

But what he did not share – because he never had any – was cynicism. Without being declaratory in any way, he was robustly optimistic about the EU world we have come to inhabit, if not always celebrate. If anything, he was rather abashed in his later years to watch Germany settle into being at the heart of Europe once more.

His personal gifts were diversely appreciated and he picked up many professional acknowledgements along the way, not least the European Journalism Prize in 1990 at a reportedly uproarious occasion in Athens. For Greece he had what the Irish call “a strong weakness”. I think we were privileged to have Horst. I wish we had more members like him in the Association. He was so steadfast. When the German section took flight to do its own thing, Horst said “To Hell with it” and joined the Belgian section even though it had also begun to curl at the edges.

In the schism he was one of only two German nationals living there who remained in the Association’s main body. Together they motored from the Eiffel Mountains to Brussels meetings, reckoning it was a good day out -- if not much of a lunch.

He detested the bureaucratic mindset and never used the AEJ as a laboratory for the petty politicking which has marred much Association business in the last decade or so. He held his peace when all around were going to pieces. Horst was not in the Association for any personal advantage. He just kept the faith; for him the AEJ was the best club he’d ever come across, perfectly combining his professional interests with his social instincts.

The last time I last saw him was at an AEJ executive meeting in Bratislava. We sat in the hotel lobby after all our colleagues had retired to bed, and our discussions continued, I believe, until 3.30am – well, approximately.

We in Brussels had been hoping to see him again at Peter’s Summer party but unfortunately the date this year clashed with Horst’s travel plans. The end came abruptly, without any preamble, yet I suspect, that as a regular pilgrim to Santiago de Compostella, he was better prepared for it than most of us will be.