242. Status scars
In our species, similar to the chimpanzee but opposite from the baboon,
it is the girl who searches for the man. Anthropologists call this,
patrilocal behaviour. At or after puberty, the young
hunter-gatherer girls would leave the family or group in which they were
born while the males would stay put in the territory which they already
knew very well for hunting purposes.
When the girls meet another group containing unpartnered young males,
what would they look for initially? They would want to try and maximise
the possibility of finding a courageous and strong provider who would be
more likely to give security to them and their potential children. A very
good indication that a young adult male had could look after himself
would be any scars that he carried on his face and body. This would
indicate that he had the courage not to run away fromn a fight, could
hold his own against the other males and that he might well have fought a
neighbouring group in fierce battles while defending his home territory.
It wouldn't be a bad first approximation.
In short, scars would not be a symbolic indication of status among group
members, but a real one. Of course, scars means that blood has flowed,
and blood is red. It is perhaps not at all surprising then that the
archeological evidence suggests that the first consumer goods that were
traded over long distances were lumps of red oxide -- long before choice
flints for axeheads and the like. Add in the fact also that all
hunter-gather tribes have some sort of facial and bodily ornamentation or
tattooing (a rather more painful process -- see below!), then it is
reasonable to imagine that red oxide was mainly used for status adornment
and only peripherally for cave drawings -- which came thousands of years
later. There are large quantities of hand-held red oxide lumps in the
Blombos caves in South Africa dating back to 70-80,000 years ago.(C.S.
Henshilwood et al, in Journal of Human Evolution, vol 41, 2001;
also Science, vol 295, 2002.)
Is this idea that iron oxide and tattoes may be symbolic replacements for
blood and scars a plausible one? I think it is, but the reader may beg to
differ. However, my evolutionbary economics hypothesis doesn't depend on
the blood colour of red oxide; it depends on the fact that red oxide
appears to be the first consumer good that was traded by early man over
distances that far exceeded the diameters of several adjoining
hunter-gatherer bands. Red oxide had absolutely no economic or survival
importance to early man, and could only have been used for
ornamentation.
You may think that scars are no longer of importance to status in the
modern world. If so, you are mistaken, and I follow with a most
fascinating account of the secretive German student duelling clubs.
There, good quality scars (discrete and not ostentatious) can look after
a young male for life.
Keith Hudson
<<<<
BLOOD BROTHERS
Germany's student duelling corps are steeped in tradition and shrouded in
secrecy. Their members live by a code of honour, camaraderie and
carousing
Jonathan Green
To wince or recoil even slightly would mean dishonour. Even when the
glint of steel, ground to the sharpness of a scalpel, enters his
peripheral vision he doesn't flinch. Seconds later the blood runs down
the left side of his face, turning his clothes crimson before pooling
around his ankles on the pinewood floor. His features remain
glacial.
Only 10 minutes earlier it was sweat that covered his face when his
friends kissed him on the cheek to wish him luck. He must have hoped then
that he would not be the one who would be scarred for life. Now another
fencing duel -- or mensur -- ends, fought in a centuries-old
tradition that is observed down to the last, painful detail.
In the corner of the room the acrid smell of surgical spirit rises from
two stainless-steel basins on the floor. A medical student arranges his
suture needles, forceps and gauze pads on a table. There is a box of
surgical gloves on the window-ledge nearby. Dozens of young German men in
their early twenties chat through the fug of smoke, swigging from bottles
of Gotha beer. Some are members of the Corps Hannovera, one of 200 such
student corps in Germany. The corps are criticised and shunned by many
Germans, castigated as little short of Nazis, their tentacles of
rightwing influence reaching into the corridors of power in modem
Germany, in politics, business, law and medicine. The corps say that they
are maligned and insist that they are politically neutral, merely
clinging to an all-male sense of camaraderie and tradition in German
history that pre-dates Nazism by hundreds of years.
Drawn mostly from the German upper classes, the men wear uniforms
denoting their allegiance to a fraternity. They live together, eat
together, drink together, sing songs about honour, women and Germany. And
they fight together. Despite the risk of permanent disfigurement, the
rewards are great, they say.
They have learned not to open their doors to the public, particularly the
media, for fear of attack. Getting permission to observe their furtive
brotherhood took me roughly 5,000 miles of travelling, a personal letter
of recommendation and thorough vetting over the course of eight
months.
The duel I am watching takes place at the house of a rival fraternity,
the Brunsviga Corps. Strapped tightly on to the sweating faces of the two
fighters are black steel goggles, with discoloured, steel-mesh lenses,
modelled on 200-year-old designs. A steel guard covers the length of the
nose. Wound tightly around the neck, guarding the carotid artery, is a
thick cotton bandage. Each man wears a chain mail shirt weighing about
7kg (15 pounds) and chain mail gloves under leather gauntlets on their
right hands. The right arm is reinforced with a leather padded arm
guard.
All this is intended as protection from the schlager, a sword
based on the rapier and sabre. Modelled on a traditional European
duelling weapon, it is 86cm long and weighs only 360 grams. With this
sword the fighters will attempt to slash, cut or whip anything above
their opponents' eyeline line -- skull, forehead and ears are all fair
game.
The referee, a pinched character sucking on a bottle of beer, calls for
silence. The combatants step up to face each other and the crowds
dissipate. On the right is a tall, slender man with untamed white-blonde
hair. He wears the duelling colours of those with German aristocratic
blood. On the left is a smaller, thickset man. Both have frozen
expressions.
Gazing down from the walls are Daguerreotypes of scowling duellists with
facial scars, some more than a century old. Lurking at the back of the
room is a 50-something man dressed in black with a scar stretching from
just below his nose almost to his ear in a concave droop. Everyone here
knows him as the fencing master -- all have been trained by him at some
point.
The aristocrat towers over his opponent with daunting ease. Clumsily, a
wooden box is brought for the shorter man to stand on so he can fight his
opponent on a level. They place their feet square on, a sword's length
apart. Only the right arm moves during a fight. To the left of each
fighter is a figure in a fencing mask wearing a black padded apron. He
too wears chain mail and clutches a schlager. He is the duellist's
"second" and will protect his fighter in the instance of foul
play. To hit below the eyeline is to fight "deep" -- the
equivalent of punching below the belt as a boxer, but to do that here
means not only disqualification and shame but a scar and injury for
life.
On the fighter's right is another ally, also wearing a neck brace and a
butcher's steel-mesh glove. In his hand is a yellow cloth soaked in
surgical spirit. After each round -- which comprises four blade movements
-- he cleans the sword with surgical spirit to minimise the risk of
infection. He also looks for nicks in the blade -- a blemish may create a
jagged cut that is harder to stitch.
"Hoch bitte!" bellows the referee. The mensur
begins. Swords are held aloft pointing to the ceiling. The aristocrat's
seems to be quivering. "Hoch!" the seconds respond. The
duellist are ready. "Los!" The snick of blades in the
air breaks through the silence. With a dull thud they are blocked,
hitting padded arms, before they slash and riposte. The blades' movements
are so fast they are almost invisible.
A round completed, the seconds throw their schlagers upward to
block any more blows. The fighters swallow. The tempo increases with each
round. The shadows of the blades are thrown on the ceiling from lights
around the walls. The movements take place in fractions of seconds, the
measurements only millimetres.
And then -- only five minutes in -- it happens. A fluffed attack, the
fencer reconsiders, hesitates, withdraws, and is punished mercilessly. At
first it isn't clear that anyone has been hit. But then a small hairline
crack becomes visible, stretching from just below the temple almost to
the middle of the forehead. The fighter remains immobile, his face a mask
of serenity. And then a steady scarlet tear forms and weeps, rolling down
his face. A few more, and now the cut gushes blood, covering his cold,
steel goggles.
A cry goes up from the spectators and the doctor rushes forward with a
gauze pad. "Halt, halt," shout the seconds and the
referee. The doctor sews the wound with delicate stitching, knowing the
scar will be for life.
-----
The Corps Hannovera is based in an imposing Gothic edifice of ochre
stucco with a turret. It served as a hospital for German soldiers in the
second world war, and overlooks the spires of the university town of
Gottingen in western Germany, a bastion of the nation's academic elite.
The house draws a lot of attention. Swastikas are daubed on the heavy
front door and the cars in the car park frequently have their windows
smashed.
I am greeted m the grand hall by John Philip Niemann, 21, an economics
student from Wilhelmshaven. The current senior of the Corps Hannovera, he
is the son of a prominent German industrialist. Like the eight corps
brothers he leads, he speaks with an American twang -- evidence of
expensive exchange years spent in the US. He stands by a bust of Otto von
Bismarck, surrounded by black-and-white pictures on the wall of the
entire 384 members, dead and alive, arranged in frames, alongside
tapestries and swords. Bismarck, the 19th-century Iron Chancellor, is the
Hannovera Corps' icon, and their most famous member. He is not the only
prominent alumnus of the duelling clubs. Kaiser Wilhemn was a renowned
fighter and proponent of student duels, claiming they were "the best
education which a young man can get for his future life". Karl Marx,
the father of communism, was a duellist. A recently retired general in
the German police, a number of judges on the supreme court, members of
the German government past and present, captains of industry at
DaimlerChrysler and telecommunications giant Mannesmann were all
"brothers".
Bismarck's birthday is also the anniversary of the Hannovera Corps. And
so stiftungsfest begins -- a round of parties, drinking and
celebration, also marking the end of the college year. The men wear blue
and red sashes, signifying full membership of the corps -- but not in
public: it would be suicide to advertise allegiance to a corps on campus.
"I never wear the sash in the town," says John Philip.
"I'd end up either in the gutter or the hospital."
Most corps brothers are from "good" families of a high German
caste. A duelling scar -- called a schmiss -- is a tattoo of
breeding in Germany. Usually on the left side, conferred by a
right-handed duellist, at one time it certified the owner as cultivated,
courageous and virile. The branding was once so prized there are stories
of students who didn't make it into the corps cutting themselves with a
razor and pulling the wound apart, pouring wine in or sewing a horse hair
into the gash to make it more pronounced.
Today, the rules of joining the corps are little changed from a century
ago. Not all who apply get in, some are deemed "unsuitable".
New members are often introduced by the alte Herren who are
fathers, uncles or grandfathers.
Michael Gonel joined the corps in the footsteps of his grandfather,
father and elder brother. He first came to the house in his mid-teens,
and has chosen to join a male tradition taken so seriously that women are
not allowed beyond the first floor. "We have to live in a completely
open way so we don't want women in the rooms and doors closed," says
Michael. John Philip broke up with his girlfriend of three years when he
joined. "Once I joined the corps I had no time," he says
without remorse. "It was better that way. We have to go out if we
want to see a woman." There is not even a television in the house to
offer distraction.
Each year new recruits to the corps -- "actives" -- spend a
year living at the house, paid for by former members. An hour is spent
fencing every day, and members must learn about the esoteric corps
history. They will fight three mensurs and attend a dizzying round
of parties and social events. Studying has a low priority.
A new fellow becomes a fuchs - a fox - and submits to the
discipline of older members. While some parents are pleased their sons
are carrying on the family tradition, others are horrified. The historic
corps brother was white, upper-class and German. But the presence of
Sebastian Duong, 22, a dentistry student, is a sign that change is
occurring. His father is a Vietnamese computer programmer who emigrated
to Germany and married a German woman. When Sebastian became a corps
member "they thought I had joined the Nazis", he says. "I
didn't tell my mother about the fencing. She found out but I always tell
her it is not too dangerous." Even his "normal" friends
think him crazy to fence with sharp blades, he says. So why join such an
organisation? "I didn't want to be like the other students sitting
in their rooms, smoking and doing nothing," he says. The strong
camaraderie, the tradition and lifelong bonds are the draw.
Why the constant Nazi tag? The duelling clubs trace their history back to
the 15th century when students would travel together, armed, for fear of
bandits. The movement then formalised, and later split. On the right were
the Burschenschaft, avowedly political and nationalistic. The corps, on
the other side, were non-political and more tolerant of race and religion
-- more interested in drinking and duelling than in austere party
politics. All corps use different colours to denote their values. Blue
signifies societal and gregarious values, white aristocracy, green
bullish behaviour, red tolerance and black marks a strong fencing
tradition. But the Hannovera, with blue and red as their colours, deny
all accusations of right-wing tendencies. "We all get tarred with
the same brush," Sebastian complains.
With the establishment of the Third Reich in 1933, Adolf Hitler perceived
the unswerving loyalty among corps brothers as a threat. They refused to
split with their Jewish members, saying corps membership was for life and
that fealty among "brothers" was unbreakable. So Hitler banned
them. After the war, the corps flourished again. Today, in addition to
the Hannovera, there are six other such groups in Gottingen
alone.
Past combatants often fought to the death, but no one has died in a
mensur since the 1950s. "It's just one of those things you
have to do," says Sebastian. "It's like you are facing your
fears there, not fencing against someone else. The idea is that whatever
you face in life after that -- nothing will scare you as
much."
Thus to show any fear, even to flinch, spells instant disqualification.
To do so more than twice in a row casts you out of the corps. Even to
leave the blade stationary for more than two seconds leads to instant
disqualification.
----
But nerves and tension cannot be outlawed. It is time for Philip and
Sebastian to complete another level. Their colleagues dress in dark grey
suits, as though for a business assignation. After a few practice swipes
and a last nervous drag on a cigarette, Philip is led down to the fight.
"I have a good doctor -- why should I worry?" he declares with
bravado.
This being his second mensur, the chance of being hurt is greater
than in the previous fight. On the first mensur the basic strokes
are to the top and left side of the head, on the second the fencers may
also slash at the face, and on the third almost anything goes. Philip
stands to fight, the chain mail incongruous against his leather sailing
shoes and chinos.
Blades clash. The first rounds pass swiftly. In the 18th round a small
tuft of Philip's hair falls to the ground. The battle intensifies. In the
22nd Philip takes a sideways swipe -- it's on target. His opponent makes
the mistake -- he ducks. The referee calls a halt and both fencers are
led from the room.
Upstairs in the Hannovera's room the mood is electric. Philip sits in a
chair in the middle of the room, is passed a beer and a packet of
cigarettes. In turn they say what they thought of Philip's performance.
Then they vote. Like the stories of ancient Rome, he will get either the
thumbs up or thumbs down. Everyone sticks their thumbs up in his face and
break into laughter. His challenger has been vanquished and will have to
fence the mensur again with someone else.
Sebastian is next. In the 18th round his opponent tries to fight back
with a move called a horizontal quart -- a 360° windmill attack. He loses
faith in his ability but it's too late. Sebastian launches the same when
he withdraws. The schlager flashes before coming back to the
resting position. His opponent's blood starts to run, dripping over his
chain mail and soaking his clothes to the skin. Both are impassive. There
is no punching the air in triumph or misery in defeat.
But after Sebastian is led upstairs the mood explodes. He is hugged and
kissed -- thumbs up without preamble. When I say that I thought there was
meant to be no winner, a corps brother answers: "Well if the other
guy really tries to fuck you, you can get him back." Sebastian, who
has just scarred someone for life, is unrepentant: "It was me or
him," he says flatly. "I don't have a bad conscience because
they put someone up who is bad at fencing."
----
Downstairs it's a different scene. The loser, his face a mask of blood,
smiles in a daze as his comrades offer words of encouragement. Each time
the medical student pushes into the wound with the needle he winces; his
only anaesthetic is a bottle of Jever beer. Sebastian comes over and
hands him another bottle. They shake hands, smile and drink each other's
health. "We'll be friends," says Sebastian. And with that he
calls his mother to say that he is OK.
That night drinking goes into overdrive. Corps members drink
bierjunge, a challenge to down three-quarters of a pint in one go.
At times in the evening people slink off to vomit in designated basins in
the toilets called papst, meaning Pope: you bend over and make a
"donation to the church".
The next few days are a ceaseless mêlée of drinking, parties, etiquette
and entertaining. At a midsummer ball female students in expensive ball
gowns are treated with reverence and dashing seduction.
On another night a party is thrown, a keniepe. Men ranging from 30
to 80 years old, all in Hannovera sashes, line long tables drinking vast
amounts of beer. Toast follows toast. Candles on the tables flicker over
lineaments of faces in the darkness and the tell-tale scars of
mensurs past are evident. Many of the men are in expensively
tailored suits and hold cigarettes with manicured hands. Songs are sung
from green books with studs on the corners so they don't get soaked in
the beer on the table. With twinkling eyes and a scar from his chin to
his bottom lip, Michael Eggers tells of the appeal of being a corps
"brother". He was a general with the German police before he
retired recently. "We only take men who are honourable," he
says. "You leam to tell the truth and you face danger. And I like
women, of course, but I think it is good for all men to have a time when
they don't feel erotic dreaming. Later of course you meet nice girls from
good fathers who are well-educated and on the right
level."
Eggers is unabashed when asked if corps brothers give each other
preference in business. "Yes, a little bit," he says candidly.
"But not all the time. As general of the police I had to deal with
the secretary of state who was a corps brother but we didn't get on so
well."
Dr Bernd Bessau, an alte Herren from Emden, says that the bond of
duelling will live on. "If someone joins the corps they know they
will have very good connections for the rest of their lives," he
says. "So we need something to provide a level to stop people just
joining for that -- but something that binds all corps members
together."
Yet, as the years wear on, the scars get ever more discreet, rules are
tightened up and the duel becomes ever more sanitised. Ten years ago
fencers could slash to the face and fight "deep": not now. And,
in Germany as a whole, the corps are in a bad state. "It is not so
easy to find the right people these days," says Eggers. Some corps
are starting to "sell out" now; one group has taken up horse
riding rather than fencing.
The rigorous etiquette and emphasis on honour is a hard road. Throughout
the five days that my photographer colleague, Simon Roberts, and I spent
with the corps, the brothers treated us with the utmost respect,
deference and general kindness. There was no indication of anything
untoward -- such as the right-wing tendencies they are accused of -- and
their behaviour was no different from any other sporting club, and
probably far better.
The absolutes by which they live -- and the willingness to be scarred for
life -- mean that there is no compromise with integrity. In one drinking
game Simon tried to pour half his beer away midway through. He was
spotted and the corps brothers were appalled. As he tried to make light
of it the corps brothers frowned. "You never, ever cheat," one
said.
The corps has chosen its own form of rebellion -- not through rock or
rap, drugs or fashion but, paradoxically, through tradition, through
centuries-old codes of honour and formality. As Bessau puts it, with some
anger: "The French have their history, the British have theirs. Why
can't we have ours? Yes we have a darkness from the Nazis, but why does
it have to cover all the other areas?"
For the brothers soon to be embraced into the fold, the concerns are more
immediate. Philip has only one mensur left until he is a
full-blown corps member. After graduating he wants to work in a bank or
do something associated with economics, and the contacts he has made may
be important, he believes. "I will try to make it on my own first
and if not, well, I will see what the corps has."
As for Sebastian Duong, he is now a full corps brother. His membership is
for life and, for now, he is happy. He has maimed another man, but it has
given him no taste for violence or machismo: "I never want to pick
up another sword again."
Jonathan Green is a freelance journalist
Financial Times Magazine -- 3/4 January 2004
<<<<<
Keith Hudson, Bath, England, <www.evolutionary-economics.org>
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