Imaginary interview with Robert Schuman
by Charactorium · Robert Schuman (1886 — 1963) · Politics · 5 min read
Two 12-year-old students visit the gray stone house of Scy-Chazelles, in Moselle. In the intact study, an old gentleman in a dark suit welcomes them. His name is Robert Schuman, and he has agreed to answer all their questions.
—Where exactly were you born? We were told it was complicated.
You know, my child, I was born in 1886 in Clausen, very close to the city of Luxembourg. Imagine a small country squeezed between France and Germany, like a house planted right on the line of a shared garden. My family was from Lorraine, but at that time Lorraine belonged to Germany. So I grew up with two cultures at once. I did all my studies in Germany, in German schools. And all my life, when I spoke French, you could hear a little accent from there. Many thought it was a flaw. I eventually understood it was my greatest treasure.
I was born right on the line between two countries that hated each other.
—So at what age did you become French?
Late, very late! I was already 32. Imagine: you grow up, become a lawyer, work in Metz which is a German city... and one day, in 1918, the war ends and Lorraine becomes French again. Overnight, I changed countries without moving from my home. It's strange, you know. I had learned to love two peoples that I was always told were enemies. The French were a bit wary of me because of my accent. But I knew the hearts of the Germans as well as those of the French. Later, that helped me a lot to reconcile them.
I changed countries without moving from my home.
—Is it true you were arrested during the war? Were you scared?
Yes, it's true. In September 1940, the Gestapo came to get me. They were the secret police of the Nazis, very frightening men. I was locked up in a prison in Neustadt, Germany, because I refused to obey Hitler. Of course I was scared, my child. But you know, in 1942, I managed to escape. Imagine an already old man, hiding in monasteries, with monks, in silence, for years. I lived like a shadow, never saying my name. And each hidden day, an idea grew in me: we had to prevent this horror from ever happening again.
I lived like a shadow, never saying my name.
—And what did that give you, in your head, to have lived through all that?
It changed everything. When you hide for years because of a war, you ask yourself a simple question: why? Why do France and Germany keep fighting each other, again and again? You know, between 1870 and 1945, they fought three times. Three times in less than eighty years! Millions of dead. During my time in hiding, I understood one thing. As long as these two countries remained enemies, there would always be blood. So I swore to myself that if I survived, I would work to unite them. Not with guns. With common work and trust.
You don't repair war with guns, but with trust.
—We've heard about a famous May 9, 1950. What happened that day?
Ah, the great day! That morning of May 9, 1950, I was Minister of Foreign Affairs. I had prepared a text in secret, with my friend Jean Monnet. Why in secret? Because if the other countries had known too soon, they would have made it fail. Imagine you're preparing a huge surprise, and you hold your breath until the last moment. I walked into a room at the ministry, the Clock Room, in front of journalists from around the world. And I proposed that France and Germany pool their coal and steel. It was the first stone of a united Europe.
I held my breath until the last moment, like before a big surprise.
—And how did the German leader react when he found out?
The German chancellor was Konrad Adenauer. He was told only a few hours before my speech. Can you imagine his surprise? For centuries, a Frenchman reaching out to a German almost never happened. We saw each other as enemies, period. And here, a Frenchman was proposing to work together, as equals. He reportedly said it was the first sincere gesture from a Frenchman toward Germany since the war. Coal and steel, you know, are what you use to make cannons. My idea was simple: if you share the means to make war, you can't wage it against each other.
If you share the means to make war, you can't wage it against each other.
—But building the whole of Europe is huge. How did you do it?
Little by little, my child. Very little by little. You know, I never believed in great magical plans that you achieve all at once. In my declaration, I said that Europe would not be made all at once, but through concrete achievements. I called that building a de facto solidarity. Imagine you want to become friends with someone you don't know well. You don't swear eternal friendship right away. You first do a small project together, then another. Trust grows like a plant. In 1951, six countries signed the treaty creating the ECSC, to jointly manage coal and steel. It was the first step.
Trust between peoples grows like a plant, little by little.
—What is the ECSC, actually? What does that weird word mean?
Good question! ECSC stands for European Coal and Steel Community. A complicated name for a simple idea. Six countries — France, Germany, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg — decided to manage their coal and steel together. And the newest thing was that we created a High Authority. Imagine a group of people placed above governments, deciding for the common good, not just for one country. Never in history had that been done. It was like a small laboratory. And from that small laboratory was born, years later, the whole great Europe you know.
From a small laboratory of coal was born all of Europe.
—They say you were called 'the monk'. Why such a nickname?
Ha! It's true, I was sometimes called the monk of politics. You know, I never married, I had no children. I lived alone, simply, in my little house in Scy-Chazelles, in Lorraine. Every morning, I got up before dawn to go to mass. I always had a rosary in my pocket. In the evening, I walked in my garden praying quietly. No big parties, no luxury. My house was full of books, in several languages. For me, believing in God and wanting peace among peoples were the same thing. Fraternity was not a word. It was a duty.
Wanting peace among peoples, for me, was a prayer.
—And what did you eat in the morning, in your house?
Oh, nothing grand, you know! Coffee and bread and butter, that's all. I was a very simple man at the table. At noon or evening, a soup, vegetables from my garden, a bit of bread, some Lorraine cheese, and a single glass of Moselle wine. Many politicians of my time loved grand elegant dinners. I often ate alone, without ceremony. I always wore the same dark suits, gray or black. Imagine someone you never see dressed up, never boasting. I thought important things are done in silence and work, not in noise and luxury.
Important things are done in silence, not in noise.
—Today, what remains of everything you did?
Much more than I dared hope, my child. May 9, the day of my declaration, became the holiday of all Europe. Every year, we remember it. The six original countries have become many more. And France and Germany, those eternal enemies, are now friends. Can you imagine? When I was a child, it was unthinkable. In my book For Europe, written at the end of my life, I said that democracy must be fraternal, or it will not be. If you and your classmates, later, keep that idea alive, then all this work will not have been in vain.
France and Germany friends: when I was a child, it was unthinkable.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Robert Schuman's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.