When my father, who was a vicar, was transferred from the Melanchton-town of Bretten in Baden to the coal and steel town of Neunkirchen in the region known as the “Saargebiet” in 1954, we suddenly had French passports and French money. Car registration plates were black with white lettering. French soldiers patrolled the streets. The policemen wore French uniforms. French was the first foreign language taught at school, and teachers of that subject gave bad marks for good achievement, and vice versa. For the language of the “occupiers” was not accepted.

During the past 200 years the Saarland has changed nationality eight times. In the 20th century, it became French after both the First and the Second World War, yet each time returned to Germany after a plebiscite. I must add, however, that although the term “occupiers” was often used, the designation was not actually valid, because after the First World War the Saar territory was placed under League of Nations administration, and from 1947 the Saarland was economically linked to France, but politically autonomous.

Nevertheless – or perhaps because of this – I gradually felt at home in Saarland. Nowhere in Germany are you closer to the proverbial ideal of “living like God in France” than at the St. Johanner Markt in Saarbrücken, where street café borders on street café, and bistro neighbours on restaurant. With the first rays of the sun, the proprietors in their long white aprons put chairs outside on the pavement and serve coffee and croissants. Police commissioner Max Palü, alias Jochen Senf, of the “Tatort” television series, cycles across the market square, and even Minister President Peter Müller occasionally strolls along the narrow streets close-by.