Aargau writer Christan Haller has not been on Swiss soil for two months, by Corona and a woman, Switzerland

In Laufenburg, a small town on the Rhine, there is a castle ruin on the Schlossberg, soon 800 years old. The streets of the surrounding old town are narrow and paved. Next to the place to run under the Rhine is the stone bridge, which Christian Haller usually crosses every day, from Germany to Switzerland, back and forth, of course.

But now the writer salutes from afar, from there, the German side of the river. Haller has been waiting there for two months to be able to move again like he used to. And even if it could happen very soon, something will remain of this time when there was suddenly a border again in your city. The past few weeks, Haller says by phone, have shaken his basic confidence, nothing more and nothing less.

The 77-year-old man is sitting in his home studio on the Swiss side of Laufenburg when in mid-March what he still finds “unimaginable” happens today: the border between Germany and Switzerland is closing. Before border guards drag a fence to the Laufen Bridge, Haller packs up a few things and heads to the German side, where his partner lives. At the time, the two had no idea that they were about to escape a fate that hundreds of other single couples would soon encounter at the border: the weeks apart.

Haller is now with his partner, he does not have to go through the crisis alone. But the way back to Switzerland is still blocked. Customs officials at the border twice certify that you are allowed to cross. But not back. Haller says he has experienced harassment and demonstrations of power. And above all, one thing is missing: flexibility. And a feeling of the right shade. “Authority is seductive,” he says.

A binational relationship, even one without a marriage license, could entitle you to cross the border again tomorrow. Christian Haller can go back to his home, to his study, to the books and documents that he was missing because he is currently editing his new novel. But the time of the crown will leave a bitter experience. It was Napoleon who, in 1801, drew a border through Laufenburg. Christian Haller says the city has grown together in the past few decades. The fact that it has now been shared again, regardless of small border traffic, has “deeply shocked” the writer.

Barzheim, Schaffhausen

Christoph Brütsch is a man who likes to tell stories, and when he finishes, he laughs out loud. For example, that of motorcycle riders who once made fun of chasing border guards through the fields. Then waiting for her again. And so. Or as a deterrent to the Swiss border guard’s car, which remained unmanned near his yard for days. You may think that everything is a lot of fun with the edge closed. But of course it is not that simple.

Brütsch is located on a dirt road at the edge of Barzheim, a nest located in northern Switzerland, on the same edge where Germany is very close. The 39-year-old man observes the concrete block that the Swiss border guard put on the street here a few weeks ago. And he says that at the time he first thought of his grandfather and the stories about barbed wire running through the fields during World War II.

Christoph Brütsch’s family has been cultivating land on both sides of the border for many generations. When it closed a few weeks ago, Brütsch felt dizzy. Back then, another dirt road was added every day, which Brüsch could no longer drive because suddenly there was an obstacle in the way.

It was not aimed at farmers, but at drivers who wanted to cross the green line. And yet, excitement erupted among the farmers of Barza, as they call their people. Whatsapp messages were exchanged, photos were sent. Each of them has land on the other side. And each of them asked the same question as Christoph Brütsch: What if the Germans no longer let us through?

Meanwhile, things have been cleared up. Brütsch now always carries a German Federal Police pass when crossing the border. But his travels have gotten rougher and longer because he now has to switch to small trails.

If you ask the Schaffhauser if he understands what has been done, he blocks the borders to contain a virus, then he only says: “According to this logic, it would also be necessary to block the traffic routes to Ticino or to the west of Switzerland”. But Brütsch has learned these days that not everything is always logical. And the father of two and his wife have learned something else: appreciate what seemed obvious to them. Grill on your favorite place, which is on the German side. Or the jogging rounds without fear of accidental and prohibited crossing the border.

Kreuzlingen, Thurgau

When Thomas Niederberger says where everyone has reported on his crucifixion, he looks a bit incredulous. “New York Times, BBC, Russian television, insanity,” he says. Niederberger has been mayor of Kreuzlingen since 2018, he had been city secretary for many years, and he would never have thought that there could only be one theme for him one day: a fence separating Kreuzlingen from Konstanz, two cities, of which Niederberger He says they have grown together, they have become one. Even if they are in two countries.

But now the fence is there, twice since early April, because people were still getting too close. The photos of the couples gathered on the fence went around the world. You hurt Niederberger. In recent weeks, he has received hundreds of emails from couples who were suddenly no longer allowed to see each other, many of them “spiteful of criticism.” Niederberger says he answered all questions. And I learned that people don’t care who decided to close the borders. “In the end it is the closest one,” he says.

“People thought I could issue passes,” he says. The past few weeks have shown him one thing above all: his own helplessness. Along with his Constance counterpart, Uli Burchardt, whom he only calls “the mayor,” has long been struggling to open the border again. But that was decided in Bern and Berlin, and there the border fence between Kreuzlingen and Konstanz has been one of the smallest problems. Now June 15 is the opening date, at least for now, and Niederberger is pleased with that, also because he has already promised to relax binational couples for tomorrow.

In Constance you are more critical. The 50-year-old often likes to emphasize these days how much Constance and Kreuzlingen belonged together. The fact that shopping tourism has caused bad blood in the past has gone into the background. Now, Niederberger says, it’s time to throw a party as soon as everything is as before. And what happens when the second wave arrives in the fall? Niederberger just shakes his head. He doesn’t like to think about it.