The memorial site for Bernd Rosemeyer is close to an urban motorway in an unremarkable German commuter town and it has few visitors. Inaccessible and difficult to find, the monument to the long-deceased racing driver can be seen through the trees. The traffic heading north into Frankfurt or south towards Darmstadt rumbles past.
It is a fitting location. What most of those passing by don’t realise is that they are driving on one of Germany’s first racing tracks.
Before the second world war, Germany was at the forefront of Grand Prix racing. Its teams, epitomised by mighty Auto Union and Mercedes, won all over Europe. But, other than the twisty 14km Nürburgring circuit in the Eifel mountains, they had limited space on home soil to showcase their capabilities, particularly their phenomenal top speeds. This displeased the powerful Nazi-controlled government.
But they had a quick fix. In the early 1920s, the German government had instigated huge infrastructure projects. One of the most transformative was a vast road-building programme. Autobahns were starting to criss-cross the country. Why not turn them into temporary racing tracks?
The most famous of these was Avus – an acronym of Automobil-Verkehrs-und Übungsstrasse.
On what is now Bundesautobahn A115 south-west of Berlin, cars blasted down one side, negotiated a hairpin corner at the southern end almost 10km away, and hurtled back northwards where a huge, brick-lined, banked curve would swing them on to the southbound side of the motorway once again. Little skill was needed, but it was super fast, with cars – even in the 1930s – reaching almost 240km/h (150mph).
It finally closed in 1998, but the intrepid can venture into woods near Nikolassee U-Bahn station to discover the site of the southern banking, a crescent-shaped ridge among dense forest. The project was curtailed by the onset of the war and terminated permanently when the Berlin Wall sliced through that part of the city.
At the northern end, you can see the route of the flattened north banking and the track’s art deco control centre, now a motel, still bearing the Mercedes logo on its tower. A listed grandstand, recently restored, sits empty by the original startline. But be quick, there are plans to build on the north curve.
Avus wasn’t the only autobahn put to use. There was a similar stretch of flat, straight road on what is now Bundesautobahn A5 between Frankfurt and Darmstadt. Which is where Rosemeyer comes in. Ever eager for propaganda, the Nazis were keen to show the superiority of German technology. They wanted a German car to take the world land speed record on German soil.
Rosemeyer, today regarded as perhaps the greatest pre-war driver, had won the 1936 European Championship for Auto-Union. His wife was the aviator Elly Beinhorn and the Nazi Party promoted them as a celebrity couple.
The ministry for propaganda and public enlightenment suggested that the top German teams should make an attempt on the record – then held by the Briton George Eyston – on the flat concrete of the Darmstadt autobahn. Mercedes and Auto-Union stepped up.
Although he failed to top Eyston’s overall record, early on the morning of January 28, 1938, Rosemeyer’s countryman and rival, Rudolf Caracciola of Mercedes, set a new mark in a modified Grand Prix car of 432.7km/h (268mph). Auto-Union believed they could go faster.
Later that morning Rosemeyer climbed into a specially streamlined version of his car. The rules stated that the average speed of two runs, one in each direction, counted towards the record attempt. After his first runs, Rosemeyer complained the engine was not running hot enough even though he was within a whisker of Caracciola’s top speed. The mechanics made adjustments and around noon Rosemeyer set out again, even though a wind was picking up.
He made two preliminary runs and then floored the accelerator. Only metres from the end of the course there was a break in the trees. The wind, blowing through the gap, disturbed the unstable aerodynamics of the modified Auto-Union. It swerved left towards the central reservation and then skewed right into a bridge embankment. His car somersaulted. Rosemeyer was thrown to his death.
In the woods there is a wooden plaque and a simple stone marker where Rosemeyer was found.
Karl Feuereissen, the doctor who attended Rosemeyer’s body, wrote: “The inconceivable had happened. Bernd Rosemeyer lay silent beneath the trees of a German forest. Conquered by the primitive forces of nature.” Against the wishes of the Nazi party, he was buried following a church service in Dahlem Cemetery in Berlin.
Mick O’Hare is a freelance journalist, author and editor
