Tribute Remembering a special professor from a special city

Professor Robert Schmitt-Brandt (1927–2025) was a formative figure at the Linguistic Institute of Heidelberg University for decades. His academic career, which took him from Indo-European studies to numerous visiting professorships abroad and on to the study of different language families, reflects the broad spectrum of his interests and professional expertise. In this personal tribute, his former student and Heidelberg alumnus Professor Oleg Poljakov (University of Vilnius, Lithuania) looks back on a researcher and teacher whose work in research and teaching was as well-founded as it was multifaceted.

The summer semester of 1991 began on April 15. Although I was primarily occupied with writing my postdoctoral thesis and teaching two introductory seminars, I also became a student myself. As a doctor of Indo-European studies, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to attend lectures that were relevant and interesting to me. This is how I became acquainted with Robert Schmitt-Brandt, a renowned professor in this field. While sitting in the lecture halls, I not only gained new insights, but also the decisive ideas for my work. He became one of my two habilitation supervisors.

On March 27 of this year, just shy of his 100th birthday, he passed away – quietly, like a great mind who had fully accomplished his mission. So for 34 years, I had the special privilege of knowing him – and of sharing thoughts, paths and times with him. He was a special, exceptionally modest and wonderful person. His contribution to science is unique, clearly visible – and remarkable in every respect. Of course, it is hardly possible to surprise anyone in Heidelberg with scientific achievements. When I first came to Heidelberg in 1991, a Heidelberg scholar received the Nobel Prize. The Rhein-Neckar-Zeitung newspaper commented that no one in Heidelberg had won the Nobel Prize for a long time. “A long time” – that was just twelve years!

For many years, I thought I knew my teacher quite well – but I made my real, completely unexpected discovery when I read Robert Schmitt-Brandts autobiographical book Auf der Suche nach einer vergangenen Welt (In Search of a Lost World, Hamburg 2001). This surprise is easy to explain: the professor was completely free of any form of self-promotion, free of arrogance, condescension, or smugness. He rarely spoke about himself – and when he did, it was always with restraint, even though what he said was highly remarkable. I could hardly believe that behind this modesty—which at first glance seemed so natural – lay a truly brilliant person.  

It is not only a personal biography, but also a piece of contemporary history – with insights into governmental developments, social orientations, values, and moods in different eras. The wealth of topics, observations, facts, data, and commentary is overwhelming. The language of the work is rich, understandable, and beautiful.

The work is also particularly valuable as a source of information on the history of Heidelberg and its university. I have read the entire Strangers and Brothers series of novels by C. P. Snow, who studied at Cambridge and had close ties to the university. I can say with conviction that Robert Schmitt-Brandt's memoirs teach us far more about Heidelberg and its university than Snow's works convey about Cambridge and its university. 

Professor Schmitt-Brandt described everything as it really was – without embellishment or distortion of the facts. He opened up topics that are often glossed over, such as the Hitler Youth. From this: 

“Even today, these songs still ring in my ears: ‚Wir werden weitermarschieren, bis alles in Scherben fällt, denn heute gehört uns Deutschland und morgen die ganze Welt.‘ (‘We will march on until everything is in ruins, because today Germany belongs to us and tomorrow the whole world will’) Correctly, it should have been ‚hört uns Deutschland‘ (‘Germany listens to us’) but we sang ‚gehört uns Deutschland‘  (‘Germany belongs to us’) – and no one corrected us.” (p. 6).

But he soon found a clever way to avoid this:  

"It wasn't anti-fascism that made me reject all this. It was much more the desire to sing and play what I wanted and when I wanted, and not on command with other boys with whom I had nothing in common except our shared membership in a “Fähnlein” (flag unit). So I hatched a plan to get out of this “service.” I had myself registered with the Hitler Youth both at home in Ludwigshafen and in Fürth/Odw., where my father's relatives lived, and a few months later I deregistered from both places on the grounds that I was already registered in the other location." (ibid.)

And throughout his entire life – even in difficult and dangerous situations – he was able to find a way out. 

The war. In early 1943, as a sixteen-year-old schoolboy, Robert Schmitt-Brandt, like so many others, was drafted into the Luftwaffe as an air force assistant. He spent two years there and later described this period with photographic precision:

“All night long, the ‘ flying fortresses’, i.e. the formations of four-engine bombers that had dropped their bomb loads on Mannheim-Ludwigshafen (his hometown – O.P.), roared overhead. Soon night turned into day.” (p. 15)  

On February 17, he began his military service in Leipzig. Robert Schmitt-Brandt took part in only a few battles—but it was enough to paint a harrowing picture of war, or, as he himself called it, an “encounter with death” (p. 15).

Only one episode, which is of particular historical significance, is missing from his book. After completing my habilitation in Heidelberg in 1996, he was my guest in Vilnius. In my apartment, he told me a harrowing story: in the spring of 1945, the Americans liberated the Buchenwald concentration camp. At the time, he was nearby with other German prisoners of war. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the commander-in-chief of the Allied forces, visited the camp – and left it horrified. In a state of deep shock, he ordered that all German prisoners of war should spend the following night under the open sky. 

Alpinists know very well what a cold night under the open sky, even in a tent, can mean – in many cases with tragic consequences. But these were emaciated, half-starved, ragged men. One can imagine how many sat there apathetically, muttering: “There is no justice. There is no God...” But that was not the case for the young soldier Robert Schmitt-Brandt. His resourcefulness – and his knowledge of English – saved his life. He went to the Americans, falsely introduced himself (as he later remarked with a smile) as a medic, and terrified them: “If you don't start removing the bodies now, there will be an epidemic. You will get sick and die.” His courage and determination were convincing. He received food, warm clothing – and the task of leading the burial detail. (How many people did not get up from the ground the next morning – history is silent on that.)

His good knowledge of Russian—and his understanding of Russian culture – also saved his life. When he and his comrades were stopped by a group of former Russian prisoners of war – men who had armed themselves and were now heading toward the advancing Red Army – the leader of this group was so impressed by Schmitt-Brandt's language skills and demeanor that he suggested he stay with him and travel to Leningrad. The professor declined, knowing that Stalin considered all Soviet soldiers who had been taken prisoner of war to be traitors, meaning that the leader himself would have to fear for his future. Nevertheless, Schmitt-Brandt received a “bucket of raw pork as provisions” from the group, and he reports: “That same evening, I exchanged this meat with some Ukrainian women in a nearby camp for a huge loaf of bread that filled my entire backpack” (pp. 26-27). This allowed him to escape hunger. 

And so the war ended for him: “Now I could finally hand over my useless ‘bride’ (sarcastically referring to his rifle – O.P.) to an American soldier. And I was relieved at the thought that I had certainly not caused anyone any harm with it in this war” (p. 27). An extraordinary – and downright enviable – achievement. How few could say that about themselves!

In his book, scenes from the post-war period and the era of the economic miracle appear in impressive detail, vividly and almost picturesquely. The professor himself was, one might say, a product of that much-vaunted “miracle.” He writes in particular detail about Heidelberg and the university, with which almost his entire life was connected until his retirement in 1994.

He was well prepared for his studies at Heidelberg University: in addition to Russian and English, he also spoke French – a language that was commonly spoken in many families in Ludwigshafen – as well as excellent Latin and Spanish. At university, he devoted himself to a wide range of subjects as part of his studies: Slavic studies, Romance studies, Indo-European studies, and Arabic studies. In 1958, he received his doctorate in Indo-European studies, followed by his habilitation in 1966. He then worked as a professor at the Linguistic Institute of Heidelberg University.

Prof. Schmitt-Brandt lived a long life – and it is rare, extraordinary, and truly admirable that he actually led two academic lives: one before and one after his retirement. Usually, academic activity ends with retirement, or at least fades away. Not so in the case of the Indo-Europeanist. He experienced, in a sense, a second scientific spring – a “second wind.” During this phase, he published and accomplished visibly more than in previous years. A highlight of his late work was his Introduction to Indo-European Studies, published in Stuttgart in 1998 – a kind of crowning achievement of his decades of work in this field. 

He was no armchair scholar – he needed an audience, interaction, lively academic spaces. Enjoying a quiet life and drinking beer was not his idea of retirement. In Germany, retired professors are no longer allowed to teach regularly – a rule that does not apply to the Herder visiting professorship. Robert Schmitt-Brandt did not know this at first, but his colleague, the famous Indo-Europeanist Tamás Gamqrelidze (1929–2021), then rector of the University of Tbilisi and later president of the Georgian Academy of Sciences, did. He was surprised to learn that his German colleague was teaching Spanish at an adult education center – just so he wouldn't be sitting at home doing nothing – while professors in Eastern Europe often remain active in teaching until the end of their lives. At Gamqrelidze's invitation, Schmitt-Brandt traveled to Georgia in 2001, where he taught at Tbilisi University as a Herder visiting professor (2001–2005, 2009 in Kutaisi). There he met his future wife Tamara, with whom he shared a deep bond and a happy life together until his death. This period later inspired the wonderful book: “Das Land, aus dem Medea kam. Lehrer für Deutschland in Georgien” (The Land Where Medea Came From: Teacher for Germany in Georgia) (Verlag Röll, 2013). Visiting professorships took him to other universities abroad: Tetovo (North Macedonia, 2009-2010), Baku (Azerbaijan, 2011-2012), and the Baltic Federal Immanuel Kant University in Kaliningrad (Russia, 2012-2013).

The professor did not just work within the broad framework of Indo-European studies – he deliberately crossed its boundaries and conducted research far beyond it. I already knew that he was also a renowned expert on Berber languages – he even reviewed a postdoctoral thesis on this subject in Paris (at the Sorbonne). But from his autobiographical book, I learned that during a research stay in Morocco, he had intensively studied the language and culture of the Berbers – “As a Berber among Berbers” (pp. 132-145). In 1985, in Senegal, he also traced linguistic traces that showed clear similarities to the Berber languages. In 1989, in India, his attention turned to the Dravidian languages, whose peculiarities and structure deeply impressed him.

During his restless retirement from 1994 onwards, he gave lectures at the University of Tokyo. His journey there began – after flying from Frankfurt am Main – in Moscow, from where he traveled across Russia to Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian Railway, stopping at important locations along the way. From there, he finally flew on to Tokyo. With a two-week train ticket, he traveled all over Japan. In Hokkaido, he searched for traces of the original inhabitants – the speakers of the Ainu language, which was once widespread there. He realized with bitterness that the so-called “Ainu” who lived there were in fact merely Japanese people in disguise – part of a tourist backdrop and not the true bearers of an ancient culture. In 1997, another research trip took him to Australia, where he became interested in the indigenous languages and cultures. And these are just a few examples of his scientific travels. In reality, there were many more – a life on the road, in the service of knowledge and understanding between cultures.

The crowning achievement of his life as a scholar was the book “Wie nützlich ist es dann und wann, wenn man 'ne fremde Sprache kann” (How useful it is now and then to know a foreign language) (Verlag Röll, 2019), which is intended for academics and a broad readership. This work deals with twelve important languages, many of which he not only mastered linguistically, but also spoke fluently. 

Until his death, he retained an excellent memory – and it was not Jack London's Love of Life, but his own life, encounters, and intense personal communication with him that kept my thirst for life alive. When he underwent heart bypass surgery a few years ago, he wrote to me that his doctors had advised him not to travel to his beloved Canary Island of El Hierro – the place where he stayed almost every year with his wife. But he simply remarked, “We flew anyway.” And that was by no means his last trip. 

Heidelberg! Among all the wonderful things that the city has given me, one of the most important was certainly – as you can see – meeting my teacher Robert Schmitt-Brandt. There are many excellent universities in the world, but Heidelberg is unique – special, distinctive. I heard the interjection “Oh, Heidelberg!” all the time in Oxford and Cambridge, too. I was a guest at Oxford several times as a fellow of the British Academy. Before my habilitation in Heidelberg in 1996, I even held a seminar there. I visited Cambridge often, especially when my son Edward was studying there (he was born in the women's clinic at Heidelberg University, by the way). Oxford and Cambridge – as beautiful as they are – would be nothing more than pretty English towns with rolling hills and narrow rivers without their famous universities. But Heidelberg – picturesquely situated between wooded mountains, on the romantic Neckar River and near the Upper Rhine Plain – is much more than just a city with a university.

In order not to fall into overly dramatic enthusiasm – and because it is not appropriate to seriously compare the three cities – I often asked my colleagues in Oxford and Cambridge, “Do you know what the most important difference is between Oxford and Cambridge on the one hand and Heidelberg on the other?” “No?” "Well, in Oxford and Cambridge, three sunny days a week is almost too much. But in Heidelberg, if there are three rainy days in a month, that's already too much!"

You can lose your head in Oxford and Cambridge. But you only lose your heart in Heidelberg...

Semper Heidelbergensis  

Oleg Poljakov