70 years Citroën 2CV: The duck is safe

By Ulrich Booms, Sven Christian, Magdalena Hamm, Katja Iken, Matthias Kaufmann, Sabrina Knoll, Corina Kolbe, Danny Kringiel and Frank Patalong

Four wheels, nine horsepower, a maximum of 70 km / h - and a thousand adventures: nothing less than an automobile revolution, the French manufacturer Citroën on 7 October 1948 at the Paris Motor Show before the astonished public. And certainly not because her new model 2CV would have been more refined, stronger or faster than the competition. But because it was so Spartan.

The basic specification for the design was: "A car that provides space for two farmers in boots and one hundredweight of potatoes (...) drives at least 60 kilometers per hour and consumes only three liters per 100 kilometers." The result was a tin box on wheels with roll-up roof and the cornering behavior of a drunken dromedary. But she was cheap - and economical. That was enough.

In the press, the mobile came across mixed reactions: "A can, model free camping for four sardines", etched the French satirical sheet "Le Canard enchainé" on the 2CV. And a Dutch journalist created with the expression of his contempt the nickname, under which the car for the next decades would conquer the hearts of thousands of drivers: "An ugly duckling".

Not that ever a duck driver would have described his treasure as "ugly". His duck was given a name like his own child. Mounted small rubber ducks as a figurehead on the curved bonnet. Or embellished the fold-up windows with self-crocheted curtains. The "duck" was not just a car, it was a statement against consumerism, the first bit of freedom that you could afford as a beggar student, and above all: a piece of tin-plated love.

For a day, duck drivers remembered this past love - and the biggest adventure they experienced with their duck.

The tragic end of the Ulster Duck
Frank Patalong, SPIEGEL ONLINE author

In 1988, I moved to northern Ireland with my duck, which had been pimped blue-metallic in laborious work. For the local population I was an absolute exotic: there were hardly any ducks, for a good reason. In the harsh, wet climate, southern European vehicles such as the 2CV can be disposed of on the bog - this is what you turn off and after two years it has disappeared. Gone with the wind.

Even my beloved duck did not survive the harsh north long. In the late summer I drove from Gweedore through the Poison Glen to Letterkenny across the moor, where I picked up two pickups. They found the duck typical swing so funny that I was really looking for bumps and potholes. Until the car broke. And in the middle.

The floor slumped, the doors jumped open, and the forward trunk lid unfolded. As the engine hit the ground, it made a screeching sound that mingled with the death screams of my passengers. They thought they would not survive.

photo gallery

23 pictures

The only dead woman was my duck in the end. What I did not know: 2CVs have no spars, but are based on a self-supporting hollow frame - a kind of metal box that forms the lower platform. In wet climates, it needs insulation, underbody protection, but also a great deal of cavity sealing. If you slap with it, the car dissolves, so to speak.

Like mine: Because the wheels "turned" forward in the V position and the steering only worked in one direction because of the bent steering column, you had to turn right three times if you wanted to turn left. In this way, the way to the junkyard became an endless mourning journey. I got 100 pounds for the engine, which did not really lessen my pain: My sweetheart was Year 71, so he had 17 years on his beautiful hump. Whatever happened to the wreck, after two years - see above - it was certainly gone. His red-brown rust rose in the rust brown of the moor.

To this day, my two ducks have been the only cars I have ever had an emotional relationship with.

My finite adult vehicle
Katja Iken, one-day editor

What color is the freedom? Fire engine. Shining, she stood before me, in June 1995, my first and only love on four wheels. My finally-grown-up vehicle - and first major financial disaster.

Hundreds of hours of inventory at OBI enabled me to buy a duck in a Black Forest Kaff in July 1995. Construction year? Defects? Everything does not matter. Dazzled by her beauty, I forgot to even study history student in the fourth semester.

For 1800 marks she belonged to me, the farmer who had never owned a car before, not even a friend with a car. Past the hitchhiking, past the ride-horror in smoky rust bowls: From now on I was mobile, independent. Overjoyed.

How strong I felt the first time I moved with her. All my belongings fit into the 2CV, including beanbag and yucca palm. I rocked to France to teach at a school for a year. With 105 km / h top - downhill, with tailwind - we flew to our destination.

Nothing could shake my duck euphoria, neither the butt, nor the freezing cold in winter. A few times my students tried to overturn the wagon, with me at the wheel. I did them the favor and simulated dread. I knew: It never overturns.

Katja Iken

Katja Iken next to her Citroën 2CV Club

One year later I returned from France, much poorer than before. As the bank pulled in my card, I heartily decided to sell my beloved 2CV. I would never have done it. If I had never driven to this duck dealer in the Darmstadt industrial area.

The mechanic, black braid, blue man, lay under the car. And spat out 15 seconds later the devastating diagnosis: chassis through, total loss, accident wagons, only provisionally welded. "Park in the back and save yourself the scrapping fee."

Just do not cry now, I thought. And did as I was told. Then I got out, stroked my duck one last time, staggered from the yard. As if in a daze, I ran through the streets. At a booth, I washed my despair down with the first hunter master of my life. And did what I always did in dire need: call my three brothers.

One of them finally rescued me from the suburb of Darmstadt. We drove to the Greek, where I ate a large gyros plate and decided: life must go on without duck, somehow. Is it then?

Nevertheless, even after 22 years, there is an at least pea-sized region in my heart that forever belongs to my fire duck.

The Golden middle
Sven Christian, Head of Moving Image at SPIEGEL ONLINE

Actually, there are very good reasons for me to have a traumatic relationship with the duck. As a kid, I definitely suffered from it. This was due to the Christian's family constellation - and the construction of the duck's back seat: in the original, it consists of a slightly thicker fabric and three metal bows. One on the right, one on the left and one in the middle.

I grew up with two older sisters who were stronger than me, at least until I was 15 years old. And with a mother who always drove duck until the late 1970s. We three kids behind. I always sat on the middle metal strut. That was bearable on short rides. On trips like Berlin - Sweden - Finland - Sweden - Berlin not so great.

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Sven Christian with the duck of his family

To make matters worse, we were very spirited children, who were quickly bored for lack of not yet invented portable DVD players on long trips and vociferously made nonsense. Then, when my mother's patience ripped, which rarely happened, she reached back from the driver's seat - and who was sitting in the middle? On the metal strap? I agree.

But that did not leave any lasting physical and psychological damage. I later even drove a Döschewo, a Charleston duck. And when my two (!) Great daughters came into my life, I drove a car with padded back. Of course, on longer trips always equipped with portable DVD players.

And suddenly the roof was gone
Friedel Grimm, pensioner, recorded by Corina Kolbe

The first car we bought from our own money was an eggshell colored duck. On the rear window hung a curtain, from the previous owner. We left her hanging because she liked us. That was 1973, a wild time. At that time I wore longer hair and beard.

My wife Angelika was on fire when the son of a co-worker wanted to sell his car. At first I was pretty skeptical. But soon I realized that driving made a lot of fun. Even if the seats were better garden chairs. After all, not everyone had such a car. Angelika always said that she felt completely free in the duck. The nice thing was that all the duck drivers in the street greeted each other. When my sister-in-law borrowed the car, she wondered how we knew so many people.

Driving turns was a special experience. The duck was then very oblique. My brother-in-law opened the passenger door in left-hander curves. Like a motorcycle racer, he then leaned to the right to balance the car. One thought, at some point it will tip over. Funny was also the circuit on the steering wheel, a rod with knob.

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Duck by Friedel Grimm, Duisburg

Of course, there were always glitches. The duck had a roll roof fixed with clips. On one of our trips, it suddenly broke on one side and ripped through from front to back. Our daughter started to cry.

By contrast, we had no problems with the sprinklers; on the highways there was not much going on back then. And we were even able to overtake the fat cars that ate a lot of fuel and at most 80 km / h.

The first holiday trip with the duck we made to Austria, to the Wörthersee. If we drove down a mountain, I accelerated all the way. Then we came to a maximum of 100, 110 km / h. Uphill, the duck fell at 70 to 80 km / h properly into panting. As soon as we were back home, the engine broke down. We were lucky that we had come this far.

After five years we separated from the car. But we never forget him. If we see a duck somewhere today, we are still excited.

Formation flight on the highway
Ulrich Booms, SPIEGEL documentary retired

When I bought my first new car in the mid-eighties, a white duck, the 2CV had long been nothing but automotive nostalgia. But still the cheapest way to drive a convertible. From then on, I belonged to a committed community. What could be more exhilarating than meeting two species on the A 8 approaching the Swabian Alb on the notorious Geislinger Steige. In the formation flight, we kept our backs from pushing PS protests and escaped the fate of starving behind a crawling truck on the slope.

The longer I drove Duck, the more I was fascinated by her practical aspect. For transports, the back seat could be expanded quickly, creating a voluminous cargo area. For long holiday trips, this area, packed properly, even had enough space to sleep stretched out.

The duck makers had also invented the inside ski bag before it made its entry into top-class models. The skis were simply pushed forward from the trunk under the seats. You only had to make sure that the bindings were not placed under the buttocks of a rider. For then threatened at the first pothole a sensitive injury of the coccyx. The gauzy upholstered seats of the duck were not exactly famous for their steaming qualities.

It was not the holiday in England that separated me and my duck. Although there were weaknesses during three weeks of continuous rain, the folding roof softened more and more, ventilation systems and heating were overwhelmed. The duck was just a convertible, an SUV, a funcar, as it would be in the marketing jargon today. At some point, she had to give way to the seriousness of life and thus a practical line of eights from Mercedes. Also a nice car, but that's another story.

At first, in the new car, when I met ducks, my hand jerked up in greeting. Quickly I let them sink, because I realized that I now belonged to the gray everyday car class. And that nobody understood my behavior anymore. For example, when I braked on the highway to leave a lonely duckling a passing chance on the Geislinger Steige.

A dream in heavenly blue
Sven Kuhlenkamp, ​​photographer, recorded by Sabrina Knoll

Driving in the evenings with rolled-up roof over the country, getting up, steering with the legs and rausgucken over the roof - that should have made every duck driver times. But the duck was not only the cheapest convertible in the world. My duck was also the best transporter. Two bicycles, a TV, bedding, lots of books and clothes from a year Zivi in ​​Munich were no problem for them, after all, the backseat was simply expanded with two quick movements. By the way, also super suitable for sleeping!

But what made the most fun by far was cornering. The duck lifted right up there! With right-handers you could get in pretty well. I gladly accepted the high level of tire wear. My duck was sky blue, after a few conversions even from the outside and inside. Shortly after I bought her, I was in the country with a duck-gatherer. And he actually had seats and a back seat with corduroy covers in "sky blue", which he simply swapped for my ugly gray interior. After that, my duck was perfect for me!

Since a few weeks lives in the street a duck. Pale green, very well maintained. Every time I pass her, I think of what it felt like to drive across the country with only the legs on the wheel.

Duck slump
Matthias Kaufmann, SPIEGEL ONLINE text editor Panorama and Economics

It was in the middle of the nineties, I had just moved to the dormitory on the outskirts of Marburg. My neighbor, let's call him Sven, was an experienced long-term student, majoring in religion, who was co-financing with a small software industry. If I recall correctly, he was already in his thirteenth semester, and no one could explain how he had managed to keep his beloved dorm room all these years, which broke all the deadlines of the Studentenwerk.

Sven did not bother. He was the good soul of the floor, organized practically all fetuses and was our liaison to the caretaker. Sure, that someone drove a duck. A red duck.

So far the clichés. Otherwise, Svens duck was different than you might expect: absolutely reliable. Especially compared to my cucumber, a fifteen-year-old fiesta that I always had to park downhill to avoid having to push at startup. His duck, however, effortlessly jumped in every season and ran like a clockwork.

This automobile idyll was suddenly disturbed by brazen thieves - and they were stupid too. Apparently they were looking for a stack of CDs Sven had left lying in the passenger seat. But instead of simply cutting the roof or slamming a window, which would have been the easiest and fastest way, they bothered at the door lock.

So they opened the door. And bent them so hard that Sven needed a new one. Cost: 500 marks.

That gave even Sven a short break.

This itching in the fingers
Magdalena Hamm, author in the SPIEGEL ONLINE Health Department

I did not own a duck and never sat in one. In my childhood, however, there was a game: who saw a red duck, whether on the street or the parking strip, had the right to pinch someone. Like most children's games, older people passed this on to the younger ones without adults playing a role. I did not have any idea about cars, but I was able to recognize the duck reliably. The opportunities to pinch were rare even then - today, the game is certainly extinct. Whenever I see a duck every three years, it always itches in my fingers.