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The altar boys who grew up together — and tried to keep Europe’s center from crumbing

The lives of Daniel Caspary and René Repasi often overlapped as they grew up. In the European Parliament, they became political rivals — but were also united in common cause.

By MAX GRIERA and NETTE NÖSTLINGER
in Stutensee, Germany

^{Photo-illustrations by Klawe Rzeczy for POLITICO}

Sometimes it’s the least extraordinary places that throw up the most startling of coincidences.  

In this case, a tiny German town — nothing special: a stone’s throw from the Rhine river, a small 18th century castle, the kind of suburban sleepiness where boys like Daniel Caspary and René Repasi while away their teenage years cycling to the city to party or the nearest lake to cool off — has produced rival leading European politicians who have been key to assuring EU political stability in a time of unprecedented fragmentation. 

The way their lives have intertwined is astonishing. Caspary, now 49, and Repasi, three years his junior, went to the same school. There, they both organized a cabaret of political satire. They honed their skills on the student newspaper. They were both altar boys in the same church. And they both scored their first political victories on their town’s council. Almost since birth, their lives have taken staggeringly parallel paths. Now, they’re on different sides in the European Parliament. 

Caspary is leader in the Parliament of the center-right Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and its Bavarian sister party, the Christian Social Union (CSU), the largest faction in the European People’s Party. Repasi is the equivalent for the center-left Social Democratic Party (SPD), the third-largest national delegation in the Socialists and Democrats group. The EPP and the S&D are the two biggest Parliament groups and for decades have between them held a grip on EU power.

Despite the rivalry between their umbrella political families, with antagonism only worsening since the 2024 EU elections, the two men have cemented their reputation as the backchannels between the two sides, attempting to safeguard what in EU circles is known as the “grand coalition” between center right and center left.

That’s significant because the Parliament is fractured like never before. Aping a trend seen across western democracies, the middle ground is crumbling. Politicians like Caspary and Repasi represent the old ways of doing things ― political opponents, yes, but ready to put aside their differences so their two sides can work together to face down the extremes. Increasingly, that’s no longer a given in the European Parliament. That was evident when the EPP, earlier this month, abandoned its traditional centrist allies and pressed ahead with the support of far-right groups to approve cuts to green rules. 

A good relationship between the pair has been particularly useful because the leaders of the two pan-European groups rarely conceal their mutual dislike and are increasingly finding it tough to reach compromise positions on new laws, such as on green rules for business or on controlling migration. 

“Of course we have many differences politically, but it’s good if you can talk,” Caspary told POLITICO. “We’ve known each other for ages … We know that we can trust each other.”  

“He was always a sort of leading figure,” Repasi said, remembering their shared childhoods in Stutensee. I “looked up to him.” 

While their paths overlapped, they could barely be more different personally and politically. Caspary is the charismatic old-school conservative deeply rooted in his community, pressing the flesh at local events and using the language of the person in the street. He still lives in the area. Repasi, by contrast, is the cosmopolitan ― the slick social democrat with an impressive track record in academia, a man of scholarly rhetoric who moved away from Germany completely.

“What Repasi lacks,” said Mathias Zurawski, a journalist who attended the same school, “Caspary offers. And vice versa.”  

Altar boys

Stutensee’s discreet Catholic St. Josef Church is in the town’s backstreets. The garden surrounding it boasts abundant fruit trees. Posters advertise meetings of the scout group.  It’s humble in comparison to the more spectacular Protestant church on the main street. It’s here where the Caspary and Repasi families worshipped. And it’s where the two boys built trust in each other. 

“We met for the first time in the youth groups of the Catholic church,” Caspary said. “We talked about this. I think this stands for some values. We always try to be honest.” 

Those early religious experiences play a big role in Caspary’s life today, said Ansgar Mayr, a regional CDU politician who has known him since he made his first steps in politics.   

“He was greatly influenced by his time in the Catholic Church and also his time with the Scouts, who are Catholic Scouts,” Mayr said. “His circle of friends, outside the political bubble, comes very much from the Catholic Church and parish youth groups.”  

The pair served as altar boys, assisting the priest at Mass and kneeling as part of the liturgy. On Christmas, they sang carols around town.

The Social Democrat Repasi’s Catholicism has lapsed somewhat, but despite being “one of those guys who go to church only at Christmas,” he said Christian values serve as guidance for his daily life and political career.

Chaos and revolution

The pair’s paths crossed again as teenagers in high school. The Thomas-Mann Gymnasium is just a stone’s throw from the church. It’s seen better days and is due to be renovated next year. For now, it still looks as it did in the 1990s. It’s easy to imagine Caspary and Repasi here. The lockers they’d have used line the corridors and the classrooms are plain, aside from the vintage orange cubical washbasins.

In those years, they both dived into extracurricular activities. Caspary founded an annual political cabaret show. At 18, he handed the organizing baton to Repasi, who suddenly found himself facing the daunting task, he said, of raising money to cover costs. 

“If the whole thing was a success, [that] was due to the fact that he [Caspary] handed it over, and we did the transition period together,” said Repasi. 

The boys’ school yearbooks portray two kids destined for greater things. Alongside a photo of Caspary humorously dressed as a medic, his classmates described him as “source of the most creative interjections (‘yes, but…’) that elicit a wide range of reactions from teachers, ranging from amusement to annoyance.” It’s “hard to believe,” the entry said, “that this chaotic person will one day take on a leading role as a conservative politician.” 

Repasi’s friends saw him as a revolutionary. His portrait shows him wearing a Soviet hat. “Discussions with him often turn into fights,” his schoolmates said. “But no one else is as good at arguing objectively.” 

The boys also bumped into each other on the school’s newspaper, Pepperoni. Caspary was already acting as a sporadic school reporter, when Repasi — a couple of years later — became editor in chief. The boys weren’t scared of hitting the establishment where it hurt. Pepperoni signified “something that stings”  so was “a means to express criticism,” said former teacher Sabine Graf, who taught French and German at the school at the time. 

Those shared experiences form the basis of the two men’s relationship in the Parliament today.

“You can always say you can trust me,” Repasi said. “But actually you can only do so if you have experienced it. And I experienced it in my past that I can trust him and that I can rely on him.” 

Voters’ criticism

These days, Stutensee isn’t immune to the political winds that blow across the whole of Europe. With populism, of right and left, on the rise, centrist politicians who broadly prefer to focus on points of agreement rather than division aren’t in vogue.

The Alternative for Germany (AfD) came in second in Germany’s national election earlier this year ― the best showing for a far-right party since the Nazi rise to power. The AfD isn’t represented on the city council here, but locals acknowledge there’s a desire to kick the establishment. An establishment symbolized by men like Caspary and Repasi.

Despite their deep roots in the town, many reject the idea they’re local heroes.

“They show up at some celebratory events around town with their family a couple of times a year, but you don’t hear from them afterwards,” said a 37-year-old bartender at the smoke-filled bar in town, who gives his name only as Dominik. A handful of people at the bar hear his remarks and nod. 

Dominik also went to Thomas-Mann Gymnasium. He knew Caspary’s brother. But he insisted neither politician can be trusted. They’re not “looking out for the interests of the people,” he said. 

But early on in their careers, the two politicians made some tangible changes for locals. When they were both on their school’s student council,  Caspary campaigned for a night bus line between Stutensee and the city of Karlsruhe, 10km away. In some ways, he succeeded, advancing a cause that led to the construction of a durable tram connection built years later.  

“During this campaign, I realized that if you start engaging with the town representatives, like the mayor, like the city council members, then you can change things,” Caspary said.     

Repasi’s political awakening came when the regional government tried to cut by a year the time that students attended high school to align practices with other European countries. The school’s leadership wanted to participate in the pilot, despite most students being opposed.

“I found it total nonsense,” Repasi said. “I was mobilizing the school kids to come to this meeting of the municipal council, and I think for the first time ever it was totally full.”    

The students cheered loudly when their arguments, compiled by Repasi, were presented to the mayor. The council ultimately rejected the plan. If the bus line was Caspary’s first political victory, this was Repasi’s. 

Mr. Stutensee vs. Mr. Europe

Eventually, they drifted apart.  

These days, Caspary’s image is one of a politician still deeply rooted to his home, who found his way to Brussels by chance. People close to him describe him as a family man, raising his five children just a few kilometers from where he grew up.

Repasi, in contrast, is seen as a professor-turned-politician, someone with a strong passion for European affairs who deliberately chose to build his life abroad.  

For Repasi, who was raised by a German mother and Hungarian father, “cosmopolitanism runs through his life,” said Graf, the schoolteacher. She and another former teacher both recalled his in-depth study on the Yugoslav Wars. He became a professor of European law in Geneva and Rotterdam, where he raised two sons with his Polish wife.   

Caspary was elected to the European Parliament almost by accident in 2004, at 28, because of the CDU’s exceptionally strong showing.  

“My plan was to become the chairperson of the group in my city council,” he said. 

For Repasi, on the other hand, ending up working in an EU institution was his dream, according to colleagues. He even dabbled with joining Caspary in the CDU. But in his village, the party didn’t feel very welcoming, he said. “I’m Western-looking enough not to have any discrimination experiences like Turkish people, but my strange family name was strange enough in my village,” he said.  

Repasi’s road to the Parliament was bumpier than Caspary’s. He ran in three elections but never made it, ultimately joining when another SPD member gave up her mandate in 2022.

Together in Brussels ― and then apart again

Reuniting in the European Parliament was almost like a homecoming for Repasi. Caspary presented him with a basket of delicacies from the region around Stutensee.

Repasi’s rise since then has been rapid. He became the head of the SPD faction in the S&D only two years after his arrival. And in that time, they’ve put their friendship to good use.

Cordial catchups soon turned into high-level political negotiations. They were suddenly in charge of leading the biggest German parties in the Parliament and had to overcome the increasing estrangement between their group leaders, Manfred Weber, the head of the EPP group, and Iratxe García, the S&D chair.

That’s why they have been in constant dialogue, “to bring together political lines,” Caspary said.

“We do speak about conflicts that are arising,” Repasi said. “Whether we can totally solve them is a different question.” 

Other MEPs say the good relationship between the German conservatives and Socialists has proved critical.

“The stability of the mandate” ― European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen’s loose coalition of centrist parties ― “is at stake, and what can help cement a stronger cooperation is the link between the CDU and SPD,” said Javi López, a Spanish S&D lawmaker and Parliament vice-president.    

But nothing lasts forever and the double act is about to split once more. In October, the German government nominated Caspary to be its representative at the European Court of Auditors, in Luxembourg.

On Thursday he is expected to be confirmed by the Parliament. That will leave a gap, according to his colleagues.

“Over the years, he has been a steady and unifying presence, bringing together a team of highly diverse personalities,” said Niclas Herbst, chair of the Parliament budgetary control committee, and one of the names floated to succeed Caspary. “He is, in the best sense, a true generalist — someone who can swiftly and thoroughly grasp complex political issues … I know there is great anticipation in Luxembourg for his arrival.” 

When Caspary departs, Repasi will have to find himself another opposite number to build up a trusting relationship. But it remains to be seen whether the fraying ties between center right and center left can retain at least one strong thread.

While that won’t be impossible, it certainly won’t come as easy as a relationship forged in little Stutensee. Out of experiences in church, student politics and the school newspaper, the foundations held up well.