Historical Perspectives: The Timekeepers of Schramberg, How Junghans Built an Empire of Precision

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The Black Forest is a place where time moves differently. It gathers in the heavy mist that settles over the hills at dawn, lingers in the deep green of ancient fir trees, and echoes in the call of cuckoo clocks that, for centuries, had been the pride of the region’s artisans. In the mid-19th century, when much of Europe was still catching its breath from the upheaval of the Napoleonic Wars, a small industrial town nestled in these woods was about to become the epicenter of a timekeeping revolution.

Schramberg was not an obvious place to make watches in. It was a working town. The men who built their livelihoods here were craftsmen. Among them was a young entrepreneur named Erhard Junghans, a man who, like the ticking of a perfectly regulated movement, was methodical, relentless, and determined to leave his mark. But before he made watches, he made something far less romantic. Straw hats.

It’s hard to picture a man who would later be called a pioneer of German horology hunched over a pile of woven straw, examining the weave of a hat bound for export. But in the early 1840s, that was Erhard Junghans’ world.

Born in 1823, Junghans had an eye for business. The straw hat trade was booming in Schramberg, and he saw an opportunity. His success came not through an innate passion for fashion, but through precision—his hats were made with mathematical consistency, each one indistinguishable from the next. It was this obsession with standardization, not straw, that would eventually lead him away from hats and toward something much smaller, much more intricate, and infinitely more enduring.

Tragedy played a role, too. In 1854, the factory’s owner—his father-in-law—passed away, leaving Junghans in charge. The hat industry was changing, demand was dropping, and the margins were growing razor-thin. He had seen the future, and it was not in headwear.

In 1861, Erhard Junghans and his brother-in-law Jakob Zeller-Tobler made a decision that would change the town—and the industry—forever. They opened "Junghans and Tobler", not as watchmakers, but as producers of watch parts. It was a cautious entry into a lucrative but highly competitive world.

At the time, Switzerland reigned supreme in watchmaking, and the Germans, though highly skilled, were not yet dominant. The best watches were built by hand, one at a time, by masters who had studied for decades. But Junghans saw something different. He saw an industry ripe for industrialization—a world where watches were not painstakingly crafted one at a time, but assembled with precision, speed, and scale.

The first few years were tough. Producing watch components meant being at the mercy of the clockmakers who bought them—middlemen in a long supply chain. But Junghans had a plan. He wouldn’t just make parts. He would sidestep the middlemen and just make entire clocks.

By the 1870s, Junghans was producing full clocks under his own name, and the scale was unprecedented. By 1903, the company had become the largest clock manufacturer in the world. Three thousand employees. Three million timepieces per year. This wasn’t just business. It was empire-building.

Schramberg itself transformed — Junghans built a sprawling factory complex, and with it, an identity. One by one, Junghans conquered different types of clocks. Wall clocks, alarm clocks, pocket watches. The brand became synonymous with reliability. Their logo—a five-pointed star, later evolving into an eight-pointed gear—became an emblem of precision. There was only one issue. Erhard Junghans never got to see the full extent of what his company would become. He died in 1876. His sons, Arthur and Erhard Jr., took over, and the second generation of Junghans leadership would push the company into an era of innovation that their father had only dreamed of.

By the early 20th century, the world was moving faster. Trains, automobiles, telegraphs—speed was the currency of the modern world, and precise timekeeping was no longer a luxury; it was a necessity. Junghans recognized this before many of their competitors. Arthur Junghans had one obsession: the chronometer.

He traveled to watchmaking centers across Europe and the U.S., studying new manufacturing techniques. Swiss and American companies had developed new ways to mass-produce accurate timepieces, and Junghans wanted in. He invested in state-of-the-art facilities, streamlined production lines, and hired the best watchmakers. The result? Junghans became a powerhouse in wristwatches, not just clocks. Their reputation grew. German military officers carried Junghans watches during World War I. The company experimented with chronographs and high-precision movements, setting the stage for a bold future.

And then, in the 1920s, the world economy crashed.

The Great Depression nearly wiped Junghans out. As demand for luxury goods collapsed, even the world’s largest watchmakers found themselves struggling. But Junghans, ever adaptable, did something clever: they pivoted toward affordability without sacrificing quality. Instead of competing with high-end Swiss brands, they streamlined production further, made more cost-effective models, and found ways to keep prices within reach of the average buyer. This move ensured their survival. By the time the world emerged from the depression, Junghans was stronger than ever.

Then came World War II.

Junghans, like many German companies, was pulled into wartime production. They manufactured timing devices for bombs, aviation instruments, and military watches. It was a dark chapter in the company’s history—one that, like much of Germany’s wartime industry, was tied to the machine of war. When the war ended, the company was in ruins. Factories were damaged, production was halted, and the future of German industry was uncertain.

The war was over. The world, once again, was trying to put itself back together. Germany, shattered and divided, was no longer the industrial titan it had been in the early 20th century. Cities lay in ruins, factories stood silent, and for many companies, the war had been both a moral and financial catastrophe. Junghans was no exception. The company had survived, but barely.

The once-mighty watch manufacturer, known for producing some of the world’s most precise timepieces, now had to rebuild its reputation in a post-war world where everything had changed. Luxury was no longer the priority—functionality was. Precision was still valuable, but people needed watches that were reliable, affordable, and most of all, modern. It was time for Junghans to reinvent itself.

And then, in a stroke of genius, they did something that no other major watch brand had done before. They turned to an artist. If the first century of Junghans had been about mechanics, the second century would be about design. Enter Max Bill—Swiss architect, painter, sculptor, and one of the last great students of the Bauhaus movement.

Bauhaus, for those unfamiliar, wasn’t just a design trend. It was a philosophy. It was about stripping things down to their absolute essence—form following function, clarity above all else. Everything unnecessary was discarded. What remained was beauty in simplicity.

Max Bill saw timepieces as more than just tools. He saw them as art objects, and in 1956, Junghans gave him the opportunity to create something revolutionary. First came the Max Bill Kitchen Clock. It had clean lines, an intuitive dial, and a built-in timer, making it as practical as it was elegant. It was simple, yes—but in the way that a great poem is simple, or a perfect melody is simple. The Museum of Modern Art in New York took notice. Today, that kitchen clock is part of their permanent collection.

But Junghans and Max Bill weren’t finished. The real masterpiece came in 1961: The Max Bill Wristwatch. A watch so timeless that Junghans still makes it today, virtually unchanged. The dial was pure Bauhaus. Slim, minimal numerals. Long, elegant hands. No clutter, no gimmicks—just pure, essential timekeeping. What made it remarkable wasn’t just its design but its readability. You could glance at it for half a second and instantly know the time. It was the ultimate legibility test, and it passed with flying colors.

By the 1970s, Junghans had become synonymous with precision. So when Germany hosted the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, it needed the best timekeepers in the world. Junghans won the contract. This was no small feat. Olympic timekeeping is about more than just stopwatches—it’s about precision down to the hundredth of a second. Athletes’ careers, national pride, and records that would stand for decades could be decided by the smallest fraction of time.

Junghans delivered.

Using state-of-the-art electronic timing systems, they ensured that every race, every jump, every medal-winning moment was measured with unparalleled accuracy. It was a statement of dominance—not just for Germany, but for Junghans itself. The company had fully reestablished itself as one of the world’s premier timekeepers.

If you owned a watch in the 1980s, you probably set the time manually. Maybe you adjusted it when it lost a few seconds. Maybe you listened to the beeps of an early quartz watch trying to keep you on schedule. And then, Junghans changed the game again. In 1985, they unveiled the first radio-controlled clock—a timepiece that synchronized itself automatically with an atomic clock, ensuring absolute precision.

But why stop with clocks? In 1990, they introduced the world’s first radio-controlled wristwatch: the Junghans MEGA 1. Designed by Hartmut Esslinger—the same mind behind Apple’s early designs—the MEGA 1 looked like something from the future. It was sleek, minimal, and unlike anything else on the market. It didn’t need to be set. It didn’t drift. It was accurate to the second. For the first time in history, you could wear atomic-clock-level precision on your wrist.

But even for a company that had survived world wars, economic collapses, and industry shifts, the early 2000s proved to be one of Junghans’ darkest times. The watch industry was evolving. The quartz revolution had permanently altered the market. Swiss brands were dominating the luxury sector, while Japanese companies like Seiko and Citizen were pushing the boundaries of affordable innovation. Junghans, despite its legacy, was struggling. By 2008, it was over. The company filed for bankruptcy. For a while, it seemed like the story of Junghans—one of Germany’s greatest watchmakers—had reached its final chapter.

But then, a local hero arrived. Hans-Jochem Stein, a German businessman and passionate advocate for local industry, saw something in Junghans that others had overlooked: a name that still meant something. He acquired the company and rebuilt it from the ground up. Gone were the days of trying to compete in mass-market electronics. Junghans returned to what had made it great: mechanical watches, precision craftsmanship, and heritage. They revived the Max Bill collection, reintroduced high-end mechanical models like the Meister series, and leaned into the company’s deep history.

By the 2010s, Junghans was no longer just surviving. It was thriving. Today, Junghans stands as one of the few great German watch brands still independent. It has seen empires rise and fall. It has survived wars, economic disasters, and technological revolutions. It has gone from making straw hats to atomic-precision watches. But through it all, one thing has never changed: they always make great watches.

-Vuk