The following excerpt was translated from the German book “Rolex: Der Traum des Hans Wilsdorf” by Christian Rupprecht. For Coronet’s article about the book, click here.

Geneva, September 1959

“Allez!” The call from behind was loud and unmistakably coarse. “Come on! Move!” Hans Wilsdorf had glanced away for just a moment and failed to respond to the green pedestrian signal across the street. So what? Had the passerby behind him actually nudged him, even pushed him onto the crosswalk? People in the city had become rude; it used to be different. But what did the past matter now?

These days it was always: go, go! Don’t linger. Don’t waste time. Always onward—second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Relentless, like clockwork. Like the precise movement of his watch. In fact, his watches. A smile flickered across his face. Why let a boor ruin a beautiful day?

He had asked his chauffeur to drop him at Place de Bel-Air so he could walk the last stretch. One had to put up with such things then. “Are you sure?” Bernard had asked, incredulous, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. On foot?

“Of course.” Hans raised his eyebrows and smiled back at Bernard in the mirror. “What makes you think I shouldn’t?”

Bernard Duvillard, his faithful driver of many decades, in his neat uniform—black suit, white shirt, tie, and chauffeur’s cap—merely shrugged. The silver epaulettes traced a small arc. It looked a little comical. He was likely thinking the walk would be too much if the hip arthritis flared. But today was a good day, the pain tolerable—and he had his walking stick. So be it.

“See, Bernard, it’s a fine day and I want to enjoy it. Please pick me up at one.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” came the dutiful, slightly worried reply.

“At Boutique Genève.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

The worry gave way to a smile. That’s better. Hans waited for Bernard to open the door, then climbed out of the black Mercedes. The hip did twinge a little. But he’d committed himself; to turn back now would be embarrassing. He nodded to his driver before the car pulled away.

“You see? No problem.” It sounded as if he were bolstering himself. His hip had been troubling him for nearly ten years. At first he could keep it hidden, but eventually he had to act. The walking stick helped, as did a spa cure in the warm south twice a year. He would gladly have skipped the latter.

He smiled into the sunshine, took a deep breath, and was in good spirits. The passerby who had hissed “Allez!” had vanished, swallowed by the sea of people hurrying along the pavement that morning. The man had likely been annoyed that an old gentleman was not crossing as briskly as the others.

“Oh, Geneva, how you have changed!” When Hans had first come to the city—nearly sixty years earlier—there had been only a few automobiles. Horse-drawn carriages still clattered over the stone streets; their drivers tipped their caps, some grimly, most kindly. The breath of the lake infused the whole town and lent it that maritime air which had since sunk beneath the exhaust haze.

Half a century on, you could hardly recognize the city, though the war had not ravaged it like Paris, Munich, or London. Geneva by the lake had become his home. Geneva, of all places. It might have been Lindau, Augsburg, or Bayreuth. Or Dortmund, where his brother had spent a spell. It might have been London, where he had been happy for a long time.

But it was Geneva that became his home, the city by the lake, the city of watches. He had seen it all here: success and failure, triumph and setback. He’d gone all in, and in the end, he’d won. He’d started over more times than he could count. One might say he’d lived many lives, like a cat.

“Like a cat on a hot tin roof,” it occurred to him. The comparison wasn’t perfect—or was it? He had weathered crises, like Taylor with Paul Newman. He smiled at the film he had seen months before and dismissed the thought. Why dwell on troubles when the sun was shining?

Geneva and he had both done their part for watchmaking. The story goes that long ago the city’s goldsmiths had to seek an alternative craft because John Calvin, the stern Reformer of the sixteenth century, banned the wearing of jewelry. Out of necessity they made a virtue and turned to watches, now adorning them with gems and precious metals—and Geneva became the cradle of luxury horology.

The idea could have been his own. Or had it inspired him? A sly smile. He was, after all, a good merchant. He paused to breathe—despite, or because of, the stale air. Exhaust fumes were inescapable and lent the lakeside city its urban aroma. The coziness of earlier days was gone.

Well dressed but not too formal—business attire and a stick—he looked up into the blue, a few gulls from Lac Léman gliding in on the wind, their wide wings spread in search of food as always. Late summer in Geneva. He inhaled. Exhaled. Three times. An old habit.

How long had he done this? Always when he thought, when he mused, when he savored something: deep breath in, once, twice, a third time—as if to fix the moment in eternity. He had done it as a child in Kulmbach: in church, on the market square, in the woods by the Plassenburg building snowmen.

In London—his first time by the Thames—he crossed Piccadilly Circus, realizing he truly lived there. He stood before the massive bulk of Buckingham Palace, waiting to glimpse Edward VII as the guard marched past. Later, in La Chaux-de-Fonds, and again here in Geneva at Cornavin Station, he remembered being nineteen, setting foot on Swiss soil for the first time—at the dawn of a new century.

In Giza, at the pyramids; in Milan and New York; in Sydney, Bombay, and Rome—everywhere, he’d wanted to hold on to the moment forever. He did the same now, the air brushing his lips as he exhaled.

The plane trees had started to turn. A breeze from the mountains rustled through the leaves. The air was pleasantly warm now; the heavy summer humidity had lifted. A cool wind off the lake drifted through the streets and alleys, into offices and apartments. He liked that.

A tram clanged along its rails. The Rue de la Confédération was busy. At the corner of Rue de la Cité a dark-green Opel Kapitän honked—another car had blocked the intersection. Eyes searched, found each other, and communicated wordlessly behind windshields, if not for the honking.

“Allez,” Hans thought. Times had changed. “It’s all about time,” he murmured—in English, as he had picked up in London. He looked at the watch on his left wrist and watched the second hand of the golden chronograph from his own manufacture advance with quiet insistence.

It was not yet noon, but the hip hurt more than expected; he needed to rest. In earlier years such a thing would not have happened. Now age demanded its due.

He sat on a bench in the shade of a plane tree. He was in fine health, his doctor said, apart from the hip. He felt well, apart from the stick. A few months earlier he had turned seventy-eight. A splendid celebration. Betty had insisted and organized it in secret.

Everyone who meant something to him—and to whom he meant something—had come. “A small but decisive difference,” he had told her as they reviewed the guest list. The small, decisive differences mattered—in life, in love, and in his watches.

Perfection and disaster could be only a second apart. He was proud of that. Not bad for an orphaned boy. He had built Rolex from nothing and led the brand to where it stood today—an empire of time destined to outlast its age, a name known for precision, style, and elegance in Paris and Vienna, Bombay and Berlin, London and New York, and, of course, Switzerland.

Churchill and Eisenhower, Che Guevara and Fidel Castro—all wore them: precise, rugged, elegant timepieces. Dependable. Rolex had become the hallmark of fine watchmaking, synonymous with Swiss craftsmanship—though it was he, the orphan from Kulmbach, whose drive and skill had made it so.

Today that name beneath the crown stood for all of it—for the finest watch one could buy. And he, Hans Wilsdorf, was the man behind the crown.

His rest had been brief but long enough to make him perhaps a little late. He checked his watch: best to hurry. Luckily it was not far. He set off at a respectable pace down Rue de la Confédération.

Some pedestrians turned to look—had they recognized him, did they guess who he was? He did not know, but the elegant elder with the walking stick made an impression, a thought that pleased him.

He realized he was wearing the same outfit he’d worn to his birthday party. Betty had helped him choose it and had come along for the fittings: the jacket open, lapels fluttering in the breeze, showing a crisp white shirt with a hidden placket and a neatly tied dark bow tie. Silver cuff links caught the light at his wrists.

Fine beige linen trousers, bespoke like the shirt, with a high waist so no belt was needed. “Unusual,” he had told Betty when trying them the first time, “but good.” Dark shoes to match the bow.

His hair was neatly combed, though not as short as Betty would have liked—his personal touch, like his choice of cologne. Otherwise, Hans was unpretentious, and Betty often teased that a man who made such precise watches could be so careless about other things—his hair, for example.

He was wearing that outfit again today—Betty’s choice, for better or worse, though in truth he didn’t mind. It wasn’t that he disliked it; it just still felt a little unfamiliar. Betty was good to him, always had been. He often thought how lucky he was that she’d come into his life nearly ten years earlier.

He’d see her soon; she had a hair appointment nearby. Were they meeting at Boutique Genève, or at the salon to go together? He tried to remember. “No matter,” he decided. They’d find each other and walk together to the gallery opening that had been the goal of his stroll. More pleasure than duty.

Jacques Arnaud, the owner of Boutique Genève, had invited him personally. They’d known each other for years, and Hans was glad to accept. There would surely be a drink, something Betty wouldn’t forbid in public, though at home she kept a closer watch on his unplanned visits to the bar.

“Take it easy, mon chou,” she often warned. “You drink too much.” And he would stop for her sake, at least when she was watching.

Betty was waiting for him at the entrance, waved, and greeted him with a quick kiss—no sign of annoyance at his few minutes’ delay. “You look wonderful, mon chou.” She straightened his collar.

Women always fussed with a man’s collar when they wanted to tell him he looked perfect—why, he wasn’t sure, but he’d noticed it with Betty too.

“Very modern!” she said brightly. “I’m glad you like the suit. I wasn’t sure when I picked it, but the light beige really suits you.”

“Thank you, mon amour. Let’s go in. They’re expecting us.” He pushed open the heavy glass door, and a swell of voices rose to meet them.

“Hans, what a pleasure to see you, and of course your charming wife! Madame Wilsdorf, I’m delighted you could make the time!” Jacques Arnaud was tense but warm—a consummate host. “Old school,” Hans thought, pleased to find another man who valued perfection in details.

He surveyed the shop and was impressed by the flawless arrangement—and by how many guests there were. “A full house,” he thought. They had known each other for some years: a jeweler and his supplier, neither exactly a darling of Geneva society.

But Jacques was an institution in Geneva, and so was Hans. The two had grown closer over time, helped by a good dinner, a fine bottle of Mouton Rothschild, and by Betty—who’d urged Hans to approach Jacques after a tip from his wife, Marlène, that it would benefit them both.

In the displays, diamonds sparkled: necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings, with and without stones. Among them were fine watches from his own manufacture, each in a lit glass case on blue velvet, like crown jewels—symbols of luxury and perfection.

As Hans and Jacques moved through the crowd with their wives, the guests stepped aside to let them pass. “The maestro,” someone whispered. At a particularly dazzling display from his workshop, an older woman clapped her hands and called out, “Bravo!”

In the case beside her sat a Rolex Day-Date President with diamonds—a brilliant testament to the brand’s precision, priced well into five figures.

A photographer’s flash scattered across the gems as Hans and Jacques talked beside the glass case. “You had this rebuilt just for today,” Hans remarked.

“But of course,” Jacques replied, visibly pleased. “I’m honored to have you here.”

“And I’m grateful for your efforts.”

“Look, mon chou, how Jacques has placed your watches!” Betty said. “They glow in these cases like the Queen’s regalia.”

They smiled, posed for photos with guests, and chatted. Naturally there were canapés, tiny, exquisite morsels that melted on the tongue.

“Here, mon chou,” Betty reappeared as if from nowhere and handed him a glass of champagne. “You’ve earned it.”

She sparkled like the diamonds. He did too, in the way only a happy husband can.

“Mr. Wilsdorf, a question!” Hans turned, surprised. He hadn’t heard the man approach—too focused on his cold drink. “Yes?” He cleared his throat.

“President Eisenhower is meeting Khrushchev. What do you make of that?” The man’s tone was polite, but his intent wasn’t. Hans sensed it immediately.

“If it serves peace, why not?” he replied, wondering if the two men actually knew each other. Probably not. “Eisenhower accomplished a great deal in Berlin last month. Why not now as well? A visit like this can only help. The Russian leader will be in the States for fourteen days, if I remember right—long enough to build some understanding. Especially with Fidel Castro in Cuba—almost on America’s doorstep—causing his share of trouble.”

A nod, a pause, and then the real question: “Do you still have contact with him? Surely you do, no?”

The reporter nodded as if at his own answer. “You’re a journalist, Mr…?” Hans ventured.

“Krüger, Franz Krüger, Neue Zürcher.” A newspaperman.

“Thought so.” Hans sipped. “And your question was?”

“Do you still have contact with him?”

“With whom do you mean—Castro or Eisenhower?”

The reporter stared. “Both wear a Rolex,” Hans added with a sly smile. Krüger did not smile.

“Young man, I remain grateful to President Eisenhower for wearing the watch I sent him. He helped make Rolex even better known worldwide. That is what matters. And as for his current efforts with Mr. Khrushchev—as in Berlin—I’m sure the gentlemen will do just fine.”

“But do you still have contact…?”

“Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Krüger,” Hans said politely, signaling the end. The journalist looked at his notebook and withdrew.

Hans wondered if the question alone was enough to sour his mood. He disliked being quizzed without warning, as so often happened at events like this. It was the reason he’d accepted so few invitations in recent years.

The attention—about him, his connections, his influence—wasn’t really to his liking. Or so he claimed. Not entirely true; he did enjoy the spotlight.

He’d accomplished a great deal, and public recognition suited him, just not the press, and certainly not television. Attending these affairs was always a balancing act when he wasn’t the one in control.

Still, he wanted to be there in person. The role of the invisible founder was not his. He wanted to be approachable and visible. “It’s all about visibility and personality,” as he liked to put it, in English.

That was the approach that had made both him and his watches successful. Anyone unwilling to put himself in the work—to create, to take risks—was bound to lose. And he had never been one of them.

His watches had been revolutionary: precise, waterproof, dependable masterpieces, long before most people even knew their name. It was his relentless drive that had brought them the recognition they enjoyed now.

The watches were the company’s true capital, not him. They were the story. It had always been about the watches—their quality—and about the company itself, never about the man behind it. Outsiders often found that hard to understand.

A glass rang softly as a spoon tapped against it. Jacques cleared his throat. “As you all know, our distinguished guest today—you, dear Hans—has quite a story. A true talent: inventor, visionary, bold pioneer. Who else but my friend Hans Wilsdorf could have dreamed up the feats we all know—the Channel swim, Eisenhower…”

“Oh!” someone called out, raising a glass in salute. On the man’s wrist, Hans caught the familiar, understated elegance of an Explorer. “Rolex is world-class!”

The crowd turned toward Hans. He disliked the attention but knew it came with the territory. “Ah, Jacques, let’s not get lost in old stories. Let’s just…”

“Oh yes, Hans, we will,” Jacques interrupted, charming, direct, just a bit blunt. Hans met his host’s eyes, trying to read what was coming next.

“There are countless stories behind every model,” Jacques went on. “Every Rolex tells its own tale. That’s why your watches, dear Hans, hold such a special place among the world’s finest. They stand out for their character, consistency, tradition, and precision—pure quality, no gimmicks, just timeless elegance.”

The guests nodded, sipped their drinks, and glanced toward Hans; he nodded back politely.

“Most of today’s models have been part of the collection for years,” Jacques continued, “and each has changed only carefully, in design, in materials, in function. To begin as a pioneer and end up the standard, that’s no small achievement. To you!”

The toast was followed, almost instinctively, by the salesman’s turn: “If you’d like to see the full range for yourself, my staff will be happy to assist. We have all the key models on display today.”

The room filled with polite applause, then the hum of conversation returned. The glass cases cast a warm glow over the watches and jewelry. Hans stood comfortably among his creations, honored as a master of his craft, with Jacques at his side.

Over champagne, in the easy elegance of the moment, Jacques finally asked the question he’d carried for years. “Hans, we’ve known each other a long time. I’ve watched the passion you bring to your work. What’s the secret to your success?”

Hans smiled and took a sip. “Just a few simple principles have guided me.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t have to reinvent every wheel,” Hans said. “I’ve always tried to blend what works with what’s new—one small change that can make all the difference. Take the Oyster: it wasn’t the first waterproof watch, but we perfected it and added new features. The Perpetual movement, for example. That combination made it revolutionary.”

“It’s often just one step further,” Jacques mused.

“Exactly. I’ve always trusted my instincts. If you believe in what you’re doing, you keep going—even when the wind’s against you. I started in London in 1905; it wasn’t always easy, but I knew I had something special, so I stayed with it.”

“Persistent,” Jacques said, smiling. “That’s what I admire.”

“Persistent, yes, but flexible,” Hans replied. “In the end, it’s about a feeling. You don’t sell a product; you sell what it makes people feel. They don’t buy a watch, they buy what that watch represents. A Rolex is more than a timepiece. It stands for precision, reliability, adventure, and elegance. What people feel lasts far longer than any technical detail.”

“True,” Jacques laughed. “When I see a Rolex, I think of much more than just the time.”

“That’s the point,” Hans said. “The feeling you create stays with them. That’s the secret.”

“You make it sound simple, but there’s a lot of wisdom in that.”

“Maybe.” He lifted his glass. “But the most important thing is to do everything with passion. That’s always been my way.”

They clinked glasses. “My uncle Ebbe—God rest his soul—once told me, ‘There are moments in life when you go straight ahead and don’t turn aside. No compromises. Quality and excellence allow no excuses.’ I didn’t fully understand it as a boy, but it was a gift. And I never forgot it.”

“Very inspiring. Thank you.”

The morning passed quickly. Now and then Hans raised a toast—to success, to the day, to the summer, to the collection—sipping his champagne and keeping a quiet eye out for the press. At last he looked for his wife.

“Betty, ready to go? I’ve still got work waiting at the office.”

“Of course. I just need to say goodbye to Madame Bardot—such a charming woman—and then we can leave. Is Bernard picking us up?”

She flashed him her radiant smile. “Yes, at one.”

Bernard, punctual as ever—“A Duvillard is always on time”—guided the new Mercedes almost silently through Geneva’s streets while Betty and Hans talked in the back.

Hans had chosen not to order a partition; he liked being able to speak with Bernard. No secrets. But he had insisted on the oversized cigar ashtrays, which gleamed as if they’d never been used. Bernard took pride in the car’s first-class appointments and kept everything immaculate.

Hans talked about the event, the guests, the persistent reporter. “Yes, awkward—that’s the word. Truly!” He drew on his cigar, still irritated.

“If he hadn’t asked, he wouldn’t be much of a journalist,” Betty said, calm and clear as always. She slipped off her lace-trimmed gloves—a sure sign the day’s formalities were over—and set them in her lap.

They drove on, leaving the city center behind until the factory came into view. “Do you have much to do?” she asked—not if, but how much. Of course he’d go to the office. He always did. Every day. Sundays too. She’d tried more than once to get him to slow down, to let the company run itself. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

She understood what his life’s work meant to him. “Just a few things,” he said softly, knowing she already knew. “A couple of questions in production.” She nodded.

He went to the office—what he always called “Werk,” in his native German—every day. When he said it in German, his Franconian accent came through, the rolled R unmistakable. It slipped out sometimes even when he said “Rolex.” People would glance up, and he’d laugh it off: “Once a Franconian, always a Franconian,” flashing that indomitable smile, always upbeat, always quick with a quip.

The boy from Kulmbach could never have imagined he’d spend most of his life speaking English and French. So much had changed since that New Year’s morning in 1900.

And how far he’d come since the winter day he set out! Back then, the breweries in Kulmbach and Bayreuth—like Gebrüder Maisel, his family’s—or the spinning mills along the stream had seemed enormous to a little boy’s eyes, almost untouchable.

And now? His company—his life’s work, Rolex—had become a global brand. Bigger than anything he’d ever imagined. A success he’d earned, not inherited.

The dark Mercedes turned into the drive. The place was alive with movement. A truck idled by the loading dock, workers unloading and hauling away heavy crates. A few watchmakers stood by the main entrance, talking and smoking in the September sun. The porter gave his usual nod as they passed.

“See you later,” Hans said with a smile to Betty.