It rings for a long time. Then the called party announces something curt: “Yes?” Would he have time for a conversation? “I’m in New Delhi at the moment,” is just about heard through the crackling of the connection. “I won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”
Three days later, Andreas Mühlberger is sitting in a café in Munich. He comes to the interview by motorbike. The white beard and white hair shine almost by themselves under the dark helmet. “It’s a completely different feeling with your own bike,” says Mühlberger, stripping off his motorcycle jacket. No trace of jet lag as he greets a group of complete strangers in the café like old friends. He immediately engages the waitress in conversation with a winning smile on his face. Mühlberger seems to really flourish through the personal. The instant, buddy-like you is tailor-made for him. But when coffee and breakfast are ordered, the dark eyebrows under the light hair rise: “What did you actually want to know again?”
But that’s actually the wrong question. The correct one would be: where to start? Probably chronologically. Born in Traunstein, Andreas Mühlberger came to Munich to study at the Ludwig-Maximilians-University, later worked as a business graduate for the industrial giant Siemens, among others, and was a lecturer at the universities of St. Gallen, Stuttgart and Witten. In 2011, Mühlberger founded Keylargos GmbH, which helps companies around the world to better market and sell their products, including in the German market. Mühlberger is also co-founder and managing director of the medical technology company Electro-Zeutika, which, according to its own statements, offers “tested therapies with microcurrents” for the treatment of diseases such as sleep disorders, depression or arthrosis. Today he lives with his wife and two children in Grasbrunn in the district of Munich. Oh yes, the question of age still has to be asked in view of the white mane. “I don’t really like to reveal that,” says Mühlberger with a grin. Only so much: This year he celebrated a milestone birthday. “Not big of course. Corona.”
The pandemic was also the stumbling block for Mühlberger’s third managing director job. In the spring of 2020, the then federal government was desperately looking for protective masks and promised generous funding without major bureaucratic hurdles for those who wanted to produce masks themselves in Germany. Mühlberger’s entrepreneurial spirit was awakened. “I simply have a tremendous amount of fun with entrepreneurship.” Without further ado, he founded the Deutsche Maskefabrik GmbH with comrade-in-arms Christian Herzog. In Grafing in the district of Ebersberg, the two found a suitable factory building, and production started after a short time. They were able to produce 50 million medical masks a year, and if the machines were in continuous operation, another 15 million would have been possible. The advantages: minimal carbon footprint, the fabrics are treated without chemicals, the nonwovens used are from Germany: hymns of praise went down to Mühlberger and Herzog. Representatives of local and national politics were only too happy to be photographed in the Grafinger mask factory together with the entrepreneurs. The future looked promising.
The loss of trust in mask manufacturers in the course of the affairs surrounding the CSU politicians Nüsslein and Sauter is bad
Two years later, Mühlberger instead says resignedly: “We’ll probably have to close soon.” Production is now completely stagnant. Despite its full-bodied promises, the new federal government still tends to buy cheap masks from Asia, which, unlike masks from Germany, can be manufactured and sold without strict conditions. According to Mühlberger, only two of the original 17 employees are left. The loss of trust that mouthguard manufacturers have experienced over time is also bad for him. For example, in the course of the affairs surrounding the CSU MPs Georg Nüsslein and Alfred Sauter or the influencer Fynn Kliemann. These had collected horrendous sums for questionable mediation and production of masks. “I definitely didn’t get rich with the masks,” says Mühlberger. In the first six months after founding their mask factory, he and co-founder Herzog would not have paid any salary at all. And that at a time when, due to the pandemic, orders for Mühlberger’s consulting firm were rare anyway.
Of the original 17 employees at his mask factory, only two are left because cheap goods from abroad are in greater demand.
(Photo: Peter Hinz-Rosin)
Putting your feet up and relaxing doesn’t seem like an option for a restless person like him. But: Despite his many tasks, he hardly feels burned out or at risk of burnout. But he emphasizes: “None of these activities are possible without the support of others. My wife in particular is a great comrade-in-arms.” She even let her own job rest for half a year for the mask factory project in order to support him.
His own energy seems inexhaustible. Shortly after war broke out in Ukraine earlier this year, he and a few friends founded Ukraine Help Grasbrunn. The members of the refugee aid network “Civil Relief” drove more than 1,300 kilometers to the Ukrainian border several times. There they distributed relief supplies and brought refugee women and children to Munich. Mühlberger himself drove to and from the border three times as part of a convoy, including punctures and blocked credit cards. Mühlberger documented these turbulent journeys and the work for the Ukrainian refugee aid with many videos and pictures on Facebook. Thanks to his own business network, Mühlberger was also able to help “Civil Relief” organize special goods that were urgently needed for the Ukrainian military and medical care, for example: bandages, disinfectants, ultrasound devices, sewing machines for tourniquets. Or just backpacks. “Some Ukrainians who had to go to war at short notice traveled with their old school bags,” says Mühlberger. “The ones that also reflect the light.” Not useful in war.
At home in Grasbrunn, Mühlberger and his colleagues set out to procure masses of neutral, black backpacks. With success: in the end it was a 7.5-ton truck that drove across the Ukrainian border, packed with clothes and backpacks from old Bundeswehr stocks. There are fascinating stories, beautiful and sad experiences of his voluntary work that Mühlberger tells about. He doesn’t want to attest to altruism himself: “The opportunity to help was just there, so I just helped.”
In the Himalayas he almost fell into a deep abyss with his motorcycle
Donations in kind are still being sought for Ukraine. However, Mühlberger does not know exactly what is currently needed. “I haven’t been in the country for three weeks now.” Mühlberger’s great private passion, motorcycling, led him to the Himalayas in northern India. There he was at over 5000 meters on some of the highest motorable passes in the world. His conclusion: “It was amazing.” Even if motorcycling is exhausting at this altitude because of the lower oxygen content in the air. And sometimes there were also tricky situations: once, says Mühlberger, he was only just able to stop the rental motorbike just before a deep abyss that ran along the side of the mountain road. Another time, while crossing a river, he and his machine fell into the ice-cold water.
“I should have started earlier to combine my business trips with my passions,” Mühlberger sums up. So don’t just fly to Japan for two days for a personal meeting with a customer, but also learn more about the culture there, ride a motorcycle through the countryside. Even if he isn’t always perfectly prepared, Mühlberger admits with a laugh: “A few years ago I rode my motorbike up Mount Fuji. It was snowing and I was only wearing a summer vest.” His next dream is a tour across North and South America, from Anchorage in the north to Patagonia in the south. “But I can’t just take months off while my wife and children are at home.” He is now thinking more about individual short stages that he could gradually work through. He has more time again. After all, mask production is largely at a standstill.