by Jeanne Moran
When Werner blew the whistle, all started normally, pairs of boys circling each other, fists at the ready. But within a minute, the five fair contests had turned into brawls with boys shoving each other, staggering, throwing punches as well as kicks. Blood and spittle smeared faces, filth covered uniforms. I watched from my safe place behind the lens, sickened but somehow unable to turn away.
I focused on Klaus. His opponent kicked him square in the shins. Klaus pounced, knocking him onto his back. They grappled and rolled in the dirt, first one of them on top, then the other. In less than a minute, Klaus’ opponent was face down and he had sprawled on top, twisting the boy’s arm behind him. The boy struggled to free himself, to push up or roll away, but Klaus overpowered him. He yanked the boy’s hair, lifting his head to reveal a bloody nose.
Beside me, Rennie made little choking sounds. I knew her thoughts were the same as mine. This wasn’t boxing; it wasn’t sport. This was a fight.
I used my camera as a spyglass to view the reactions of the other spectators. Most continued to clap and holler their approval, including Marie and Uta and Anna. Little Trudi and her friends sat near the front of the pack, faces hidden behind their hands. Erich watched in stone-faced silence, fists clenched in front of his knees.
Werner stayed focused on the fights, grinning. Finally he blew the whistle and Klaus jumped to his feet and punched his fist in the air. The winner.
It was only then that I realized – I’d watched the whole match hidden behind my camera but hadn’t taken any pictures. I might be in trouble for that.
“Last event of the day,” Werner announced as the filthy, bloodied fighters staggered and swaggered to rejoin their troops. “The only event in which our guests, the Jungmädel troops, will participate. The human pyramid.” He turned to Anna. “Your troop was the first to arrive, so the honored place at the top of the pyramid is yours. To whom does it go?”
Anna rose and straightened. “Renate Müller, mein Scharführer.”
I grabbed Rennie’s arm as she drew in a breath. Werner’s eyebrows shot up. “My sister? Indeed.” Then back to business, he gestured to the boys. “One from each troop.”
The boys pushed their representative into the open. The three largest boys hunkered on all fours, and two others scrambled on their backs to create the second level.
Werner hooked his finger at Rennie. “Come, Renate.”
She rose and slid from my grasp. Everyone bolted to their feet. Voices cheered her on, clamoring for her to hurry up the boys’ posed frames to her perch at the top.
She stepped deftly onto one boy’s back while reaching to the second row. As she lifted herself and groped for a hand hold, she teetered, off-balance. I held my breath. Several seconds passed and the boys readjusted, steadying the shifting pyramid. One of Rennie’s knees reached the back of a boy on the second row. Then she gained purchase and pulled up the other knee to settle on all fours. Once there, she grinned in triumph. A huge cheer rose and I whooshed out my breath.
From the growing shadows behind the pyramid, two pairs of figures appeared, each duo lugging a cook pot. In the blink of an eye, two pots of icy water splashed onto the backsides of those in the pyramid, dousing them, shocking them. The pyramid toppled in a tangle of screams and limbs.
I ran into the wet slippery chaos. “Rennie!” I called. “Rennie, are you all right?”
Relief coursed through me when I found her lying on her back, laughing. She brushed a clump of muddy hair back from her face. “I wondered how I’d get down.”
Chapter Two
Background
20 April, Wednesday
A fter our BDM pledge ceremony, Rennie and I found my father at the reception behind a table spread with cakes. I leaned into his sideways hug and inhaled. The scents of our family’s bakery clung to him, sweetness and yeast breads. Papa’s scent.
He kissed my forehead and used my pet name. “Do you feel all right, my Sophiela?”
“I guess that flu’s still bothering me.” A nagging headache and nuisance body aches had been my companions since the weekend cookout.
He slid pieces of cherry-laden chocolate cake onto plates. “Can you help me serve?”
“Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte! My favorite.”
“That’s why I made it.” He smiled, crinkles around his eyes showing his pleasure. When Werner spotted us and started over, Rennie and I grabbed plates and ducked into the crowd.
“I understand your father is leaving with the Wehrmacht soon,” a Party officer said to me.
“Friday,” I answered flatly. I didn’t want to think about it.
“And he’ll be a baker for our glorious soldiers?” another officer asked while chewing my father’s confection.
“No, a photographer.” A few years earlier, a customer short on cash had taught Papa photography in exchange for some of our bakery’s bread. Three lessons later, Papa was hooked. He bought his own camera and sold some shots to local magazines and newspapers. The bakery was our family’s livelihood, but photography was Papa’s heart.
Mine too, ever since I’d first gone with him to a camera store in Schwabing, Munich’s artsy part of town. The shop owner led us into a tiny room in the back and closed the door. He clicked on a lamp which made the room glow orangey red and used tongs to lift a single paper from a liquid-filled tray. As it hung there, dripping, and then was lowered into another tray, something happened. The blank paper filled with faint shadows. The shadows took on shape and substance until there, on that wet paper, was an image I knew from my own mirror – my shy smile and frizzy braids, captured forever by the magic of Papa’s camera.
I started squirreling away my delivery tips to buy a camera of my own. In a few weeks, I’d have enough to buy a battered old box camera I’d seen in a pawn shop. Not great quality, but it would be mine.
Rennie and I moved to offer cake to Helga, our troop leader now that we were in BDM. Werner joined us, fisted hands on his hips. “I need Adler to photograph a special HJ event on Monday,” he told Helga.
“If it’ll help the cause,” she said, accepting the cake, her toneless voice obedient but disinterested.
“What’s the event?” I asked. I’d have to borrow a camera. Again.
I smelled yeast and felt a gentle nudge behind me. “More cake, anyone?” Papa leaned in, plates in hand. “Last few pieces.”
Werner grabbed one without so much as a danke and said, “Your daughter’s agreed to show the world the wonderful training of our Youth. How discipline and camaraderie make the Reich strong.”
Papa turned to me, his steel gray eyes searching my face. He said “Excuse us” to the two leaders, grabbed my elbow, and led me a couple steps away. “Is that what you choose to do, my Sophiela? To help the Scharführer?”
“I’m the Youth photographer now, Papa. The leaders will tell me what events they want photographed.” It seemed pretty simple to me.
He dropped his head. “Not you too.” Then he lifted his eyes to meet mine and softened his voice almost to a whisper. “You still have a choice. Only you can decide if your choice is worth the cost.”
That sounded serious, far too serious with all these people around. I matched his whisper. “I want to practice photography whenever I can.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then you will need a good camera of your own. Since the Wehrmacht will give me a new one, you may have mine.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Papa!” His camera was much better quality than that box camera I’d planned to buy. “I’ll take good care of it.” The two Youth leaders ate their cake with eyebrows raised and heads cocked, pretending not to listen.
“I am not worried about the camera,” Papa said, studying my face. “I am worried about…” He hesitated. “Photograph the truth, my Sophiela. The whole truth. Promise me.”
What could be photographed except truth? A camera only sees what’s there. I looked Papa in the eyes and promised.
After the reception, everyone in HJ a
nd BDM left for a joint activity. Everyone except me. My parents refused to let me go, saying I’d had enough excitement for one day and needed rest to get over that pesky flu once and for all.
At home in the apartment above our bakery, Mutti closed herself in the bedroom, probably to start her nightly rosary. I set out two china cups and saucers while Papa lit the burner and placed a kettle on the iron stove. He settled a thick black record on the gramophone and lowered the brass tone arm. Noisy scratches gave way to a gentle piano solo. Für Elise.
He swept his arms wide and bowed. “May I have this dance, my Sophiela?” I took his hand and right there, in our tiny kitchen, we waltzed.
I closed my eyes. Without my vision, my awareness increased. The high hum of the heating kettle, the delicate music’s rhythmic urgings, the yeasty scent on my father’s clothing, his hand’s steady pressure on my back guiding my dance steps – each expanded and filled me, leaving no room inside for questions about puppies and choices, photos and the whole truth. The questions pushed to my lips and I opened my eyes. “Papa?”
But before I could speak, shouting outside grabbed our attention. A dozen HJ walked down the center of the street, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Klaus was in their midst.
My father bristled. “Go to bed, Sophie.” His tight lips and narrowed eyes spelled trouble for Klaus.
Hidden safely in my room, I pressed my ear to the closed door. Für Elise scratched to a halt. A clank of metal and a fading whistle meant the kettle was off the stove. A door opened and closed – Klaus was with Papa in the kitchen. “Tell me what you did tonight,” Papa demanded.
I could picture Klaus, chin in the air, self-assured. “I was at the Königsplatz on a Youth activity,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“What the Scharführer told us to do.”
“You smell like smoke. What did you burn?”
Klaus’ response was soft. I pressed my ear harder against the door.
“Books!” Papa bellowed. Another door opened and Mutti’s voice jumbled with the other two. Papa boomed over the clamor. “Those thugs burned books!” I pictured veins sticking out of Papa’s neck, a wild impassioned look on his face. So unlike the everyday Papa who waltzed and drank tea and played the Masters on the Victrola. I wanted to snap a photo of him, of Mutti, of Klaus, of the whole scene.
Klaus spoke up, his voice taunting. “What I do is not your concern, Hans.”
I gasped. Calling your stepfather by his first name. Completely disrespectful.
“Go to bed, Klaus. I’ll deal with you later.” That came from Mutti. Footsteps, then the door next to mine opened and closed. I turned my head and changed ears to listen better. “Why are you giving the boy such a hard time?” my mother demanded. “What Klaus and his troop did, they did in support of our Fatherland and our cause.”
“Our cause? Yours and mine? The children’s?”
“Of course it’s our cause. To restore pride to Germany.” A lot of adults talked that way, about how the treaty that ended the Great War was unfair and left our country poor and left our people without jobs. They said the Führer and the Party were fixing that, getting rid of job-stealing enemies and restoring our nation’s pride.
“Pride? Pride in what? Hoodlums? Bullies who threaten people and destroy property?”
I heard pacing. Papa, no doubt. I didn’t need to see my mother to know she’d be standing statuesque with her arms folded and her lips pursed. When Papa spoke again, his voice was softer. “Too bad I must leave so soon. I would rather stay home and guide the children.”
Mutti’s tone was crisp. “Klaus will serve the Reich by this time next year. He doesn’t need guidance. If Sophie does, I’ll give it.”
“Children need to hear both sides. Then they can decide for themselves.”
“What’s to decide, Hans? There is only one side. The side for Germany.”
“I am on Germany’s side.” Papa was struggling to keep his voice under control. “Twenty years ago, I fought for the Fatherland in the Great War. I will return to the Wehrmacht in a couple of days.”
Mutti sniffed. “Yes, but you won’t be fighting. You’ll be a photographer.” The way she said “photographer” sounded odd to me, as if she mocked it.
“The Wehrmacht needs photographers to document the soldiers’ lives, Karla, to bring their stories to the newspapers and to the German people.”
“Surely they need soldiers more, soldiers who will fight. Why aren’t you a soldier?”
I’d wondered that as well. But I never would have asked.
There was a long pause before Papa continued slowly, his voice thick. “Karla, I am a forty-three year old man. I have seen enough fighting. During the war…” He trailed off. “You heard stories, I am sure, from your late husband.” He quieted, and when he spoke again his tone held certainty. “I cannot march into another country and use weapons against the people who live there.”
This time, it was my mother’s voice that boomed. “You’re a coward, Hans Adler.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. Poor Papa. I wanted to rush to his side, to bury my face in his yeast-scented shirt, to tell him that being my father, a baker, and a photographer was wonderful, that it was enough. But I didn’t. I stayed behind my door. Hidden, safe, and silent. Like Minka, my old cat. Shame filled me.
But I didn’t move.
Papa cleared his throat. “A true coward never questions what he is told. And cowardice spreads, Karla, like yeast. It grows and expands until it changes the very thing it inhabits…”
I didn’t have to wonder what I would have done in Klaus’ shoes. With dozens of my friends throwing books onto a bonfire, I would have joined in. Not because of some urge to burn books and get rid of the ideas of our country’s enemies. Just to hide in the group by doing what they do. Because refusing to join in would have drawn notice.
Papa would consider me a coward, too. I curled up on my bed and pulled the blankets over my head.
21 April, Thursday
The little suspended bell tinkled as I pushed open the bakery door. Mutti was in the food prep area looking quite Mutti-like, her square frame bulging over her calico apron and her hair sculpted into a graying bun. She peeled apples with frightening vigor. “Ah, Sophie. Go set the table.” She moved to the front door and flipped the sign to “Closed.”
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik flowed from our upstairs apartment. I followed its magnetic pull to my father. “Ah, you are home, my Sophiela. How was school?” He gestured me into our apartment with a sweep of his arm, filling me with the aromas of yeast and baked goods. Funny how I didn’t notice those same scents downstairs in the bakery. I only noticed them wherever my father was. And he was leaving.
I wanted to talk with him about cowardice and book burning and deformed puppies, but his tone told me I’d need to wait. “You must have heard your mother and me last night,” he said, touching my shoulder with such tenderness that I could have wept. “We will talk after dinner.” I ducked into the bathroom and splashed water on my face.
After dinner, while I dried my hands, he brought out his camera. “Here, my Sophiela. As promised.” Tenderly, he removed the black leather cover and opened the camera’s bellows. As he touched each knob and reviewed its purpose and function, he left white smudges on the sharkskin camera body. Flour. Even outside the bakery with his hands clean and his apron off, Papa still got flour on everything. He tugged at the bottom of his shirt and wiped, smearing the tiny grains around.
I placed my hand on his arm. “Please, Papa, don’t clean it up. It’s perfect.” There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to ask. But that darn lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.
24 April, Sunday
The beautiful spring day was filled with sunshine and promise, the complete opposite of how I felt. Papa had gone to Austria with the Wehrmacht.
After Mass and a midday meal, I stuffed some schoolwork in my jacket pocket and jumped on my bike. My hair hun
g loose and my jacket unzipped as I rode so both hair and jacket whipped and flapped like wings. Too bad they couldn’t lift me and take me away.
I rode for a while through the English Garden Park, past ladies pushing prams and families having picnics. Eventually I found a quiet spot, settled on a bench, and spread the schoolwork across my lap. Math problems would keep me busy until Rennie met me for our weekly bike ride.
Then I noticed – I sat not twenty meters from a familiar scruffy clump of pine trees. How long had it been since I checked the pickle jar for a note from Esther?
I’d taken a few steps toward the trees when I saw him. Klaus strolled down a nearby path toward me. I settled back onto the bench and smoothed the papers into place.
He glanced around at the few nearby people. “Were you sneaking off somewhere, little cat?”
“No,” I stammered. I certainly wouldn’t tell him about the pickle jar – I had no idea what the consequences might be. “Just stretching my legs. I’m still stiff and achy from that flu. And math gets tedious.” I was rambling.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Especially tedious on a beautiful Sunday. Do you do homework in the park often?”
“I, I needed a little air. Mutti says fresh air and sunshine clears the head and heals the bones.”
He gestured to my tangled hair. “The latest Paris style?” I fumbled for an elastic and pulled my hair into it.
A familiar voice called, “Hi there!” Rennie bicycled to us, waving.
He grinned at her. “My sister is up to something, and she won’t tell me what. Please, Renate, talk Sophie out of spending this beautiful Sunday,” he emphasized the next few words, “on something useless.” With that, he strode away.
Useless. Why did that word bother me so?
Rennie settled in beside me and studied my face. All I could say was, “Something about him…”
“Brothers.” She nodded in agreement. “Speaking of brothers, if you promise to keep it a secret, I’ve got a story about mine.” I agreed, of course. “The other day,” she began, “Werner scolded the grocer about how the cheeses were arranged.” She stood, mimicking Werner’s posture by peering down her nose. She waggled a finger at an imaginary display case and pressed a fist into her hip. “You need to put your strong cheeses,” she imitated his whine perfectly, “your Limburgers and Bleus off to one side so my Emmentaler,” she clutched her chest dramatically, “doesn’t pick up strange odors.” I giggled.
