People Like Us

by Louise Fein

  And we wait. My fingers and toes slowly become numb. I try wriggling them, clapping my hands and blowing on them, but it doesn’t work.

  At last the band strikes up Franz Liszt’s fanfare. A hush comes over the crowd and, almost as one, a thousand heads turn. I glimpse the open-topped black Mercedes crawling down one side of the square. I forget the numbing cold, the unforgiving hardness of my chair. It really is him. The greatest of all men, my brother’s new father.

  The car pulls up in front of the platform and the Führer climbs the stairs, passing me so close I could reach out and touch him. Vati is clapping hard and fast, smiling broadly. Small and nimble, Herr Hitler is terribly good-looking. He wears a brown suit and a swastika armband. His hair is very dark, like mine, and is swept elegantly to one side.

  For a few moments, he surveys the crowd. He raises a fist skywards, then clutches it to his chest. The crowd go wild, crying, ‘Seig Heil! Seig Heil! Seig Heil’ until the Führer holds his hands out and, as one, they are silenced, without him uttering a single word.

  ‘Heil, my German youth!’ he cries at last. ‘It is our will that this Reich shall endure in the millenniums to come. We can be happy in the knowledge that this future belongs to us completely!’

  Mutti is gripping my hand so tightly it hurts. Her eyes fill with water. The Führer pauses and looks around. His eyes, the colour of the deepest ocean blue, sweep over our little group of local dignitaries, pause, and lock with mine.

  I can’t breathe and my head reels.

  ‘In you, my youth,’ he says as he looks at me, ‘there must be no weakness. I want a brutal, domineering, fearless, cruel youth. A youth before which the world will tremble. It must bear pain. There must be nothing weak, or gentle about it.’

  Why does he talk directly to me? I can’t hear his words anymore because there is a strange roar in my ears and a mist comes down over my eyes. I watch his mouth move and his hands gesticulate; a little section of hair comes loose and flops over his forehead.

  He isn’t looking at me now, he is gazing out over the thousands down there, but that stare, that connection has lit a white, hot fire in my soul. He singled me out.

  He saw that I am special. I can be someone great!

  ‘That is how I will create the New Order,’ the Führer is saying, a fountain of spit spraying from his mouth, his body reverberating with the force of his words. ‘That is how victory will be claimed!’

  Words pour from his mouth, building like a thundering wave around the square. He speaks of a brilliant future with no more poverty; no more class divisions. Just one, great, unified nation which will be the envy of all the world.

  ‘A world which will one day be ruled by you, my German youth.’ And he points at the formation of HJ boys.

  He is a magnet, impossible to resist, pulling me towards him. When he finally finishes his speech, my eyes are filled with tears.

  We stand together, we Germans.

  Us against the world.

  I am floating. High above the platform and the crowds. High over Augustusplatz and the great city of Leipzig. High over Germany itself. Higher and higher until I can see the great planet Earth as God sees it, spinning through space and time amongst the planets around the sun, and there, in the centre of it all, this blessed land, with its swathes of deep forests, rich farmland and lakes teeming with fish, its factories and coal mines and its army. I can see its people: good, honest and hardworking; cruelly downtrodden for so long, rising together and turning to face the outside world. To show them who we truly are and to take back what is rightfully ours. It is a power, a force, like gravity, which cannot be resisted.

  The band strikes up again, only this time the drumbeat is like that of an ancient warrior dance. It beats and pulses through my body as the mighty Führer leaves the square, standing in his car like a victorious Roman emperor in his chariot. Behind him marches an army of torchbearers. The lights in the square are dimmed and, through the sudden darkness, the flames appear to flow like a river of fire through the centre of Augustusplatz.

  *

  Mutti and I walk home from the city centre in the dark, freezing night. Vati had to return to his office and Karl stayed with his new group.

  ‘When can I join the Hitlerjugend, Mutti?’ I ask, my breath dense as smoke in the light of the street lamps. The ceremony has burned an impression on my soul, like a footprint. I feel that He has called to me and I must answer. He wants me to play a role in Germany’s great and glorious future.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, ‘the HJ is for boys.’

  ‘But there is a girl’s section, the Jungmädelbund.’

  ‘Vati doesn’t approve of that sort of thing for girls.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because girls should concentrate on home things.’

  ‘But I don’t like home things. I want to go camping and play games and sing songs and march, like Karl will get to do. Besides, I’m twelve!’

  ‘And Vati would say that is even more reason why not.’

  ‘But it’s not fair! All my friends are joining the Jungmädelbund. What will they think if I don’t?’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate.’ Mutti hunches her narrow shoulders. ‘Many people don’t think it is right for girls. Even Herr Himmler himself doesn’t agree with it. He says the idea of girls marching about in uniform with backpacks is ludicrous and it makes him sick. Oh, do come along, Hetty.’

  Trailing behind, I say no more the rest of the way home.

  You can’t stop me. I’ll find a way.

  I climb the stairs and get ready for bed.

  My limbs ache with weariness as I lie down, but sleep won’t come. I hear Karl arrive home and Mutti’s muffled voice from the hallway.

  ‘My darling! How proud we are… The very best of boys… Will go far in this life, I know it.’

  Karl’s bedroom door bangs shut and I hear Mutti’s soft step on her way to bed. A heaviness settles over the house, but my bed becomes an unbearable mess of twisted sheets and blankets. I wrap a warm shawl around my shoulders and creep into my window seat, gazing out over the dark street.

  All is quiet and still, the limbs of the cherry tree etched motionless against the night sky. A few wispy clouds scud in front of the moon and, soothed, I lean back against the wooden shutters and turn to peer through the dark at Hitler’s portrait above my mantelpiece. Mutti’s mutterings about enemies just make me afraid but He gives me courage. Whether I join the Hitlerjugend or not, I’m certain I have a part to play in this great new Reich. He doesn’t mind that I’m a girl, and nobody, not Mutti, not Vati, not Karl, can stop me.

  A little niggle eats away at the back of my mind. Until now I’d been sure my destiny was to become a doctor. But what if Karl is right? I think back to the ceremony, to the moment I met the Führer’s eyes and he spoke his words, those incredible words directly to me. And then I know it. I know what I must do.

  I run to my bookcase and retrieve the journal Karl gave me so long ago, and in the moonlight, I write:

  My Hitler, I devote my life to you. Make your plan for me clear, because from now on, everything I do, it is for you and you alone. I will make you proud that I’m your child. Oh great, great Führer…

  *

  I wake up with a start, my legs curled and stiff beneath me. The shawl has dropped from my shoulders and cold seeps into my bones. The soft purr of an engine rises from the street below. I look out my window. Vati!

  He climbs out of the car and I raise my hand to bang on the window, but pause, knowing he’ll be angry I’m not asleep.

  Vati walks around to the other side of the car and opens the door. Another figure climbs out, a woman, her face obscured by her hat. They stroll together along the pavement and stop just below the street lamp. Vati turns to face the woman. Slowly he places his arms around her waist and draws her into an embrace. She tilts her face up and, in the circular glow cast by the lamp, I clearly see Hilda Müller’s pale, round face. She closes her eyes and opens he
r mouth, a thick, red circle of lips. Then Vati, my Vati, bends down and kisses that horrible mouth. A long, slow kiss.

  Pinned to the window, I can’t tear my eyes away. When finally it’s over, Fräulein Müller climbs back into the car and it pulls away. Vati stands for a moment watching it travel down the road, his hands in his pockets. Then he turns towards the house. The iron gate creaks shut behind him.

  *

  My head throbs as I wake to strong morning light – I’d forgotten to close my shutters last night before crawling into bed. Coming downstairs, I see that I’ve missed breakfast and Mutti has gone out. A new worry awakens. Should I tell Mutti what I saw? The thought sends a wave of horror through me. Bertha makes me some warm milk and hands me a plate of sausage and bread.

  ‘Morning, sleepy,’ Karl says as he comes into the kitchen.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ I whisper when Bertha moves towards the sink. ‘In private.’

  ‘Okay. Treehouse?’ He raises his eyebrows.

  We sit on the floor, sharing the bread and sausage, a blanket wrapped around our shoulders. Despite the temperature, it’s cosy in our secret nest, just the two of us.

  ‘Should I tell Mutti?’ I ask quietly, after recounting what I saw.

  He shakes his head. ‘You must have dreamed it, Hetty. You have a crazy imagination.’

  ‘But I was awake, Karl, I saw them. It was horrible.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. It was the middle of the night. You fell asleep in your window seat and had a bad dream. Besides, why would Vati want to kiss Fräulein Müller? She looks like a heifer with those massive hindquarters.’ He begins to laugh. ‘Moo,’ he says, blowing out his cheeks and making his eyes all big.

  Perhaps he is right. I could have dreamed it. Suddenly, I have a picture of a brown-patched cow with Fräulein Müller’s round face and fierce plaits where its ears should be.

  ‘Moo,’ I say, giggling.

  ‘Moo, Herr Heinrich, how about a kiss?’ Karl laughs and curls up his top lip, just like a cow smelling the air.

  I’m laughing so hard my eyes begin to water. Karl digs me in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘See?’ he says. ‘See how silly it all is?’

  Ingrid’s fair head appears at the base of the tree.

  ‘Walter Keller is at the door to see you,’ she calls up to Karl.

  Racehorse hooves thud in my chest.

  Karl’s forehead creases. I expect him to throw the blanket off his shoulders and bolt down the ladder, ending our private chat. But his body is completely still.

  ‘Tell him I’m not here,’ he shouts down to Ingrid. To my astonished face he explains, ‘I have to go out soon. Meeting some of my HJ friends.’

  His serious face cracks into a smile and he pushes me onto the dusty treehouse floor, tickling me hard under the armpits.

  ‘Stop it! I don’t want to play that game,’ I yell, fighting him off.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Why did you send Walter away?’

  Karl shoves me in the shoulder and sits up.

  ‘What does it matter to you?’ he asks gruffly. ‘He was my friend, not yours. I’ve got new friends now. I don’t need Walter.’

  He gets up and begins climbing down the ladder.

  ‘See you later, Little Mouse.’

  I sit for a long time, legs dangling through the hole, getting colder and colder.

  Does this mean I won’t see Walter anymore? How can that be?

  Well, Karl, just because you have new friends, doesn’t mean you have to lose your old ones. I’m going to make sure I keep mine. Because friends are precious. Like jewels.

  11 February 1934

  The grey streets of Leipzig are hidden beneath a deep layer of crystal-white. Delicate ridges line every branch and twig of the cherry tree, transforming it into the sugar-coated world of the Nutcracker and the Mouse-King.

  It’s the first day of the school winter holidays and Tomas, thinly dressed for the weather, hops from foot to foot on the doorstep. His lips are tinged blue.

  ‘Come out with me,’ he says. ‘I hardly see you these days.’ He wrinkles his nose and pushes his glasses up.

  ‘I’ve a lot more homework now.’ I hold fast to the door frame. His eyes are too big for his thin face and they protrude, like an owl’s. Behind me, the house is warm and Bertha is making zimtsterne cookies; the smell of hot sugar and cinnamon drifts from the kitchen.

  ‘We could build a snowman in Rosental.’ His breath fans and coils above his head and I think of how Karl has ditched Walter and how I vowed not to do the same with my friends.

  ‘All right, I’ll come,’ I say, and as he smiles, his eyes crinkle and disappear.

  I pull on my boots, coat and a pair of warm gloves. I think of Tomas’s bare hands. There’s always a whiff of mould about him, a faint hum of sweat, grime and misery. But we were once poor, and I mustn’t hold it against him. I pick up a second pair of gloves and a woollen hat.

  ‘Here, use these.’ I hold them out for him. ‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t give them back.’

  He takes them and strokes his fingers across the wool.

  ‘Thanks, Hetty,’ he mumbles, looking down. He pulls the hat over his ears and then puts on the gloves. ‘Warm as a hot potato now,’ he says, clapping his hands together and giving me a shy smile.

  Snowflakes float peacefully from a low granite sky, drifting onto the mounds piled against the railings. We cross Pfaffendorfer Strasse and walk towards the big iron gates at the entrance to the park. On the side of Tomas’s temple is the large, mottled, yellowy-green remnants of a bruise. Like an apple repeatedly dropped to the floor, I wonder if he is all brown and rotten on the inside too.

  ‘My father lost his job,’ Tomas says as we kick our way through the fresh, untrodden snow.

  ‘Oh dear. Has he got another?’

  ‘There’s none to be found.’ Tomas runs my glove along the top of a railing, the snow mounding in front until it falls off the end. ‘We’ve had to move in with my uncle’s family above his cobbler’s shop on Hallische Strasse. We couldn’t pay the rent for our old flat, so we got kicked out.’

  ‘He could join the Sturmabteilung,’ I say, remembering how Vati had talked of a big SA recruitment drive not so long ago. ‘The Brownshirts always need loads of men,’ I tell him confidently.

  Tomas half-chokes, half-laughs. ‘He’d rather we starved than join the SA. He’ll have nothing to do with those thugs.’ He spits out the word. ‘Even though they have a uniform and weapons, like a proper army.’ He looks wistful now, at the thought of weapons.

  There’s trouble with Röhm, I recall Vati recently saying to Mutti. Two million hungry men. Out of control. It’ll need to be dealt with…

  ‘What does your mother think he should do?’

  ‘She doesn’t care, provided he puts food on the table. And he’s not doing that at the moment. Just slouching about, like a good-for-nothing.’ He sucks in a long breath.

  We walk between the tall stone pillars marking the entrance to the park. The wide expanse of Rosental stretches away, so blindingly white it hurts my eyes.

  ‘Can’t he even get a job in a factory?’

  Tomas shakes his head. ‘I told you. There’s none to be had. You’re so lucky to be—Wow, this snow is thick.’ He kicks at it and ventures off the path onto untrodden snow – and sinks to the top of his boots.

  We try to run and stumble. Laughing, we gather armfuls of the fluffy, white powder.

  There’s a swooshing noise and a snowball hits Tomas on the back of the neck with savage force. Gasping for breath, he scrabbles at the lump of snow and ice wedged between his bare skin and the collar of his thin coat. A second one, stingingly accurate, hits the side of his head.

  ‘Ow!’ He rubs the spot as, mouths open, whooping and yelling, four boys run from behind shrubbery, pelting us with hard lumps of gritty snow. I recognise the Brandt brothers from our old school. They’ve always had it in for To
mas. Just our luck to bump into them now.

  The boys surround him, nudging me out of the way. I stand outside the circle while they murmur in low voices. One of them kicks lumps of snow at Tomas’s skinny bare knees. A knot of anger forms in my belly. There’s four of them and one of him. How’s that fair?

  ‘Poor baby Tom Tom,’ Ernst Brandt says. ‘His vati won’t let him join the Jungvolk.’ He laughs. ‘He’d never survive if he did. He’d get beaten for wetting the bed!’ The other boys laugh too.

  ‘I don’t wet the bed, stupid,’ Tomas says, throwing his shoulder against Ernst, trying to shove his way outside the circle.

  Ernst is on him in an instant, the other boys yelling encouragement. He’s twice the size of Tomas and anger boils; red-hot fury at the bullies who always pick on scrawny Tomas. In my mind, the months fall away and I’m back on the street behind our old block of flats with Tomas, when it was us two against the dirty swine who beat him to a pulp just for the fun of it.

  I launch myself at Ernst’s neck, digging my fingernails into the soft flesh beneath his chin. The three of us drop to the ground, Ernst beneath me but reaching back to grab some part of me. He lets out an almighty yell and tries to push me off, but I’m clawing wildly at his face.

  ‘STOP THIS AT ONCE!’ A woman’s voice, fierce and loud. Hands grip my shoulders and pull me away from Ernst. I’m spun around and the hands let go.

  ‘Fräulein Herta! Fighting with boys like a dog! You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Bertha, her cheeks blotchy purple, eyes looking like they might pop out of her head, stands in front of me. ‘What on earth would your mother think?’ Her chest rises and falls as her breath puffs out like steam from the big, black kettle on the range.

  Ernst and Tomas disentangle themselves and slowly get up, covered in snow. The other three Brandt brothers stand still, gawping at Bertha.

  She shifts her gaze to Ernst and gasps. His face is a mess and my nails have dirt and bits of his bloodied skin beneath them. Tomas scrabbles in the snow, finds his glasses, broken now, and shoves them, lopsidedly, back on.