“We’ll see,” the Oberleutnant replied with an odd expression about him.
“You’re still assigning us to each other, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am,” he replied, rubbing his forehead in a tired manner. “No one else wants to fly with him anyway.”
Nine
NPEA Berlin-Spandau (Napola School). September 1940
* * *
Harald Brandt raised his gaze to the blackboard, on which the major points of his future essay were enumerated by an instructor. The latter sat at his desk, his back rigid and straight, his hawkish gaze trained on the class in front of him. He would have been exceedingly handsome had his face not been marred early on by cruelty which twisted his full, smiling lips into an unyielding line; bleached his cornflower eyes into two frozen pools of glacial indifference and seeped into each joint and bone of his, it seemed, hardening them together with his heart. A faultless Teutonic Knight, precisely the way Der Führer liked them. They didn’t have any other sort of instructors at the Napola.
Despite having to spring out of his bed at the very first sounds of a trumpet at 5.45 am every morning, Harald loved his new school. So, it wasn’t his Mutti who used to wake him up with a gentle kiss on the temple and who didn’t mind if he sleepily begged for another five minutes in bed, but he was not a little boy anymore. He was a future leader of a Thousand Year Reich – an idea which every instructor drilled on a daily basis with such relentless obstinacy into their little heads that Harald eventually grew to accept it. To be sure, they were still children, the youngest Napola cadets; however, there was something fundamentally different in the way they were treated. They were allowed to demand explanations from the adults concerning just about anything – and why precisely don’t you have a portrait of our Führer hanging in your store, Herr Vogel? And God help those who lacked the sense to apologize at once and promise to fix such an overlooking within the next few days. Very well. I’ll come back and check, while scribbling in his small black notebook. I already have your name and the address of your business.
To Harald’s question as to why no one chased them away as they would have done in his native town, one of the older boys squared his shoulders in response and jerked his thumb over his back, with a conceited look about him.
“See those two plain-clothed fellows loitering on the corner? That’s why.”
“Are they some sort of authority?”
“The Gestapo,” in an awed and excited whisper of a boy talking about a bloodthirsty cannibal from a geography book.
It certainly was pleasing for one’s ego to feel so powerful. Privileged. Bowed at, even at such an early age. Even if there was a minuscule sliver of doubt that would claw its way from under the heap of indoctrination and sound a barely audible alarm in that little blond head of his, Harald’s kind instructors were always there to squash it under their polished boot and turn confusion into crystal clarity at once.
Why did some citizens shy away from them, Napola cadets, as though they carried a leprosy bell in place of their service dagger? – Those citizens have something to hide and you must watch them carefully or, better off, report them to your superiors at once. Loyal Germans have nothing to fear from us and therefore they salute us with pride instead of lowering their gaze to the ground.
Why did Catholic priests watch them with such unmasked horror in their eyes, as they, the cadets, proudly marched in front of their church – “coincidentally” always during Mass hours – and pleaded with their leaders vainly trying to out-scream the rhythm of the drums and bellowing of the trumpets; “you are corrupting our youth! You’re turning them into soulless savages!” – Soulless savages are the Bolsheviks; they refused their God. We still honor ours, with eyes, invariably raised toward the portrait of Der Führer. Harald never uttered the question but he had the most profound conviction that God and Der Führer somehow morphed into the same thing – under the Napola’s roof at least.
Yes, despite the fleeting doubts, Harald loved his new school.
The classes were most interesting too; a week ago, for instance, the cadets were instructed to outline a small genealogical tree.
“Only your closest relatives.” The instructors smiled kindly.
Harald drew each “leaf” diligently – here’s him, here’s Johann, here’s Mother and Father, here’s Father’s Father and his wife, Sabine, Harald’s Oma. Three other names next to his Father’s names – his aunts and an uncle... He never stumbled over a single name. It was an easy task, considering; after all, they all had to submit the same tree together with their entrance application, dating all the way back to the year 1750.
Today, the task was just as creative; to write an essay about each and every living family member they listed, according to the instructions drawn on the blackboard in an exemplary cursive.
Name of the relative.
Relation.
Age.
Occupation/military rank.
Marital status.
Number of children.
Membership in the Party.
Favorite book.
Imagine that you asked them about our Führer’s international policy. What would they most likely answer? Write in the form of a dialogue.
With a fond grin, Harald dipped his pen in ink and started carefully writing.
“My only brother’s name is Johannes Brandt. He’s a fighter pilot in the Luftwaffe. He’s only twenty years old but he’s already an ace, with thirty-four victories under his belt. He was recently awarded an Iron Cross First Class and promoted to Leutnant, of which I’m very proud. He’s engaged to Wilhelmina von Sielaff, to be married later this year when he gets his leave. She’s a member of the BDM and even had the honor to lead a BDM parade during Der Führer’s birthday two years ago. My brother is not a member of the Party. He has a lot of favorite books as he’s quite fond of reading, but most of all he likes…”
“All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque, Harald meant to write but felt his hand faltering when he remembered that the book had been officially banned. Johann promised to give him a copy to read once he got older as he wouldn’t understand it at twelve.
“Cadet Brandt.”
Harald’s head shot up at once. The SS instructor’s gaze was boring into him, frighteningly penetrating.
“Don’t overthink your replies. Write the truth only. Truth doesn’t need any mulling over since you know exactly what to write. Now get to it.”
“Jawohl, Herr Untersturmführer.”
After a split second of hesitation, he started scribbling enthusiastically.
“…most of all he likes ‘Mein Kampf’ written by our Führer, Adolf Hitler. He always carries a copy on him and he’s told me on numerous occasions that he reads his favorite passages in-between missions as they inspire him immensely. He promised to give me my own copy for my birthday this year as I’ll be old enough to understand it. I’m very much looking forward to it.
Dialogue:
Harald: “What do you think about our Führer’s international policy, Johann?”
Johann: “I can’t praise highly enough our Führer’s military genius. Even though I can only speak of our Luftwaffe, I can tell that our German aircraft surpass their British counterparts in many ways. I’m happy to be fighting for the glory of our Fatherland and looking forward to our ultimate victory over our enemies.”
Like a filthy thief, he stole another quick glance at the instructor, hoping that the heat on his cheeks didn’t betray him.
France, October 1940
* * *
Willi sauntered into the Staffelkapitän’s office without knocking and brought his hand to his forehead in his usual lazy salute.
“Were you looking for me, Herr Hauptmann?”
With his jacket slung over the back of the chair, Herr Hauptmann sat, drumming his fingers on top of the desk. Willi followed his gaze to the Continental typewriter with an unfinished report in it and his name staring out at him from every oth
er line, with the same silent accusation that was visible in his Staffelkapitän’s eyes. He was in for it. Again. With a chilling lack of inspiration, he wondered what exactly he was in for. Surely not that bottle of brandy under his bed? Scheiße, he knew he should have stashed it better. Oh well.
“Care to explain where you’ve been all this time after abandoning your flight leader?”
Willi straightened out at once, his eyes bright with righteous indignation after such an insult. To be sure, his sentiments were quite clear on those Spanish War snobs who couldn’t score a hit against a glider on a windless day yet who acted like entitled numbskulls, forcing him into a wingman’s position and prohibiting him from entering a dogfight when he was a better fighter pilot than all of them put together. But Johann – that was an entirely different case. Johann was like a brother to him. “I didn’t abandon him! He permitted me to leave him unescorted, that is. I hit one of the Spitfires and injured the pilot. His fighter was still all right, smoking slightly only but the fellow himself was in bad shape. So, I asked Johann, I mean, my flight leader for permission to escort the injured English pilot back to his base. Which I did. I watched him land safely after which I returned to my base.”
The Staffelkapitän slumped back into his chair and looked him over incredulously as though not believing that the disheveled ace in front of him actually had the gall to admit such a grave offense. “And it didn’t enter into your thick head, even for one second, that the British air defense could shoot you down at any point of that enterprise?”
“Why would they shoot me down?” Willi blinked a few times as though his Captain had asked him something incredibly idiotic. “I was guiding their pilot to safety. Why shoot me for it?”
“Not ‘for it,’ but because you’re a German!” The Staffelkapitän shouted, finally losing his patience. “You don’t think they’d want to shoot someone down with such a painted rudder, you stupid ass?!”
“I radioed them my intentions—”
“Oh, you radioed them! How very chivalrous of you! And you thought that they would reciprocate and allow you to leave?!”
“They did. I am standing right here—”
“Stop being smart with me, von Sielaff! I’ve had it with you up to here! One more stunt of this sort and you’re out of here!”
Willi dutifully nodded, offered his commanding officer another half-hearted salute and a mere two days later was flying over an enemy position at an extremely low altitude. A cylinder with a note enclosed in it landed at the stunned RAF pilots’ feet.
* * *
“One of your comrades, Junior Lieutenant McGregor was shot down by me this morning. He bailed out over our lines and was taken to a military hospital. The chief surgeon says that his injuries are not life-threatening and that he expects Junior Lieutenant McGregor to make a full recovery. I thought you would like to know that to deliver the good news to his family. His fighter, unfortunately, didn’t make it – I regret to inform you. Also, he fought very bravely and shot a veritable hole in my tail during the dogfight – I thought I’d let you know so you’d put it in his service record. I’ll also let you know of his future destiny as soon as he’s discharged from the hospital. Again, please accept my sincerest apologies.
Sincerely,
Oberfähnrich Wilhelm von Sielaff, Jagd 2.”
* * *
He knew that when asked about his wingman’s whereabouts, Johann would make something up about Wilhelm’s suspecting some leaking glycol and performing an emergency landing to check on his fighter or something else to that extent which would sound mighty persuasive coming from the ever-honest Leutnant Brandt. Contrary to their Staffelkapitän’s ideas, Willi had a willing ally in Johann who had agreed to the risky affair with remarkable ease after Willi stated his case, summed up in one straightforward question; “wouldn’t you want to learn what happened to me if I were shot down over England?”
“Of course, I would. Go ahead; just make it quick.”
The more his commanding officer tried to tighten the screws on his discipline, the more Willi disobeyed, out of some childish, rebellious spite. Restricted to quarters – what else is new? – he sat at the desk minding the phone, one hand holding his cheek and another – toying with a pencil. It was a quiet day. Tommies licked their wounds across the Channel and the phone was silent. A dreadful day, good only for thinking and thinking was something Willi resented even more than a jammed machine-gun during a dogfight. The whole trouble was that the more he thought, the more he found in himself a growing disappointment with the sheer injustice of it all. He simply couldn’t take it in, how was it fair to punish someone solely for his desire to help his fellow brother-in-arms, even though that brother was wearing an enemy uniform. Neither could he comprehend why, instead of being appointed as a Rottenführer, he was to rot here as an eternal wingman when it was clear as day that he was one of the best fighter pilots Jagd 2 had to offer. Why, yes, he did abandon his flight leaders to score his own hits but only due to their own inability to do so. So, how was he at fault for having a talent for flying and for having lightning-fast reflexes which couldn’t be matched even with years of his fellow pilots’ experience?
Willi rubbed his eyes and stretched his back which had gone numb after hours of sitting in that damned chair. A dreadful day for sure.
The lights-out signal sounded around the quarters and the Hauptmann personally dismissed him from the desk duty. Willi didn’t fail to notice a passing look of surprise in his superior’s eyes, as though he didn’t actually expect to find Willi at the desk. Herr Hauptmann certainly had his reasons though; Willi did, after all, abandon his post on a few occasions before, leaving a note to whoever was unfortunate enough to come across it first; got bored and went out for a beer. Would you mind pulling duty for me?
Instead of heading to bed, he walked through the quarters without stopping and marched straight to the window overlooking the garage. Herr Hauptmann’s car was in its usual spot, polished to perfection and filled with gas for the morning. The keys were also left in the ignition by the diligent driver so he wouldn’t have to look for them in the rush of a force majeure situation. Willi shrugged with a wonderful nonchalance about him; he did have a force majeure situation. His French girlfriend Brigitte had sent him a note earlier that day, promising all the wonders of the world in her skillful arms if only he could spare her a couple of hours of his precious time.
Let him send me to the infantry for all I care, as he turned the engine on and glided the Mercedes out of the driveway and onto the road leading towards the city, where the Goddess was expecting him.
Brigitte, a gray feline shadow in her apartment shrouded in black-out drapes, threw her nimble limbs around Willi’s neck as soon as he stepped through the door. He loved French women; loved their “painted” faces and extravagant clothes; loved how they kissed easily, always full mouth; loved how they made love, freely and in different ways. France, despite the occupation, was breathing freedom which Willi cherished above all. How odd it was that his own country with its constant laws, doctrines, rules, and regulations, appeared so enslaved, in contrast.
An ideal German woman, according to the “Volkischer Beobachter” guidelines, should not work for a living. Should not wear trousers. Should not wear make-up. Should not wear high-heeled shoes. Should not dye or perm her hair. Should not go on slimming diets…
Willi closed his eyes and bit into his lip as she took him into her mouth right there in the hallway, while he leaned against the wall in his full uniform. He didn’t want “an ideal German woman.” He wanted a liberal French one.
As he lay in her bed later that night, with Goddess sprawled across his chest and stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette, Wilhelm realized, with some strange clarity, that he didn’t want to go back home.
“Do you believe that a person can be born in the wrong place?” He asked Johann the following day, after promptly returning the car to its regular place and slipping into his quarters thirty
minutes before the wake-up call.
“What do you mean, the wrong place?”
“Well… in the wrong country, let’s say.”
Johann screwed up his face. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Do you love Germany?”
“I do,” Johann replied without hesitation.
“Well, you do because you’re so correct. You do everything by the book and you like order. I hate order. I despise the rules and I despise any imposition of authority. I should have been born in France or America, for that matter. I want to listen to my jazz without my Staffelkapitän threatening me with court-martial every time he catches me. I want to fall in love with a girl who is as much a freethinker as I am and I want to go with her to the beach, swim naked and make love. I want for us to come home and not know what we’re going to eat. I want us to take off and not know where we’re going to end up. I want to be free and for her to be free and for my country to be free… Do you even understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I understand that you want to find a girl who agrees to swim naked with you.” Johann laughed and caught Willi’s sleeve when the latter tried to walk out in a huff of being misunderstood. “Oh, quit sulking, I was only teasing! Yes, I do understand what you’re trying to say. You’re a free spirit and you feel the happiest here in France. Are you in love with some girl?”
“No, I’m not in love with someone. But I am happy. Yes, very much so. And I hope that the war will never end, so I don’t have to go back to Germany.” He merely whispered the last words, a shameful admission of some innate guilt that he couldn’t explain even to himself.
Ten
Germany, December 1940
* * *
Johann’s stunned gaze roved around the room taking in the sheer opulence of it. Next to him, General von Sielaff was hiding a grin. Even Willi expressed his approval with a whistle. The father of the bride certainly spared no expense when he had booked this venue for the wedding.
Of Knights and Dogfights Page 9
