Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  I suck and suck, hard; I’m hell-bent on sucking. Every now and then I give a little bite.

  I have to admit that, when it comes to feeding, I can’t complain. Mother is a really good breastfeeder. Up until now, about three days after my birth, the nurses have recorded that Mother has produced 17,620 millilitres of milk—a lot more than the other mothers. She’s got to keep up the momentum. If she continues to feed me this much, she’ll earn a bonus and she’ll be allowed to stay longer at the Home. And, as I am teamed up with her, I’ll be able to break a record too, like when I was born.

  Which reminds me, I haven’t told you what happened to my challenger, my rival.

  Kaput. Tot. Dead.

  How about that—he was stillborn, not ‘purified’. (I’ve learned a new code word: ‘purified’, which means ‘to euthanise’.) Actually, my rival purified himself by getting choked on his rappelling cord. The midwife couldn’t undo all the knots he’d tangled himself in. She got the fright of her life when she had to report the loss to Doctor Ebner. She was really in danger of being ‘relocated’. But Ebner didn’t lose his temper at all. On the contrary. After glancing at the little corpse, he congratulated the midwife for having saved the injection that he would have had to administer if the baby had lived. An injection into the skull through the fontanelle. A little tremor, a little hiccup, and, there you go, it’s over! Completely painless. (I was right: the syringe I’d been so frightened of, in the laboratory where I’d had my tests, was indeed used for ‘purification’.)

  Are you wondering why it was necessary to ‘purify’ my rival? Because it’s impossible to keep an unharmonisch recruit at the Home. Can you believe it, the baby was brown! I suppose, for lack of anything better, brown hair would be tolerated, but there are different shades of brown. My rival was brown-black, crow-black. And hairy as well, a real little monkey! And olive-skinned to top it off…Ebner did end up losing his temper: at the employees of RuSHA from whom he demanded the complete records of the couple who had produced this defective product. There was definitely a flaw in the system somewhere. Either on the mother’s or the father’s side: one of them must have falsified their certificate of Aryan race. Or else it’s what I told you before my birth: too little is known about the science of genetics. Fortunately we’ll soon master it and avoid failures like this one. Those sorts of errors are especially useful for the future.

  In this case, it wasn’t genetics that was at fault. Frau Bertha, the mother of the little monkey, was the one who cheated. She had a Jew in her family tree! Straight after the birth she was transferred to a munitions factory. No more Führer’s babies for her; she had to find another way to be useful.

  This regrettable incident worked in my favour. My victory was all the more significant: my rival was my first enemy casualty! Nipped in the bud.

  Right, let’s not talk about unpleasant things anymore. Let’s enjoy a bit of sunshine and peace.

  At the moment, the rays of a gentle spring sun are shining over the veranda where our bassinets are lined up. There are a good thirty of us. Perhaps more. And everything is calm, because I gave the signal. Earlier, when I burst into tears, all my buddies imitated me. The whole place was screaming! The nurses didn’t know what had hit them. Then I stopped and the others followed suit. I’m a real troop leader.

  A bit of quiet after a meal helps me sleep better. Our bassinets, lined up like toy soldiers in a perfectly straight line along the veranda, form a battalion ready to launch an attack. They’re beautiful bassinets: big, comfortable, covered in a loose-fitting white fabric with flounces decorating the hems. We’re protected both from the sun when it is too strong—don’t forget how sensitive our bright eyes are—and from any nosy passers-by. We are in the country and it’s best to be wary of the local farmers. Doctor Ebner himself designed our bassinets and insisted on sturdy construction materials in order to avoid any accidents. The fabric hides the bars. You see, Ebner attends to everything. He’s the one who recruits the nurses and nannies, and works out which vitamins we should take. In the end he’s father to us all. He’s going to control our life, from our nappies now to the SS uniforms we’ll one day have the honour of wearing.

  Thanks to him, our whole environment is sparkling clean. The furniture in the Home is magnificent and apparently even more luxurious pieces will soon be delivered. Furniture requisitioned from enemies of our regime. When the war gets started, all the additional Homes being built throughout the country will be furnished thanks to the looting. In the years to come, there’ll be so much more. We’ll take back the riches stolen by the Jews all over Europe!

  Ebner is also supervising the extension of the vegetable garden. The steward is growing carrots, spinach, all sorts of vegetables—great sources of vitamins for us when we start taking solids. The grounds surrounding the Home are constantly being extended and more labourers are called in from outside. I told you before how Ebner keeps a close eye on everyone with his spyglass: the behaviour of the mothers with their children, the nannies, the nurses, the delivery men; and he also makes sure no farmers come onto the property. Every now and then you see one trying to have a look around. Out! Ebner sets a dog-handler and his sniffer dog on them. So our peace is guaranteed.

  But Ebner should set up another surveillance system as well: for listening. Because, believe me, I hear some crazy stuff. When the mothers all get together like now, boy, can they talk! I’ll tell you about their gossip a bit later. That way I can introduce you to some of my buddies. It’s impossible for the moment.

  All hands on deck. The secretaries, the nurses and the steward stop work; Ebner leaves his lookout at the window. Even if they’re still feeding us, the mothers gather—with us—around the radio set Josefa has just brought onto the veranda.

  It’s a direct broadcast of a speech by our Führer. Just imagine it! Germans everywhere, in offices, factories or schools, stop what they’re doing to listen. If they’re outside, they’re lucky enough to have loudspeakers installed in town squares. Listening to the radio is a civic duty. Whoever doesn’t will be denounced and punished. It’s indispensible for developing a unified spirit, for creating solidarity in a victorious nation mobilised behind the Führer.

  We gather around the Führer’s voice, transfixed. Well, some of my buddies can’t help bawling, but Josefa raises the volume on the radio so the Führer comes through loud and clear. His voice is powerful, vibrant, exultant. It fills the air, drowning out the birdsong and the rustling of the wind in the trees that we could hear earlier.

  So be quiet! I’m listening, too.

  I take in my mother’s milk.

  I take in the words of our Führer.

  This speech couldn’t have come at a better time. Just before my nap. I am replete. I’ll get back to you later, because I have to sleep now. Sleep helps me grow, especially my brain. It’s crucial.

  Josefa approaches Mother to take me back to the nursery. Mother protests; she wants to keep me with her a bit longer.

  ‘Come on, Frau Inge,’ Josefa says. ‘You know the rules, don’t you? I don’t need to remind you.’

  Mother relents against her will. I know the smile she turns on is not sincere, I can feel it. Because, you see, even though the rappelling cord has been cut, it’s like it’s still working. There’s magic in that cord. Yes, if I had the choice, I’d stay in her arms. She smells nice, her arms are warm, her breasts are soft; it’s a cocoon. On the other hand, the gold badge of the Party, pinned on Josefa’s smock, is so shiny, so tempting! I wonder when I’ll be able to grab it.

  ‘Is it all right if I sit next to you, Frau Inge?’

  ‘Of course, you’re welcome to.’

  Heidi.

  Just our luck.

  Mother moves over to make room for her on the couch, which upsets my feed. It’s so annoying to be interrupted during feeding times, again and again, for no good reason.

  It’s no accident that Heidi has chosen Mother. She’s a whinger and she knows Mother will make her feel be
tter. Crying is all very well, and apparently it’s normal for some women after giving birth, but Heidi is weird, even when she’s not crying. There’s something not quite right about her. Passive, incapable of speech, withdrawn, she just stares into space for hours, without moving.

  Consequently, her son, Helmut, is as spineless as she is. You hardly ever hear him. He is ridiculously calm. Oh well, it makes for a quiet evening feed, having him next to us.

  We are in the big sitting room set aside for feeding. The room is lavishly furnished, very pleasant, with several couches and armchairs, and rugs strewn over the floor. In addition to the nice warmth from the central heating—the Home is allowed this luxury—a fire is blazing in the fireplace. There are flowers and bowls of fruit arranged here and there, and a piano takes pride of place in a corner. Sometimes, one of the secretaries plays a tune when she’s finished her work, or sometimes, like now, the gramophone is turned on.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mother asks, patting Heidi’s hand once she has sat down next to us with Helmut.

  Heidi nods to say yes, but it’s a sort of code language between the mothers; in fact she means ‘no’. And Mother knows, just like I do.

  ‘If you want to…to talk to me, I’m happy to listen,’ she murmurs, after looking warily at Josefa, who is sitting on the other side of the room, signing papers.

  Say no, Heidi! I want to have my feed in peace. I have a feeling that, once you start talking, it’s not going to be much fun.

  I call her Heidi and not ‘Frau Heidi’, because she’s very young, barely fifteen, as far as I know. She’s the Home’s youngest mother: tall, blonde (obviously) and very muscular. She must have done a lot of sport before her pregnancy because the muscles in her arms and legs are well defined, as if they’d been sculpted. She looks like an athlete. The blonde hairs on her golden skin have a lustrous shine, proof that she’s been breathing the good mountain air. She’s pretty. Well, I think she is, except for her breasts, which are too small. (Perhaps the development of her muscles delayed that of her breasts?) It’s bad luck for Helmut: it’s not easy for him to get a feed. He has to struggle just to extract a few drops of milk. Poor thing, I feel sorry for him. Josefa claims that it’s not a problem, that he has reserves of fat from birth, and that Heidi has to keep trying to breastfeed him. Easier said than done! Josefa knows three meals will appear on the table every day, but how would she react if she was presented with a plate containing three measly little green beans and was told that, even if there was nothing more to eat, she could always draw on her reserves?

  Mother breaks off feeding me again to help Heidi position her baby better on the breast. This time I don’t scream; I have to show some solidarity with my buddies. Solidarity and friendship are important. All the more so given that it seems to have worked this time: Helmut has managed to latch on to the nipple. Heidi turns towards Mother, her big blue eyes glistening with tears of gratitude.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she splutters.

  She waits a moment, then murmurs, on the verge of tears, ‘I miss my parents so much.’

  ‘Don’t worry; you’ll soon see them again.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because I’ll never have the courage to tell them what I’ve done, what’s happened to me. I’m too ashamed.’

  She stops, stifling a sob. Mother puts her hand in her pocket and takes out a handkerchief that she offers to Heidi, telling her to try to pull herself together. (It’s my handkerchief! The one she puts on her shoulder so I can burp and dribble if I need to. Too bad; after all, it’s her white shirt that’ll be the worse for wear.)

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ Mother urges her. ‘It will make you feel better. Pretend I’m your big sister.’

  After hesitating briefly, she’s off: Heidi tells her story.

  She’s from the Bund Deutscher Mädel*. She enrolled voluntarily, with the support of her family. How lucky to be able to commit yourself to the Führer from the age of fourteen and be part of his mission!

  The BDM had set up in Obersalzberg, in southern Germany—Hitler’s favourite spot, where he loves to go hiking. The air is pure, with magnificent landscapes of snowy mountains, forests and fields of green. While enjoying the pleasures of a holiday camp, the girls were also serving their nation. Their activities were numerous and varied: singing, theatre, music, dance and also home decoration, hiking in the forest, building shelters—lots of physical activities that placed them on an equal footing with the boarders in the neighbouring camp, who were boys of the same age. The young people ran into each other from time to time, mostly when they were out hiking. The camp mistress made sure she instilled sound values in her flock: self-control, friendship, obedience, sacrifice and physical discipline.

  The days were highly regimented. No breaks. No boredom. At 6.30, wake-up. At 6.35, a sports session: depending which week it was, athletics and an endurance run, or else gymnastics, gym-apparatus work, and acrobatics. At 8 a.m., shower, tidy the bunkrooms, then all meet under the flag. From 8.10 to 8.30, breakfast. The morning was then devoted to political training. What is National Socialism? Why is it going to save the German nation? How can we be shielded from the decadent races? How can we dominate them, eliminate them? So many fascinating subjects. At 12.15 p.m., lunch. At 12.45, leisure activities of choice. As she was especially gifted and dreamed of being selected for national competitions, Heidi did more gymnastics. At 4.10 p.m., a session of self-criticism, self-criticism being indispensible for faithful followers of National Socialism. At 7.15, dinner, and finally, from 7.45 to 8.45, the girls spent the evening together in the bunkrooms. They were supposed to discuss and exchange the magazines and books provided by the camp mistress, but, as Heidi points out, their main topic of conversation was…the neighbours. The boys. How could they not be aware of them? Some of them were so good-looking! Some girls had already had a boyfriend before enrolling, but not Heidi. So, even though she was a bit embarrassed, even though her girlfriends’ chatter sometimes made her blush, she listened to them keenly before falling asleep at 9.30 p.m. precisely, her head filled with sweet dreams of the future and of love.

  Heidi enjoyed her life at camp, every minute of it, every second. She was enthusiastic, diligent, and volunteered for extra activities, including chores. She engaged unsparingly in the self-criticism sessions, and proved herself to be a good friend. She was soon rewarded: they singled her out and promoted her as an elite member of the camp.

  One evening, the camp mistress gathered together the lucky elite group of girls, whose fervour, as in the case of Heidi, had distinguished them. The meeting was held in a room normally used for theatre and choir rehearsals. Standing on the dais that also served as a stage, the camp mistress announced two items of good news. The first was that the name of each girl had been included on a list sent to the Führer, and he had personally signed the list and added the word ‘Congratulations!’ The young girls received this announcement with cries of joy, clapping their hands. They were allowed to file past one by one and admire the word written in the Führer’s hand at the bottom of the list.

  Then the camp mistress announced the second item of news. The girls were being put forward for a mission. An important mission in the service of the nation…What mission? When? What did they have to do? What an honour! Yes! Yes! Yes! Of course they would love to be part of this mission! Questions and exclamations were flying all over the room; the young girls forgot the most elementary rule of discipline: to raise your hand before speaking. The camp mistress had trouble calling for silence, but she forgave them, just this once. Besides, it wasn’t up to her to explain exactly what this mission consisted of. That was up to an SS officer whom she called into the room.

  Stand to attention. Heil Hitler!

  After saluting the group, the officer issued the command ‘At ease!’ and climbed onto the dais.

  ‘Congratulations, young ladies!’ he announced, as Hitler’s spokesperson. ‘Here y
ou are, fully fledged Führerinnen. But some of you can do even more.’

  The officer paused a moment. Twenty pairs of blue eyes were fixed on him, filled with awe, impatience and hope.

  ‘If I told you that…you could give our Führer a wonderful, extraordinary present, would you say yes?’

  In one movement, every hand was raised in consent, and all the blue eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Even if this present meant a huge sacrifice?’

  The hands remained raised.

  ‘A woman’s sacrifice? From future women like you.’

  The officer’s words were becoming more enigmatic.

  Heidi would have liked to ask him to be more precise, but as none of her friends seemed curious she stayed silent. But the explanation wasn’t long in coming.

  ‘Well,’ the officer said, ‘that’s all good.’

  He took out a bundle of papers from his briefcase and gave them to the camp mistress.

  ‘Here are the contracts,’ he explained. ‘One for each of you. A contract binding you to the Führer, and stipulating that you agree to give him your first child. This is an act of bravery for which I congratulate you in advance and for which you will be respected for the rest of your lives.’

  With these words, he climbed down from the dais, saluted and left the room.

  Heil!

  Gradually the arms were lowered. There was murmuring in the ranks. The camp mistress let it go, then ordered her protégées to come up onto the stage, where they all sat cross-legged around her, as if they were outside, in a field or on a beach, around a campfire.