Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no desire to be adopted. If I’m chosen today, I’ll obey orders and follow due process, since adoption is an essential component of the Lebensborn program. We must populate Germany, ensure its families grow ever larger and, when the war begins and is successful, populate the annexed countries, give them a fresh start. That goes without saying. But I cherish the hope…my secret wish…Anyway I’ve just managed to break loose from one mother, and erase the word ‘Mummy’ from my vocabulary. You’ve witnessed how I suffered through this ordeal: I was sick, I lost weight, I lost faith, I was frightened, I almost got taken away in the delivery van, so I can’t see much point in having an adoptive mother. I have no idea what will be expected of me: will I have to pretend I love this mother? How will I do that? That wasn’t part of the plan.

  My secret wish is to join the German Youth Movement as soon as possible. Unfortunately I can’t jump the gun: I’ve got to wait five years—too long. When I’m six, I’ll be one of the Pimpfe, the youngest members of the Hitler Youth, and I’ll be able to begin my education: there’ll be orientation classes in sport, combat techniques, and Nazi history. When I’m ten, after passing another physical selection test (I’m okay for now, pure Aryan, but it’ll have to be checked again because you never know), I’ll be one of the thousands of children who, every year on the 20th of April, are presented as birthday presents to our Führer and enter the Napolas, the National Political Institutes of Education, the Reich’s elite schools. That will be such a hugely important moment in my life. I’ll have to take an oath and, guess what? I know it by heart already:

  Under the blood banner, which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energy and strength to our country’s saviour, Adolf Hitler. I am ready to give my life for him.

  I get goosebumps when I say these words in my dolichocephalic head.

  At the Napola there’s no more nonsense. I’ll undergo intensive training until the age of eighteen, and I’ll finally be able to join the army—to fight. That’s the future of the new German youth as envisioned by our Führer. He announced—I heard his speech on the radio the other day, just before nap time—that henceforth every German child will be taken in hand at every stage of his or her youth. He said…just wait till I remember his words exactly…that’s it:

  The young people we raise will terrify the rest of the world. I want them to be a commanding, fearless and cruel generation. They will know how to endure pain, and will have no weakness or tenderness. I want them to incarnate the strength and beauty of young wild animals. I’ll have them trained in all manner of physical exercise. Above all, they will be athletic: this is more important than anything. It’s how I will return them to the innocence and nobility of nature. There will be no intellectual education. Knowledge only corrupts my young people.

  Soon, he added, children aged zero to six will also be part of an organisation. Unfortunately, due to lack of personnel, it’s not yet set up. That’s why I have to be adopted, to fill in this waiting period.

  I have to gain some time. If I can delay my adoption, that’ll be something. In the meantime, I’m in training by myself. I’ve already overcome my fear, and, with the business of my illness after I was separated from my mother, I’ve endured pain, just as our Führer requires. I’m also trying to do some physical training: when a nurse changes my nappy, I wait until she’s not looking and, after she steps away to get some clean linen, I seize the moment and try to scoot forward and slide off the table she’s propped me on. I’ve managed to fall once already and didn’t even feel a thing! As often as I can, I haul myself up in my cot and hang on to the bars; in order to check out my fear of heights, I stand on my tiptoes, stick my bum in the air and my head between my legs. Anxious about my energetic behaviour, which they considered excessive and dangerous, the nurses told Josefa, who then alerted Doctor Ebner.

  After serious consideration, the doctor announced: ‘Konrad is endowed with Draufgängertum. That’s wonderful. Wonderful! A fundamental quality of our Hitler Youth.’

  Draufgängertum means ‘go-getter, daredevil’, minimal self-preservation instinct. It’s one of the first precepts taught in the Napolas. In other words, I am gifted.

  Nevertheless, on Doctor Ebner’s orders, Josefa asked the nurses to stay vigilant and not to let me out of their sight. So what! I’m pretending I’m a prisoner of war trying to escape my shackles.

  I’ll be patient and await my destiny. Let’s see if I’m adopted today.

  Here we go; the door’s opening.

  After anxious glances to check that everything is in order, Josefa is all smiles as she brings in the first group. She leaves the couples to potter around, before directing them towards the babies that have already been picked out as corresponding best to the couples’ profiles. The women are perfectly at ease. The officers less so: they’d clearly prefer to be outside smoking a cigarette while their wives make their choices. They’re only there to be polite, gallant even, but they don’t really give a damn, do they? Any one of us would do the job for them. They’ve got other, more important things to think about. Preparation for war, no less.

  The women in the room are animated, both excited and overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m going for a girl,’ announces one woman. ‘I’ve already got three boys and, believe me, it’s non-stop at my place. A quiet girl would be perfect.’

  ‘Well, it’s the opposite for me. I’ve produced nothing but girls and now I’d really like a sturdy little boy.’

  The gender wasn’t an issue for others. They were out to adopt a new child in the hope of gaining the bronze, silver or gold cross. (Crosses are given out to the most worthy German mothers during an annual ceremony every 12th of August, the day Hitler’s mother was born. Women with four children get the bronze cross, those with six, the silver cross, and the most heroic of all, those with eight or more, the gold cross. When you have a cross, you get discounts, allowances, and the right to a household maid, who is one of the prisoners from the camps.)

  My neighbours, Baldur and Bruno, have attracted the attention of a couple of women.

  Oh, sweetie, you’ve got your eyes on me, yes! Your little handy-pandies are reaching out! You want Mummy to hold you, don’t you? Can you smile yet? Come on, give me a cute little smile. And what about a kiss?

  Looks like it’s a done deal for Baldur. That was quick. Whereas the woman keen on Bruno is requesting more information before she decides. How’s his general health? His appetite? Does he sleep through the night? It’s probably too soon to tell, but do you have an inkling about what his character traits will be? If there were a problem, what would the Home administration do to help? Josefa replies politely but firmly that, because Bruno is from the elite group of babies, he won’t be a problem. An exchange might be possible, however, on a one-off basis. Now it’s on to Trudel and Erna, the girls opposite me…

  I am so bored, just like the officers, most of whom have left the room, telling their wives to chose whichever baby they like. But there is one who has had enough patience to stay and who is following his wife as she comes over to me.

  Josefa is on his heels and quick to sing my praises. ‘He is among the very best of our brood,’ she announces proudly. Then she reads out the details of my racial profile, insisting on the characteristics that make me a magnificent specimen of the Aryan race.

  The woman kneels down so she is level with me. She fondles my hands, pinches my cheek, tickles my feet and under my chin. Just like her husband, I try to be patient. There’s no way round it. While I stare at her with my big blue eyes—you know that classic look babies have: you can’t avert your gaze and you end up unsettled unless you smile back—the woman launches into a long speech. She tells me there’ll be two big brothers for me at home, eight and ten years old, Friedrich and Rudolf, as well as two sisters, six and four years old, Katharina and Cora, who can’t wait to see me and to look after me. They’ve already been in training with their dolls so they can change and dres
s me, and they’ve learned lullabies for the evening. I’ll be sharing the boys’ bedroom. I’ll be able to have fun in the big garden where the dog, named Rex by the children, won’t be allowed until I can walk. But later on I’ll be able to play ball with him there. She carries on with a wealth of information about my future life…which sounds deadly boring!

  My ears are ringing, the woman’s voice fades into an indistinct droning and I can no longer bear to listen. She lifts me up and my eyes are drawn to her mouth: she is wearing a lurid red-orange lipstick. I touch it. It feels sticky and I let my finger slide onto her cheek and draw some red marks there. She pretends to find my clumsy gestures amusing, while Josefa, with a strained saintly smile, hands her a handkerchief to wipe away the unsightly marks.

  ‘They’re so funny at this age, aren’t they? I wonder what on earth goes on in their little heads!’

  I’m already bored by the lipstick, so I try to find something else interesting about this woman’s face. Nothing…I have to turn away while she tries to kiss me. (Yuk! That’s the last thing I need.) I’d rather be in the arms of her husband and listen to him, not her. Is he high up in the ranks of the Waffen-SS? Does he ever get to cross paths with our Führer? Does he get to hang out with him? Is he one of his advisors? Once our Führer has invaded the countries he set out to conquer, will this officer be sent to France, for example, with his whole family? He remains silent and only glances at me distractedly when his wife latches on to him, like he’d do in a shop if she were asking his advice about a new dress. I’ll just have to find the answers to my queries myself. If I count the stars embroidered on his beautiful black uniform, I’ll work out his rank. And it’ll give me something to do…

  So, if I’m not mistaken, if I’ve counted properly—which is not easy, given that this wretched woman hasn’t stopped jiggling me around while she continues to spout twaddle—he has three stars and two stripes, which means he’s either Obersturmführer or Haupsturmführer. I’m not sure which. Unless he’s Obersturmbannführer? No, that’s rubbish, I’m getting confused. And I thought I knew by heart the lists of decorations and their corresponding ranks…All of a sudden I’ve drawn a blank. Oh well, I mustn’t panic. It’s just the incessant gabbling of this woman that’s messing with my concentration. I’ll run through a quick revision and recite the list from the beginning to the middle, as if it were the first verse of a nursery rhyme. If I don’t have to stop, I’ll keep going with the second half. Here we go:

  1 stripe for the Sturmmann, private.

  2 stripes for the Rottenführer, lance corporal.

  1 star for the Unterscharführer, corporal.

  1 star and 1 stripe for the Scharführer, sergeant.

  2 stars for the Oberscharführer, staff sergeant.

  2 stars and 1 stripe for the Hauptscharführer, warrant officer.

  3 stars for the Untersturmführer, second lieutenant.

  3 stars and 1 stripe for the Obersturmführer, lieutenant.

  3 stars and 2 stripes for the Haupsturmführer, captain.

  Hurray! I made it to the middle of the list without stopping or making a mistake. Now for the rest. ‘4 stars for the …’

  What happened? The couple disappeared. I’m back strapped in my chair. Frau Josefa and a nurse are standing in front of me, looking at me anxiously.

  ‘I really don’t know what’s wrong with him, Frau Josefa,’ says the nurse softly. ‘He does look strange right now. But this morning, I promise you, he was absolutely fine. Perhaps he’s coming down with something?’

  ‘And I thought he would be the first to go, that they’d be fighting over him.’ Josefa is clearly disappointed. Without another word, she heads off to join the couple at the other end of the room.

  I think I know what happened. I was concentrating so hard on my mental recitation that it must have made me look like a real idiot. I won’t be leaving the Home today. Great!

  I hope Josefa isn’t too cross and that this little incident doesn’t reach Doctor Ebner’s attention. My dumb look mustn’t get me taken for a ‘rabbit’. I took a big risk. But isn’t that exactly the type of intrepid youth our Führer wants?

  Anyway, I’m happy because I avoided getting adopted today, which is a win in terms of my secret wish. I might be a baby, but I’m certainly not made for family life.

  I’ve got to find a way to spend the next six years as shrewdly as possible.

  Overcome my fear. Resist pain. Tolerate pain. Have the strength of a young wild animal. Just like our Führer wants.

  I have to get my imagination working, to persuade myself that all this is…whatever…a simulation exercise, practical training to be one of the Pimpfe in the Hitler Youth.

  Except that the reality is I’m not a Pimpf yet, only a baby!

  It’s dark. It’s cold. I’m so frightened.

  It’s amazing to think that, during the recent weeks, using and abusing my Draufgängertum, I managed to rebuff those adoptive parents who were interested in me. I played a trick and it worked. I’m the only nine-month-old baby still at the Home.

  And now I’m being punished.

  I’ve just been ‘adopted’ (a code word that doesn’t exist, I’ve invented it for the occasion and you’ll soon understand its hidden meaning).

  It was last night, and everything happened so fast.

  A strange noise in the corridor, a creaking, then silence. I prick up my ears. There it is again, for longer. Someone’s there. Someone trying to walk as quietly as possible, someone who seems frightened by the noise of their own footsteps, because each step is followed by a sort of gasp. A hoarse panting, like an animal. A dog that escaped into the Home, away from one of the guards on duty outside? Impossible. Even if a dog pants like that, it gets around on four legs, not two. Is Josefa coming for another ‘rabbit’? No, Josefa walks with a firm, rhythmic step, even when she’s trying to be quiet. And Josefa only chooses her ‘rabbits’ from the newborns in the nursery. So who is it?

  There it goes again, faster this time. Is the prowler barefoot? Then I can’t hear it anymore and I wonder if it’s a ghost, or perhaps I’m just dreaming. Suddenly the blanket I’m lying on is folded over the top of me and I’m lifted up and carried away. I have no idea if I’m in the arms of a human creature—alive or a ghost—or in the claws of a bird of prey. I can’t see a thing. The blanket envelops me in total darkness. From the bumping I can tell that the creature is running and then tearing down stairs at high speed. A gust of icy air rushes inside the blanket: we’re outside. But not for long. More running, then I’m being pushed through a hole. It feels like an animal’s burrow. The blanket unfolds but I still can’t see anything. It smells like dirt, damp, mould. Dust gets into my mouth and I start to cough. I should be shouting instead—and why didn’t I do precisely that in the dormitory? But before I can start the slightest bit of howling, I’m bundled up once more and we hurtle downwards again. A creature’s left arm holds me tightly against its body. And that’s when I realise it’s not a ghost: ghosts can pass through walls and obstacles, and birds fly; they don’t thrust deep into the earth. That’s also when the creature’s right arm—the free one—grabs onto a sort of ladder and we step down rung by rung. This descent into the underworld seems to last a lifetime.

  The getaway finally stops. The creature drops to the ground and I hear irregular, fitful wheezing, as if it’s about to drop dead. I hope it does. A few minutes go by like this, in stillness and silence. I’m in such a state of shock that I still can’t find the strength to scream. Something tells me anyway that it wouldn’t be worth it, as no one would hear me. The creature revives and places me on the ground, gently this time, even taking special care to cradle my head so I don’t bang it on the ground. The creature steps away and I hear a match being lit. The flickering flame of a candle emits a feeble light.

  I am in a cellar.

  The creature returns quickly and holds me tight. I finally see its face. Thin, gaunt, pallid, its skin so stretched over the cheekbones that the
skull is visible. A long scar runs down one cheek; it must be a recent wound, still red and swollen. A head of unevenly shaved hair, bits of scalp visible, tufts of stiff, coarse hairs growing back here and there. Huge eyes, staring, wide-open, almost bulging, like they’re eating away at the face, to devour it. Blue eyes. Light blue. For an instant this reassures me. But these blue eyes have a desperate expression, filled with a wild, animal fear. Or are they a mirror of my own fear?

  The creature is a woman.

  She stinks.

  Sweat and urine, mixed with other odours I don’t yet recognise, and which make me want to retch.

  I’m gagging.

  I finally understand what’s happened. This woman…is one of the prisoners allowed into the Home to clean, in preparation for the visits by the prospective adoptive families. She managed, God knows how, to escape ‘relocation’ and hide in the cellar. And she kidnapped me. (Damn Josefa and her obsession with housecleaning. She should have asked the mothers to scrub the floors, or got stuck into it herself. That way I wouldn’t have ended up here!)

  Me, a baby of the master race, in the arms of one of the dregs of humanity.

  Who exactly is this woman? A Jew? A Gypsy? She’s got blue eyes…Unless there are blue-eyed Jews and Gypsies? Can nature really give rise to such aberrations?

  What’s going to happen? Has she kidnapped me for food? Is she going to gobble me down raw? That must be my destiny. Jews and Gypsies are abject beings with filthy customs. Vile and lazy, they prey on children. They tempt them with sweets that are in fact poisonous. I’ve seen drawings of them in the newspapers Josefa reads.

  I’ll be brave. I’m a Baby Pimpf. I’ll know how to die with dignity.

  She didn’t eat me. Quite the opposite: she tried to feed me.

  She slept for a while. (She must have been holed up in this cellar for a few days: dashing up to the dormitory to kidnap me, combined with the terror she must have felt, has exhausted her.) Her head and chest are propped against the wall, while the rest of her body is spreadeagled on the ground. Her head is leaning to the side, her neck completely crooked, like a disjointed puppet. I’ve ended up perched precariously on her thighs. From time to time in her sleep she is overcome by a shudder, a violent convulsion that makes her flinch and contract her muscles—which makes me slide further down her thighs towards her knees. Then she relaxes again and sinks into unconsciousness. At every shudder, I progress a few centimetres. Soon I hope I’ll reach the ground. Then I’ll have to muster all my Draufgängertum and try to crawl along using my arms until I can find a way out. (I’ve never tried to crawl or walk on all fours before; it’s time to launch into this new stage in my development.)