Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  Her resignation was rejected and Josefa found a way of redeeming herself when Doctor Ebner, after reviving me, committed me to her care. She made it her business to return me to my former glory, which I had well and truly lost.

  I didn’t have an ounce of Draufgängertum left in me. Weeks passed. On the 20th of April 1937, I turned one, but I couldn’t stand up, even with support. No coherent sound came out of my mouth. I refused to eat solid food of any kind. All I wanted was milk, only milk. What’s more, only from the breast. I could sleep only if I was held, rocked for a long time, sweet nothings whispered in my ear. So many bad habits I had to get rid of…I gave no response at the sound of my name, Konrad, not even a tilt my head. I was becoming an imbecile, autistic, perhaps. Incapable of any communication, all I did was scream. There was nothing anyone could do. Josefa’s patience was wearing thin: even a tour of the living room—after the mothers had left, so I didn’t upset them—to peruse all the portraits of the Reich officials did not dispel my bad mood. On the contrary, it only deteriorated.

  Josefa witnessed even worse: I was beside myself if I caught sight of a brown or black uniform. One day I was guilty of an act that ended up jeopardising the poor woman’s morale: she was leaning over to change me, when I grabbed the Party badge pinned on the lapel of her smock, tore the material, and hurled the badge onto the floor.

  What the hell did that bitch of a dissident whore do to me, Josefa wondered, desperately upset by my behaviour. Not only did the creature starve me, but she polluted, corrupted my mind. Turned me into a half-breed Jew pig! It had only taken her a few days to destroy several months’ work—several years’, if you took into account the time preceding my conception.

  The child of the future must be lean and supple, said the Führer. I was about to be fat and flabby from drinking only milk and turning my nose up at vegetables. As tough as leather. I was weak and floppy, from always lying on my back or sitting on my bottom, never doing any exercise standing up, let alone walking. As hard as Krupp steel. All I did was cry.

  Josefa decided to use some strong-arm tactics.

  She put me in quarantine. My body wasn’t the problem; it was my brain, which had been infected in the worst possible way. To prevent me from contaminating the others, I had to stay alone all day, locked in a room at the back of the building, so my crying wasn’t heard.

  Josefa visited several times a day, to wash me, dress me and feed me. When I refused to let her dress me, she just said ‘Fine’ and left me naked. When I wouldn’t eat my mashed vegetables: ‘Fine.’ She put the plate on the floor and left. Hunger would knock some sense into me in the end. At night, nothing. Even when I yelled my head off—my arms outstretched so they’d open the door, so they’d come and hold me, cuddle me, comfort me—no one ever came. The door stayed shut and I finally fell asleep on the ground, exhausted. I screamed even louder when I woke up.

  Josefa worked out a way of drowning out my screams: she left a portable radio in my room, the volume turned up high and tuned to a station that broadcast Hitler’s speeches over and over. I couldn’t compete for long with the vocal powers of our Führer. In the end I had to stop to listen and, eventually, enjoy the sound of him.

  My brain slowly got back into gear.

  I returned to my former self. One morning, Josefa was nearly in tears of joy when she found me up and dressed. Well, almost. I’d tried to pull on my trousers, but got tangled up, with two feet in one pants leg; I hadn’t managed to find the neck of my sweater and had my head stuck in the sleeve. But I wasn’t holding on to anything: I was standing up tall, back on my own two feet.

  My little right arm was extended in front of me, straight as a bow.

  And I finally said my first words: Sieg Heil!

  Now I’m four years old.

  Everyone says I’m very good-looking. I’m willing to believe it because people always turn around to stare at me when they pass by. I’m especially attractive to the mothers.

  My racial assessment is looking good, even if it’s not definitive yet. A lot of physical characteristics are not yet evident in a child as young as I am, but I’m hopeful.

  I’m tall for my age, slim, skinny even, without it being an issue. Quite the reverse. (I’m not deficient in anything. We’ve got everything we want at the Home: semolina, rice, oatmeal, cocoa, fresh fruit, vegetables, even though the war began a year ago and they’re handing out ration cards everywhere else.) Being thin means my little muscles—in my arms, thighs, calves—are well defined and guarantee an athletic body. My hair is not just blond, it’s almost white, and contrasts strikingly with the blue of my eyes—two turquoise wells breaching a snowy expanse. When my gaze lands on a mother it’s fatal: her heart melts. I was dolichocephalic at birth and I still am now. My complexion is pale, ever so slightly pink, as if someone had delicately powdered my cheeks. My ears don’t stick out—thank God for that!—they’re small, nicely shaped, like shells. I have a narrow face, delicate lips and a high forehead. My nose is thin and long, creating an uninterrupted line down to my chin.

  I look like an angel. An Aryan angel.

  You wouldn’t guess from looking at me that I almost died. I don’t remember a single thing about the horrific ordeal I endured, but Josefa never stops telling me, along with the new mothers in the Home, all the ghastly details about this shocking time. I was captured by a bitch of a dissident who tortured and starved me. She tried to kill me, but, despite my extreme youth, I was stronger than she was, and it was I who survived! I was the incarnation of one of our Führer’s most important theories: ‘It is not by the principles of humanity that man lives or is able to preserve himself above the animal world, but solely by means of the most brutal struggle.’

  Josefa maintains that I’ve been avenged, because a very important event occurred on the night of the 9th to the 10th of November, 1938—that is, a year and a half after I was kidnapped by that bitch. That night became known as Kristallnacht, ‘Crystal Night’. Throughout the whole country, several hundred synagogues were destroyed, as well as thousands of Jewish businesses. A hundred-odd Jews were killed, hundreds of others committed suicide or died from their wounds, and almost thirty thousand more were deported to concentration camps. So now, Josefa told me, no German woman would be tempted to have sex with a Jew. She assured me that henceforth I would be safe, that I’d never be exposed to danger like that again.

  In any case, because this exploit of my young life has been told over and over, and spread around, it’s become legendary in the Home. I’ve become some sort of mascot.

  So they decided that I shouldn’t be adopted. It’s a bit like being in a shop window: I’m the perfect sample product, a piece of jewellery you can look at but not touch, and especially not wear. I’m the model that pregnant women and new mothers can study: here’s the future of the foetus in your belly, or here’s how your baby will turn out. It’s good for morale anyway, especially if they’re having doubts. Same for the adoptive mothers visiting the Home. They swoon when they see my little angel’s face and then burst into tears when Josefa tells them my story, how I overcame the trauma inflicted on me. They instantly want to take me in their arms, cuddle me, kiss me, but…No touching! Forbidden! And if they’re sorry they can’t take me away with them, they’re more than happy to choose another baby, reassured that it will look like me in the future.

  Good. That’s great. I’m proud.

  But the downside is that I’m bored. Having women worship me, fuss over me, cluck over me, none of that is ideal for my Draufgängertum. I haven’t forgotten my secret wish. I’d like to have friends endowed with my toughness. What can I do, stuck here among all these wailing babies who only think about feeding and sleeping? The Home is like a cocoon that’s got too cramped. I’m stifled. I need air. I need to move. Get out, see the world!

  Especially because, outside the Home, all hell has broken loose. After the annexing of the Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia and Austria, last year’s invasion of Poland really cranked up th
e conflict: the English and the French have declared war. Our allies are the Russians, who helped us crush Poland. But, even without their help, our army is clearly superior: France is about to capitulate. We’ve already invaded Belgium, Denmark and Norway as well. We’re on the rampage! As for the English, they’ve tried a bit of strategic bombing in response to our air raids over London, but nothing to worry about. I’ve heard that the Berliners, far from being traumatised by the bombs, are getting together and having fun in the areas supposedly damaged by the enemy.

  As a consequence of all these annexations, the Home is right now completely topsy-turvy: we’re expecting an exceptionally good delivery of women from Norway and Denmark. There’s no need for them to go through the selection process—we already know that women from these countries fit the criteria of the Nordic race perfectly. So our SS officers are under orders to carry out a ‘soft occupation’ in those places, which means they’re not allowed to make arrests or engage in mass executions (like in Smolensk, for example, where thousands of Jews were executed with a bullet to the head). Instead, their duty is to seduce the Norwegian women, invite them to the movies, out to dinner, to a museum or a concert, and bingo! Intercourse, then delivery of the baby, here in Germany, whether they like it or not. There’s no doubt that the babies born from these encounters will be harmonisch. They’ll be a wonderful gift for the Führer and for the German nation. (Whether they’re a willing or unwilling gift will depend; even though they’re beautiful, are the Norwegian women intelligent enough to understand how vital their sacrifice is?) Tall, blond, dolichocephalic, these Norwegian babies will be endowed with everything a child of the future requires and will include very few ‘rabbits’, I imagine. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m a tiny bit jealous. What if one of them deposes me?

  God forbid that should happen.

  While they decide about my future, I keep busy, running around, climbing, jumping, yelling. Whenever I can, I charge into the nursery and create havoc. I pretend the cradles lined up are enemy soldiers I’m fighting. I bombard them with nappies and bottles, whatever I can lay my little hands on. If I’m told to leave my buddies alone, I’m stuck with my toys, which are pretty amazing—the war requisitioning means we’ve got a continuous supply. With my toy planes and tin soldiers, I pretend I’m a Luftwaffe pilot. Nneeaooww! Nneeaooww! I trace parabolas in the sky and then, boom! I drop a bomb on London! I also get to play with a magnificent toy castle and pretend I’m a mediaeval lord ruling over his subjects. But my favourite toy is a little wooden hammer. In my hands it transforms into Thor’s hammer, the most powerful weapon of the ancient Nordic race, my ancestors. Either I’m one of the two dwarves who made this fabulous weapon, or, better still, I’m Thor himself, god of Thunder and Lightning. I’m wearing metal gauntlets when I launch my hammer at my enemy and, a few seconds later, the hammer is back in my hands (it’s magic). I’m doing battle with the giants of the frozen north and I’m invincible!

  They say there’s a strong chance this myth might become reality, that Thor’s hammer will be reconstituted. This is one of the tasks Reichsführer Himmler has set himself. He has sent research teams to Finland to analyse ancient sorcerer songs that hold the secret of the hammer’s creation.

  At other times, my wooden toy turns into the sacred sword of King Arthur, who was a child king like me, a child warrior. I leap onto my steed and off I go to find the Holy Grail. And I find the goblet of immortality and I drink it and become immortal!

  Woops! My Thor’s-hammer-King-Arthur’s-sacred-sword just landed on Josefa’s head. She’ll get angry and send me to my room. I know I annoy her, careering around the Home like this. Even though I’m the mascot, she’d probably like to belt me one. Just let her try, hey!

  But Josefa doesn’t lose her temper; on the contrary, she gives me a huge smile, the one she saves for special occasions and official visits. She tells me to gather up my toys so she can pack them in a suitcase with my other belongings. Because…because…

  ’Guess what?’ she asks me, her grimacing smile getting wider.

  Because…I’M LEAVING TOMORROW. I’m going away, far away.

  ‘On a mission,’ she adds in a whisper.

  Where on earth? Germany, or a foreign country? Who am I going with? With her? How am I getting there? By plane? In a Mercedes? What’s my mission? To find Thor’s hammer? The Holy Grail? I can’t ask her all these questions properly and it’s making me furious. I’m hopping up and down with impatience. But there’s no point. The conspiratorial look on her face as she takes my hand, the way she’s whispering and casting furtive glances to make sure no one has heard her talking about suitcases and trips, all makes me realise that my mission is a matter of secrecy.

  Top secret!

  Who cares if I’m not sure what’s expected of me. I like surprises. The main thing is that I’m finally leaving the Home to begin a new stage in my life.

  So I’ll catch up with you soon, in some new place, to tell you what happens next.

  I travelled in a beautiful, big, black Mercedes, escorted by motorbikes—they cleared the road ahead so we could drive as fast as possible. The trip took two days, including a night spent in the home of a top Nazi Party dignitary, a friend of Doctor Ebner.

  Munich, Ingolstadt, Nuremberg, Bayreuth, Leipzig, Dessau, Potsdam. Just imagine my amazement! I’d never ventured further than the row of poplars separating the Home from the Steinhöring countryside, and now I was passing through the most important cities in Germany. At last I was discovering my homeland. I was dizzy with excitement and kept my eyes wide open to take in the passing landscape. I would have liked to stop and walk around these cities, but I could tell there was no time for that in our schedule. This was a long way from being a tourist trip. Only a few toilet stops, that’s all. (I had to hold on and not wet my pants, which was not always easy.) Anyway, I lost the urge to go for a wander, because the further east we headed, the more inhospitable the countryside became.

  After we crossed the Polish border, there was nothing but devastation: ruins of bombed houses; smoke from fires; wounded bodies and corpses in the fields or on the roads; convoys crawling along, flanked by our soldiers. Every now and again, even if we sped past, I caught a glimpse of a haggard, ashen face, deformed by fear.

  The Poles. Prisoners.

  I was travelling with adults, important ones. I was quiet, well behaved: I sat up straight, made sure I did the raised-arm salute to the various important people who joined our group along the way, and I stopped myself from pestering with questions, even though I was dying of curiosity.

  I didn’t know anyone, apart from Doctor Ebner and Herr Sollmann, who had often visited the Home in his capacity as director of the Lebensborn program. Josefa wasn’t on board, which suited me just fine. I needed a change and it wouldn’t have been much fun having that old bag on my back again. Josefa belonged to another time, and from now on I had to forget about her. When I was leaving, she cuddled me and even wiped away a tear. Hypocrite! The truth is she was more than happy to get rid of me. The tear was probably for Doctor Ebner. She’s got a crush on him. I made a quick escape from her embrace.

  So long! Thanks for everything! See you around maybe!

  Herr Tesch, a lawyer, was sitting next to Ebner and Sollmann. In Berlin, a second car, with four women, joined us. For the rest of the trip the men and women swapped cars, taking it in turns to talk with Doctor Ebner and Herr Sollmann. When I wasn’t sleeping, I opened my little ears and listened—they were discussing extremely important matters.

  In fact, they never stopped working: the Mercedes was an office and a meeting room. They pored over files, letters and pamphlets put together by Reichsführer Himmler. They wrote reports and provisional budgets concerning trains and convoys that had to head to such- and-such a town—Polish names, too complicated for me to memorise.

  The woman in charge was Frau Inge Viermetz, first deputy to Herr Sollmann. Her job was to represent the ‘physiognomists’, the specialists who c
ould recognise at a glance if a person belonged to the Nordic race or not. Next in line was Frau Müller, of the NSV (National Socialist People’s Welfare), an organisation that looks after ‘the wellbeing of the German people’. And then there was Frau Kruger, from the Jugendamt: ‘The Youth Office’. I could tell what organisation the women belonged to because they all wore badges on their uniforms—when it comes to recognising badges and insignia I’m unbeatable. As for the fourth woman, she said she was part of the Braune Schwestern.

  The Brown Sisters. I didn’t have a clue, except that Schwester was a code word meaning neither ‘sister’ nor ‘nurse’. The Sisters are the women chosen for their reproductive capacity, the ones who get pregnant with children of the future like me. But those Sisters are blonde, not brown. They’re also young and pretty. Whereas the one in the car with me was old and ugly, if not repulsive.

  I’ll have to wait a while before I can add Brown Sisters to my list of code words.

  The main thing I did learn—when I pretended to be asleep, so the adults could be unguarded in their conversation—was that I, Konrad von Kebnersol, four years of age, have been chosen for a special mission with the code name ‘Operation Something-or-Other’. Unfortunately, in the hubbub of the conversation, I couldn’t catch the last word. What could this secret mission possibly be? Even racking my super-hyper-intelligent brain, I had no idea. You can’t imagine how desperately curious I was.

  Poznan, Poland. The end of our trip.

  We’re staying in one of the few houses that remains standing, next to the town hall, which has been requisitioned by Doctor Ebner and his team. They work tirelessly there all day, along with other important people who were already here before us. They’re all constantly coming and going.