Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  ‘My first name is Abigail, but people call me Abi; it’s easier. Do you have a nickname?’

  She’s not mean, but she’s sneaky. She’s setting me a trap. If I tell her my nickname, I’ll end up spilling the beans about my first name, and my last name—the real one. Not a word. I just eat.

  ‘There’s no reason at all for you to be frightened of saying the Glasers were your parents,’ she persists. ‘No one will hurt you. Even if your father was a Nazi officer, you have nothing to fear. Children won’t be made to suffer for the sins of their parents.’

  She’s speaking about ‘deNazification’. I heard about it on my travels. The Allied occupation forces are arresting Nazis everywhere in Germany. They are checking the political activities of every German over eighteen.

  Abi is mistaken about my silence. I’m not frightened to say that my parents were Nazis (and such Nazis!). Nevertheless, they were not the Glasers.

  ‘Me not Glaser. Me Konrad von Kebnersol. Two nicknames: Skullface or Max.’

  There we go, my voice is back in action. The words popped out without me thinking. And in English what’s more. Pidgin English. Now I’m speaking like the Polish kids did at Kalish. Which makes me think that, after being kidnapped by Brown Sisters, I must be in an American Kalish.

  Shocked, Abi steps back. With the bowl of soup. I grab it out of her hands. I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself. She stares at me, a slight frown on her face; she looks like she’s wondering if perhaps I’m not quite right in the head.

  ‘Konrad von Kebnersol? That’s your last name?’

  I nod.

  ‘And your nickname…What was it again?’

  I repeat it.

  ‘Odd, especially the first nickname. Why did they call you that?’

  I don’t reply. I’d have to explain that Lukas invented the nickname. I’d have to talk about Lukas. I don’t want to. Lukas is dead. Kaput. Buried in Berlin. In a garden, like a dog.

  ‘So, the Glasers are not your parents? But what were you doing in their house?’

  To prove to Abi that I’m perfectly fine in the head, that I’m in fact very intelligent, I have to abandon Pidgin English in favour of German.

  ‘If the Glasers had been my parents, they would have poisoned me, like the little boy and the little girl in the bedroom. I just went to their apartment by chance. To sleep.’

  ‘Okay, Max, okay.’

  She’s chosen to call me Max, not Konrad. Perhaps it sounds more American than Konrad?

  ‘The reason I kept asking,’ she says, ‘is that we know where the older Glaser boy is. He’s alive, and if he was your brother we could have reunited the two of you.’

  She pauses for a second, thinking I’m going to react, give myself away, jump for joy at the news of this big brother. Not a chance. My big brother is dead.

  ‘Right, well, let’s forget about the Glasers.’ She finally cuts off that avenue of discussion.

  About time too.

  She removes the soup bowl—that I’d conscientiously, greedily, licked clean—and places it on the bedside table. I want her to give me something else to eat. I’m still hungry.

  ‘You are at the Kloster Indersdorf convent. My colleagues and I (she points to the other American Sisters in the room) are nurses and we work for an organisation called the UNRRA, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. That means we look after all the orphans or unaccompanied children. We help them to find their families. Do you understand?’

  Yes, I understand. But neither she nor her colleagues will be able to do anything for me. I don’t have any family at all. I’ve never had any and that’s something she’ll never understand. I should explain it all to her, but I’m too tired. I shut my eyes without answering. That’s an answer: ‘Leave me alone!’

  She gets the message. ‘I’m going to let you rest now,’ says Abi, a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘I’ll come and see you later.’

  She stands, moves away and—I half-open my eyes to check—leaves the room.

  Unlike the kids around me, I don’t want to sleep. I’ve already slept enough in the Glaser apartment, in the train, here.

  It’s too much like a dormitory here. I’m not used to dormitories anymore. I can’t stand them.

  I try to decipher what Abi said. I’m in the Kloster Indersdorf convent, so I’m in Germany, in Bavaria, to be precise. That is the American sector. They look after orphans in this convent. Kalish was also a disused monastery. They looked after orphans at Kalish, too. ‘Look after orphans’ was code for Germanisation, before an adoptive family was found. Abi spoke to me in code language so as not to frighten me. She omitted to point out that they’re going to Americanise me. They already use my American first name.

  Abi seems kind, but in the end I wonder if she’s not a bitch, too, like the Brown Sisters. I also wonder if Americanisation is going to be as tough as Germanisation was at Kalish.

  I have absolutely no desire to be Americanised. I’ve got to get out of here. I glance over at the door. No wardens. I get out of bed.

  Before escaping, I decide to have a look around. I’m in no hurry, and anyway, where would I go? At least there’s food here—I should eat up before leaving.

  I enter a room that is a dormitory, not a hospital ward. There are more children here—not sick, just shockingly thin. Like me. Some are sitting on beds, playing cards, talking. Others are by themselves, on chairs or lying down, staring at the ceiling, or else standing up, staring at the floor. They’re all dressed in the same grey clothes with white aprons that they must have been given here. I’m still wearing my own clothes, which makes me think I haven’t been here long.

  Still no wardens. Clearly the children have not received an order to stay silent. On the contrary, they’re making a lot of noise. As I move through the room, I can hear lots of languages, and among them I recognise Polish, German, Russian and French, I think.

  The next room is a huge dining hall, benches and tables lined up. As I pass, I nick a bar of chocolate and a carton of milk that I gulp down while hiding, crouched in a corner. It’s so good, delicious. I’ll come back here before I leave.

  I go up to the next floor. On the landing there’s a window through which I can see the courtyard of the convent. Two trucks are arriving; when the doors open, children get out.

  ‘The country will be teeming with orphans,’ Lukas told me. He was right. He also told me I had to find the Americans. I’m not sure he was right about that.

  I stop stock-still on the threshold of the next room, where children are lining up. One by one they stand in front of a soldier who takes their picture. The soldier is…black.

  I’ve never seen a black man in the flesh. Only in the films they showed us at the Napola, blacks fighting in the French army. They looked like they were in fancy dress, wearing filthy, oversized uniforms. We watched them doing target practice; they were terrible. The presenter said that, even though blacks didn’t know how to use any sort of weapons, the French put them on the front line, to protect themselves. That was one of the reasons why we defeated France so quickly, he explained. Our famous Blitzkrieg.

  Except that the war was not at all a lightning operation. Six years. Not six months.

  Except that the French are now victorious. And the blacks, too.

  Mesmerised, I stand watching the black soldier. He doesn’t look like he’s in fancy dress. He looks good in his uniform. He’s tall and muscular, with a confident, feline bearing. When he smiles, you can see his big, straight, white teeth, and the way his smile is reflected in his eyes. He reminds me of Jesse Owens, the black athlete who won four gold medals at the 1936 Olympic Games. I wonder if he can run as fast as Jesse. If so, I’d better clear out before he sees me. No way I’d beat him in a race.

  When I finally take my eyes off him, I notice three nurses busy in the room. The first is helping the children to follow the soldier’s instructions and sit directly in front of the camera. Raise your chin, don’t lower your ey
es, sit still during the flash. She adjusts their nametags, which hang around each of their necks on a piece of string. The second nurse is checking a register, and the third is writing in a notebook.

  They’re both black, too, like the photographer.

  Something weird is happening in this room. Despite the wave of terror flooding through me, I try to think. Quick, quick! Because I’ll have Jesse Owens on my heels once I get going.

  This is the conclusion I come to: Abi lied to me. She omitted to tell me that, before ‘looking after orphans’, they made them endure a selection process. Just like at Kalish. And, judging by the ones in charge of the selecting, in order to get through, you have to be black. Or at least have dark skin and dark eyes.

  I AM SCREWED.

  ‘You managed to get out of bed?’

  I almost jump out of my skin; Abi is right behind me.

  ‘Are you okay? You don’t feel dizzy?’

  ‘Why are you taking photos of the children?’ I ask, ignoring her question. ‘Is it a selection process? What do you do with the rejects? Knock them off? Send them to a concentration camp? Are you going to kill me?’

  She looks at me in astonishment, as if she’s thinking, ‘This poor kid is completely crazy.’

  But I am not at all crazy. In fact I have never been more sane. Abi has to understand that I am no ordinary child. You can’t fool me!

  ‘A selection process?’ she says finally, articulating each syllable with a shocked expression. ‘What on earth are you on about? Listen, Max: children are not put through a selection process here. No one is killed here. And there are no more concentration camps.’

  She stops for a second to let her words sink in. But they don’t sink in. I’m not convinced. Not yet.

  ‘We’re taking photos of the children so we can use them to help us find their parents,’ she adds. ‘Do you believe me?’

  I don’t answer, I’m lost. Either Abi is telling the truth or she’s an excellent actress. I take another very hard look around the room. There are no measuring devices. No wardens. No soldiers hitting children. Just the tall black guy, laughing at every opportunity. And the children don’t look frightened. I’m the only one who is a bundle of nerves and that’s not like me. I must pull myself together.

  ‘Yes, I believe you.’

  It was only a murmur, but Abi heard.

  ‘Good, that’s great. Hey, since you’re here, let’s take your photo now. Hop in line, it won’t take long.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘NO.’

  Abi rolls her eyes and sighs, exasperated. I’m annoying her. I don’t give a damn. She annoys me with her obsessions. The Glasers before, and now the carry-on about the photo.

  ‘Why don’t you want us to take your photo? Don’t you want to see your parents again?’

  ‘My parents are both dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. My mother was killed by a Russian and my father committed suicide.’

  ‘But perhaps you’ve got a brother or a…’

  ‘My brother died, too. Killed by a Russian.’

  ‘Well, there must be an uncle or an aunt or a cousin who’d like to receive news about you.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Okay, listen, the photo will still be useful for us, you never know. Wait in line and just do it, it won’t take long.’

  As she walks off, I call out, ‘I’ve got a photo of my parents.’

  She comes back. ‘That’s excellent! Show it to me.’

  I reach into my pocket for the photo of the blonde woman posing with the Führer. The photo that Lukas kept, the one that killed him. I got it back and I haven’t let it out of my sight. It’s the only souvenir I have of Lukas. I’m pretty sure he was intending to show it to the Americans. But I hesitate about giving it to Abi. I’ve got a feeling that she won’t like it.

  ‘So what are you waiting for? Show it to me,’ she insists, kneeling down next to me.

  Well, it’s her choice. I take the photo out of my pocket.

  Abi reaches for it, looks at it and suddenly recoils, losing her balance. I put my hand out to stop her falling, but she flinches and pulls free, as if she can’t bear the touch of my hand.

  I knew she’d hate the photo. I should never have shown it to her. I should have destroyed it. This damn photo will end up killing me, just like it killed Lukas.

  But I’m going to stand up for myself. Abi is only a woman, after all. She doesn’t even have a machine gun like the Russian who killed Lukas. And the war’s over, right?

  ‘You told me before that children shouldn’t have to suffer for the sins of their parents.’

  That worked. She regains her composure; her eyes aren’t flashing with anger anymore. She tries to smile. It’s a pathetic effort but she’ll get there. ‘Come in here.’

  She drags me into an adjoining room, shuts the door behind me, sits at a little desk piled up with files, and gestures for me to sit on a chair opposite her. She places the photo on the desk, looks at it again—more calmly, not lingering on the Führer this time—and asks me, ‘Why do you say they’re your parents?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  She doesn’t seem happy with my answer.

  ‘She’—I point to the blonde woman—‘is the woman who had sex with an SS officer to produce me’—I point to the baby—‘and give me as a present to him.’ I point to the Führer.

  Abi stares at me. Then she rolls her eyes and drums her fingers on the desk, before opening her mouth to speak. But she stops, doesn’t say whatever it is.

  ‘Max,’ she starts again finally, as if it’s an effort to stay calm. ‘You don’t give babies away as presents. What are you trying to tell me? What does this photo mean? That your mother managed to meet Hitler one day? Then she told you that he was your father? It was no doubt just in a manner of speaking…’

  I put my hand up to interrupt her. It’s my turn to roll my eyes and sigh. All right, I’ll have to tell her my life story to make her understand. This is going to take a while. I don’t know where to begin…At the beginning? I take the photo, turn it over and point at the inscription: Steinhöring.

  ‘That’s where I was born. Steinhöring. It’s a children’s home, near Munich.’

  There and then, before I can properly begin my story, Abi cuts me off. ‘Did you say Steinhöring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’

  She rummages in the dossiers on the desk, pulls one out, opens it and removes a sheet of paper that she scans after putting on some glasses.

  Those glasses make her look ugly, like a goggle-eyed fly.

  ‘Our soldiers were in Steinhöring in April,’ she says, without really focusing on me. It’s more like she’s thinking out loud as she keeps reading. ‘They found three hundred babies there. Three hundred! Left by themselves in the bombed-out premises. The poor little things were in a terrible state. Our soldiers did not find a single document to identify them, nothing…’

  I grab the piece of paper out of her hands. If only she’d stop jabbering on and let me speak.

  ‘I know who those babies are. I know how they were produced. I know who produced them, who ordered them to be produced, who ran the selection process so that only the best were kept. I know where your soldiers can find more of them. I know everything. I was the first one of those babies.’

  Abi doesn’t try to retrieve the piece of paper I took from her. She takes off her glasses. She doesn’t look like a goggle-eyed fly anymore, but her whole face is rigid with tension. I can tell that now she really is ready to listen to me. I take a big breath.

  And off I go. I was born on 20th of April, 1936. The birthday of our Führer…

  By the time I finish my story it’s dark in the little room.

  Abi didn’t think to turn on the desk lamp. She didn’t move once, the whole time I spoke. She might as well have been a statue.

  Only now does she decide to turn on the light. She
moves slowly, wearily, as if the lamp was too far away, even though it’s only a few centimetres from her. The view outside the window—a scrap of sky, of blue, has turned to grey, then black—fades, and now there is only the reflection of the interior of the room, in particular my face. I can see it as clearly as in a mirror.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve looked in a mirror. I check to make sure I’m still as blond as I was. That my eyes are as blue as they were. Nothing has changed.

  No, one thing has: I’m crying.

  I’m crying for the first time. Does that mean I’m now like other children?

  Lukas cried, too, that day at Kalish, when I told him my story. The first part, before knowing him. That day, he said to me, ‘We both have to bear witness. Me, for what the Nazis are doing to the Poles and to the Jews; you, for what they have done to you.’

  I have kept my promise.

  I didn’t understand why Lukas cried when he heard my story. I didn’t understand the meaning of the words ‘bear witness’.

  Now I do. I suppose that’s normal. I’ve grown up. I’m nine and a half.

  I guess, for a child, the years count two for one in times of war.

  This novel was inspired by actual events:

  The Lebensborn program, initiated by Heinrich Himmler and put in place in Germany from 1933, and in the occupied countries during 1940–1941. It is estimated that approximately eight thousand children were born in Lebensborn homes in Germany, between eight and twelve thousand in Norway, several hundred in Austria, in Belgium and in France.

  The kidnapping and Germanisation of Polish children. (In addition to Ukrainian children, and those from the Baltic countries.) It is estimated that the number of children forcibly taken from their families was more than two hundred thousand.

  The work of the UNRRA (the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration), which, along with other aid organisations for displaced persons, implemented ways for some of these children to be reunited with their families after the war.