by Dan Smith
When I tried to go out, though, they told me I had to stay indoors where there was nothing to do.
I was beginning to feel as if I was in prison. It was like being in one of the camps out in the countryside where they kept captured enemies and Jews and other criminals. Stefan went to one of those camps last year, after he got into trouble when someone reported him for fighting with Hitler Youth boys. I was so ashamed when the police took him away, but felt bad about it, too. I didn’t know they would shave his head and make him exercise for a whole week. When he came back he was pale and hardly spoke.
But the worst thing about being at Escherstrasse was that Oma and Opa didn’t send me to school or the local Deutsches Jungvolk. The frustration of that built up inside me, mixed with all the awful sadness about Papa and the worry about Mama, making me feel as if I might explode. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t even let the school and troop know I was there; I was a silver medal holder, I should at least be going to meetings. I asked them about it a few times but they always said they were busy. The day after Stefan went out on his bike, though, I’d worked myself up into such a state, I couldn’t help losing my temper with them.
‘I’m supposed to join,’ I said. ‘I have to, it’s the rules.’
‘I know.’ Opa looked up from his breakfast. ‘But … the local troop doesn’t know you’re here yet and …’
‘I want to go,’ I said. ‘I’ll get into trouble.’
‘Not if they don’t know you’re here, darling,’ Oma replied. ‘And anyway, they’ve got enough boys, so they can manage without you. We see them marching up and down the streets every weekend making all that racket. If you ask me—’
‘Claudia.’ Opa held up a hand to stop her and they exchanged a serious look. ‘That’s enough.’ He turned to me once more. ‘The truth is, we think you need a break from everything for a while; to give yourself time to think about Papa.’
As soon as he mentioned Papa, an image of the photo popped into my head and my heart grew heavy. The last thing I wanted to do was think about him; that just made me feel worse.
I looked at the tabletop and shook my head. ‘I want to make some friends.’ When I’d been with my troop it was as if I had more brothers than I could count; without them, I felt lonely and bored, and cross with Oma and Opa for not letting me go.
‘Maybe in a few more days.’ Opa smiled. ‘I think you should wait a while.’
‘But you let Stefan go out. It’s not fair.’
Opa softened his voice. ‘Stefan is older. He—’
‘He gets into trouble,’ I said.
‘He needs to be busy,’ Oma told me. ‘It’s better for him.’ She reached across and put a wrinkly hand on mine. It was covered in small dark spots.
‘Well, can I at least go outside then?’ I stared at those brown marks, wishing everything was back to normal. ‘On my bike?’
‘You know we can’t let you do that,’ Opa said. ‘You have to stay in the garden for now; that way—’
‘No one will see me,’ I finished for him.
He looked at Oma again and then back to me.
‘You’re hiding me,’ I said, pulling my hand away. It was as if all my sadness was slowly turning into anger, and that felt much easier than being miserable, so I let it build up in me. ‘I’m not stupid, you know. You won’t let me out in case someone sees me. Because I should have joined the school and the Deutsches Jungvolk. It’s the rules.’
Opa sighed and stood up. He went to the window and looked out at the street. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘If someone reports that you’re here, or if the wrong people see you, we’ll all get into trouble.’
‘Then you should send me to school.’ My mood was growing blacker and blacker. My hands were shaking and I had to tuck them under my armpits to keep them steady. I felt lost and had no control over what was happening. My anger and frustration was drowning me and I had to do something or say something to make it all come out. ‘Or maybe I should report you.’ I stood up and looked at Oma. ‘I could walk out right now and go straight to the Gestapo myself—’ I stopped myself and Oma recoiled in shock. Her eyes opened about as wide as I’d ever seen them and her mouth formed an ‘O’.
‘I could—’
‘That’s enough!’ Opa turned around and his face was dark like a thunderstorm. It was the first time I had ever seen him that way and it felt as if electricity had been shot through the room.
‘Just … just give it a few more days,’ Opa said after taking a moment to calm himself. ‘You need to mourn your father. Give it a few more days and then we’ll talk about it again. Now, why don’t you go and check on Mama?’
I glared at them, lost for words, then pushed back my chair. ‘Fine,’ I said as I left the kitchen and stormed upstairs.
ESCAPE
Mama didn’t even open her eyes when I sat on the edge of the bed.
She spent all of her time in that room, as if she had decided she didn’t want to be alive any more, and I thought that if we hadn’t come to Escherstrasse, maybe she would be better. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep all day because she would have had to look after Stefan and me, and I would still be with my friends.
As I watched her, though, the frustration of my conversation with Oma and Opa faded away, and I wondered if Mama didn’t want to look at me because I reminded her of Papa. People always said I had his eyes and nose. The way I smiled was the same, too.
From where I was sitting, I could see through the window to the houses on the other side of the road. They were two-storey red brick buildings, just like Oma and Opa’s, joined together in sets of three. We were at the end of one block, with a side road next to us, running off Escherstrasse and connecting with a back lane.
The middle house on the opposite block had window boxes just like this one, but Oma’s were stuffed full with bright red geraniums while those were empty, and I remembered that when I had come to stay last year, no one had been living in there. Now, though, the front door opened and a woman came out onto the street. She was tall and fair-haired, wearing a plain blue dress and a white apron. She looked left and right, then turned and shouted something back into the house.
A moment later, a girl appeared, pushing a bicycle. It was the same kind as Stefan and I had – black, with a brown leather seat. The girl had a pretty face but didn’t have fair hair like the woman at the door. Instead, she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, as if she might have been a second-degree mischling – a person with one Jewish grandparent. She looked about the same age as me and was wearing school uniform.
I went closer to the window and looked down, wishing I were going to school like she was, and that’s when she glanced up and caught sight of me.
For a second, our eyes locked together and she stared right at me.
Then she smiled and waved.
I pulled away from the window as if I’d been caught doing something wicked, and terrible thoughts raced through my mind. Maybe she would report that she’d seen me. Maybe she would tell the Gestapo. Maybe they would come and arrest me for not going to school, and take me away in handcuffs to one of the camps.
I swallowed hard, trying to push the thoughts away as I looked again, edging closer to the window and peering out.
The girl was on her bike now, heading along the road to the right. Her mama was standing in the doorway, watching her ride down Escherstrasse and disappear from view. Seeing her cycle away made me want to go out on my bike. I hadn’t been outside the house in four days, other than to help Opa with his car that was parked in the back where no one could see.
Even after the girl was long gone and her mama had shut the door, I stared out at the street. Not much happened, though. It wasn’t like at home where it was always busy. In the city, there were cars and trams and carts to watch, and all the people going this way and that, but here it was quiet.
I waited a whole ten minutes, counting to sixty ten times in my head, but not one car went past. Not even one. The only thing I saw was an
old man strolling past with his dog.
‘So boring,’ I muttered and sat down on the bed again. ‘Nothing to do.’
But seeing the girl on her bike had given me an idea.
Downstairs, Oma was making bread and the kitchen was filled with the smell of the dough.
‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier,’ I told her. ‘For saying I’d—’
‘Never mind about that.’ Oma smiled. ‘Come and help me, it’ll be fun.’
‘Cooking?’ I asked. ‘Again?’
‘Baking this time.’ She crushed the dough so that it squeezed out between her fingers. ‘It’s a good thing to learn.’
‘It’s for girls,’ I told her, as if she didn’t know anything at all. ‘Boys don’t cook.’
‘Is that right? Boys don’t cook? So that’s what they’re teaching you at school these days, is it?’ She stopped kneading and looked at me. ‘Tell me, then, what do boys do?’
‘At school? Well, there’s mathematics and science and how to fight our enemies.’
‘I see.’ Oma raised her eyebrows.
‘And we learn about making weapons, about trajectory, and about racial theory. And there’s running and boxing to make us strong.’
‘Don’t you think Opa is strong?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but—’
‘He sometimes helps me with the cooking. Does that make him weak?’
‘It’s different. The youth is the future, that’s why we have to be stronger. We have to be swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather, and as hard as Krupp’s steel.’
Oma turned away and sprinkled more flour on the table. ‘Those are the Führer’s words,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Oma lifted the dough to shoulder height and slapped it down on the table, sending a puff of flour into the air. ‘And the girls learn to cook?’ She frowned and seemed to be kneading the dough harder than before.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And how to look after our families, of course.’
‘I see.’ Oma stopped and looked me up and down. Her face softened into a sad smile and she came closer, wiping her hands on her apron before touching my cheek. ‘You know, Karl,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to wear that uniform all the time.’
‘I like it.’
‘Well, it’ll have to be washed some time, you know. You’ll have to take it off for that.’
‘It can be washed and dried overnight,’ I told her.
‘Can it indeed?’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Now, if you don’t want to help me, why don’t you go and see if Opa needs some help? He’s in the back with his car. Maybe you can do something to take your mind off all this exercise and war.’
‘But I don’t want to take my mind off it. I want to exercise. I have to be strong and fit and ready,’ I said. ‘The Führer might need me.’
‘To go to war?’ she asked. ‘Is that what you really want?’
‘It’s what every boy in my class wants. The teacher promised us we would get our chance.’
Oma watched me with glistening eyes. ‘Even you? Even though you might be killed like …?’ Her words trailed into nothing and she put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Karl,’ she said as she turned to face the window.
‘What is it?’ I asked, taking a step towards her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m fine.’ Oma held up a hand as if to wave me away. ‘Fine. Why don’t you go and find Opa?’ Her voice was tight in her throat and I stood for a moment, looking at her back, wondering what was wrong. She waved me away again, though, so I left her standing there and went to find Opa.
At the side of the house, Opa had built a shelter against the wall so he could park his car out of the rain. It wasn’t much more than a lean-to made from timber and with a rickety roof, and Oma hated it because their bedroom window looked out onto it. Opa spent a lot of his time under there, tinkering with the Opel Admiral he loved so much.
Right now, the car bonnet was propped open and he was leaning over the engine, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Oma didn’t let him smoke in the house, she said it was dirty, which was probably why he spent so much time working on his car.
He looked like he was busy so I left him to it. Anyway, I was sick of cooking and fetching tools, so instead, I sneaked down to the shed and wheeled out my bike.
Then I checked to see if Opa was watching and I did something that surprised me.
I broke the rules.
Wheeling my bike along the drive that ran up one side of the garden, I opened the gate and went out into the back lane.
Opa was still bent over the car, head under the bonnet, cigarette smoke curling around his head. I watched him for a long moment, feeling my heart beating harder. It wasn’t too late. I could go back in. I could put my bike away and …
The gate clicked shut almost without me realising I had done it.
Swinging my leg over, I pushed the bike away and cycled along the lane. Once around the corner, I followed the cut-through between Oma and Opa’s house and the one next door, then I sped out onto Escherstrasse. Without stopping, I turned and headed in the same direction the girl had gone.
Something about being on my bike lifted my heart.
All my anger dissolved away and a great bubble of excitement and happiness and relief grew in its place. It started in my stomach and rose up my throat and filled me so full that it threatened to explode me. I had to open my mouth to let it out, and when I did, the fresh morning air rushed in. It blew around my face and brushed over my short hair and swirled around my knees.
It was fantastic.
Amazing.
Brilliant.
For the first time in days, I felt free.
WORDS ON THE WALL
I didn’t know where I was going. My feet just pedalled and my hands steered and my mind became blank. I forgot all about Papa dead and gone, and Mama lying in bed for days. I didn’t have room in my head to think about Ralf and Martin or about Oma and Opa keeping me in the house like a prisoner.
The people in the street were a blur as I whizzed by. Men and women who hardly paid any attention to me at all. Everyone just going about their business.
I zipped along the main road, and turned down a side street before racing through a maze of alleyways running along the back of some large houses. The cobbled lanes jiggered me up and down so much that it blurred my vision, but I kept on and on and on. Faster and faster.
Until I saw the writing on the wall.
It was right there, on the bricks at the end of the alley, staring me in the face.
ETERNAL WAR ON THE HITLER YOUTH
As soon as I saw it, I squeezed the brakes and came to a stop.
Written in white paint, each letter was at least as big as my hand. I had seen things written on walls before, but they were always about the Jews, never something like this. Perhaps it was Jews who had written this, as some kind of protest. I stared at those letters wondering what they really meant and who had written them, and the longer I stared, the more I felt as if they were saying something to me. I just didn’t know what it was.
When I closed my eyes, the large white letters seemed to be burnt onto the inside of my eyelids.
Eventually, I shook my head and pushed off once more, cycling right at the letters as if I were going to crash through them. I turned at the end of the alley, glad to leave them behind, but as I rode along the next lane, there were more letters painted on the wall beside me.
HITLER
I slowed down and read them as I passed.
IS
These letters were bigger.
KILLING
Written in the same white paint.
OUR
Shining as if they were still slightly wet.
FATHERS
My heart lurched at the message and then tightened at the sight of the symbol painted at the end of the slogan. As big as the letters, it clung to the wall like a giant full stop.
It was crude, not a very good painting, but I recognised the shape
.
It was the same as I had seen on Stefan’s jacket.
Once again, I squeezed my brakes and came to a standstill. I stared at the flower, realising that these words had probably not been written by Jews. If they had been, then the symbol would have been a Star of David, not a flower. The star was their emblem.
I tried to make sense of it. It had to mean something. It had to.
And my brother Stefan was connected to it in some way.
I leaned my bike against the kerb and stepped closer to the wall where I could smell the paint. I put out a hand and touched the centre of the flower. The paint was still tacky and when I pulled away, there were white spots on my fingertips. It was fresh; someone had just done this.
If I was quick enough, I might be able to see them.
I jumped back onto my bike and drove the pedals hard, leaving the letters behind. I didn’t care about the cobbles now, and I juddered and jerked, the bike wheels slipping on the smooth, uneven stones as I rushed to the end of the alley. I looked each way, deciding to go right, and then I was off again, searching, searching, searching.
Riding up and down the streets and lanes and alleys, I didn’t find whoever had painted the slogans. Instead, I found more flowers on the walls, more words telling me that Hitler was killing our fathers, and each time I saw them, I wondered why the Führer would want to kill our fathers. It didn’t make any sense.
I must have been cycling for half an hour, maybe more, looking for the vandals, hardly thinking of anything other than those words, when I found myself in front of the school.
It wasn’t as big as the school I went to in the city, but there were two large buildings with a good-sized yard and a wire fence surrounding the whole place. Where I was standing, there was a tall, thick pole with an air raid siren at the top of it like two upside-down dinner plates painted red. When the sirens went off, they made the most terrible racket, so I moved further along the fence, just in case.
The yard was filled with children. The boys on one side, all in Deutsches Jungvolk uniform and arranged into lines, the girls on the other side, wearing shorts and vests and doing their exercises.
