by Lee Strauss
On Sunday afternoon a knock on the door interrupted Emil’s parents’ coffee time. Father and Mother exchanged nervous glances as Mother moved to answer the door. She couldn’t restrain her surprise when she saw her brother on the other side. Onkel Rudi was a pilot in the Luftwaffe, which automatically made him Emil’s hero.
“Rudolf?”
Onkel Rudi and Mother exchanged awkward hugs. Father rose to greet him and offered a stiff handshake.
“Leni,” he said to Mother. “You look terrific.”
“Thank you. You look very good yourself.”
Onkel Rudi was a tall man and wore a crisp, white shirt under a bluish, gray tunic with a row of smooth, aluminum buttons down the center. On his head was a sharp-looking, peaked cap with the nation’s emblem embroidered on it: an eagle with wings spread wide, a white swastika in its claws.
Emil and Helmut stood with mouths wide, enamored.
Onkel Rudi studied them, too, lips pulled tight in a straight line. He saw Helmut, a scrawny, young boy with his hair greased over to one side and Emil, a lanky, twelve-year-old youth.
Then he smiled and extended his hand. Emil knew then and there that Onkel Rudi was everything he wanted to be someday.
“Please, come join us.” Mother motioned to Emil, “Go get another chair.”
“I’m sorry to intrude.”
“We’re delighted to have you here, Mother said with forced cheerfulness. “Could I pour you a cup of coffee?”
“I would like that.”
“I’m sorry that we don’t have any cake today.”
“Coffee is fine.”
Cake was traditionally served with coffee on Sundays, but that had ended when the war began. Emil missed his mother’s chocolate torte the most.
Polite conversation ensued, and it wasn’t hard for Emil to tell that his parents and his Onkel viewed the world from opposing sides. Onkel Rudi was an adventurer, a world traveler. Emil couldn’t recall Father ever saying he’d been outside of Germany.
“So, Peter,” Onkel Rudi said, “have you joined the party?”
That explained the unannounced visit. His Onkel Rudi wanted his parents to join the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. Joining would make their Nazi status official.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Peter…”
Father cleared his voice, cutting Onkel Rudi off. “Not yet.”
“Well, you should do it soon. I know you’d hate to be in a position where you couldn’t take care,” he looked at Emil and Helmut, “of your family.”
“Rudi,” Mother said, her eyes imploring. Emil knew she didn’t want to talk about this in front of him and his younger brother.
“I’m sorry, Leni. I just wanted to remind you of the importance of becoming members, before it’s too late. I trust you’ve just been busy.”
Onkel Rudi then launched into an articulate and affectionate description of the first-line military aircraft he flew, the Junkers Ju 87 dive-bomber, the Heinkel He 111 twin-engine bomber, the Messerschmitt Bf 109 single–engine fighter and the Bf 110 twin-engine fighter.
But when he brought up the fight in Poland, Emil knew there would be trouble.
“With the Me 109 fighters, we swept the pathetic Polish air force from the sky, like little bugs,” Onkel Rudi boasted. Emil’s parents were mute.
Onkel Rudi continued, “I flew the Ju 87 B, a deadly dive bomber,” he spread his fingers out to mimic a plane and pulled his hand through the air. “Rat-tat-tat-tat! We destroyed their military bases. What a thrill to see Warsaw burn!”
Helmut’s eyes were wide, and Emil could feel that his were round with wonderment, too.
“Rudolf! That’s enough,” Mother scolded.
“What? These are exciting times, Leni. Your kids will watch Hitler make Germany great again!”
To Emil’s dismay, Father excused him and Helmut from the room.
“But Father,” Emil protested.
“Do as you’re told.”
They climbed the stairs, just out of sight.
Father’s voice drifted up. “How are we going to Germanize Poland, as you say? Less than ten percent of the people there are Germans.”
“I admit, it is a formidable task,” Onkel Rudi said, “but over time, the Poles will be moved out and replaced with proper Germans.”
“Where are we going to find these Germans? We’re suffering a shortage with the land we already possess. And what on earth are we going to do with four million Poles?”
“There are plans.”
Silence.
Mother’s voice didn’t carry like Onkel Rudi’s, but Emil could tell she was upset.
Then Onkel Rudi said, “Did God provide jobs for the German people? No, the Fuehrer did. Will God make the Fatherland a great nation? No, but the Fuehrer will.”
Mother wouldn’t like that, Emil thought. She spoke softly; he couldn’t make out what she said.
Again, Onkel Rudi spoke, “Leni, those were fine beliefs for when we were children, but now we must let childish things pass.”
Father spoke. “I’m sorry that we must disagree.”
“As am I.”
Chair legs scratched the floor. Onkel Rudi’s voice. “It’s time for me to go.”
Footsteps to the front door.
“It was good to see you again, Leni. And you as well, Peter. Thanks for the coffee. Heil Hitler.”
Emil and Helmut moved quickly and quietly to their rooms. Emil wondered if Onkel Rudi would ever visit them again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“EMIL!”
Emil could tell by his mother’s tone that was about to put him to work.
“I’m busy, mother,” he called back.” He quickly changed into his Deutsches Jungvolk uniform and before his mother could challenge him again, he hopped on his bike pointing it in the direction of Johann’s farm.
He dodged the potholes along the way; an early morning spring rain had filled them with brown, soupy water and he fought the urge to ride through, imagining the wide, murky wakes that were sure to soak his trousers. It was fine to leave a Deutsches Jungvolk meeting covered in mud, but a serious offense to show up that way.
The driveway to the Ackermann farm was long and narrow. The cinderblock house was small for five people, and there used to be six. Grandfather Ackermann died of heart failure on January 30, 1933, the same day Adolf Hitler was named Chancellor of Germany. Johann was positive the two events were linked.
Emil thought that was ridiculous. Hitler as Chancellor was the best thing that had happened to Germany.
Wasn’t it?
He knocked on the front door and Johann’s mother answered.
“Hello, Frau Ackermann. Is Johann here?”
“Yes. He is practicing violin with his father.” Emil could hear the sweet sounds of strings perfectly tuned coming from the far room.
“Just wait, I’ll get him.”
The music stopped abruptly, and soon afterwards, Johann lumbered out.
“Hey, Johann.”
“Emil, what’re you doing here?”
“I had some extra time, thought I’d go with you to pick up Moritz.”
“Okay.”
Johann slipped into his jacket and walked along side Emil.
“Sorry, to interrupt your practice.” Emil said. “You and your father are very talented. You don’t know what torment I go through when Helmut pounds the piano.”
“We have to learn new songs now, because of,” he made a face, “the Jewish problem. How can anyone who wrote The Three Penny Opera be culturally deficient? It’s all a load of manure.”
“Johann!” In his mind Emil saw Herr Jäger jumping out of the bushes, pushing his spectacles up his shiny little nose yelling Aha!, then grabbing the both of them by the ears and dragging them to the Gestapo.
Johann just lifted his shoulders, apparently not bothered by the same nightmares.
Johann’s sister was hanging wet laundry on the line; white sheets attacked
her, and then scooped up with the breeze like sails. When they floated back down, the descending sun cast her in silhouette, like a shadow puppet.
“Emil?” Johann snapped his fingers. “Why are you staring at my sister?”
“I- I’m not,” Emil stammered. A red flush crept up his neck unbidden.
“You better not. Anyway, Katharina’s too old for you.”
“Only one year.”
“Shut up!”
Idiot. Emil wanted to punch him. Anyway, his sister looked like a boy.
Emil pushed his bike as he walked. One of Johann’s bike wheels had popped, and the Ackermann’s didn’t have the money to fix it. When the boys got to Moritz’s house they knocked on the door. Moritz answered it, still dressed in his school clothes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Thought we’d walk together to Deutsches Jungvolk,” Emil said. “Where’s your uniform?”
“I’m not going.”
“What?”
“I’m not going. It’s no fun for me. I’m sick of getting picked on.”
“But you have to go,” Emil insisted. “They’ll fine your family if you don’t.”
“Then I’ll pay for the fine. I’m not going.”
Johann was concerned, too. “Heinz is going to tell us all about the summer camp.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to summer camp either.”
He closed the door and left his friends standing on the porch, dumbfounded.
Once out of earshot Emil said to Johann, “He may not go to Deutsches Jungvolk today, but you can bet your last Reichsmark that he will be going to summer camp.”
“Klar,” Johann said, nodding.
They left for summer camp in mid-June. Actually, they found out later that it wasn’t just summer camp, it was summer labor service camp. A title like that would send chills down the strongest spine, and Emil looked ahead to the next three weeks with a measure of foreboding.
Which was stupid. They’d be fine.
He said goodbye to his family and stoically shook Helmut’s hand, thankful that it was he, and not his brother, who was being sent away.
Father gave Emil’s hand a firm shake, his jaw clenched with emotion. “Be safe, son.”
Mother didn’t bother to restrain her emotion. Tears ran down her cheeks and she squeezed Emil tightly.
“I’ll be home in three weeks, Mother. I won’t be gone forever.”
“I know. Just be careful, and come back to us in one piece.”
Moritz and Johann were standing with the Deutsches Jungvolk unit at the train station when Emil arrived. They did indeed look like a group of young boys prepared for summer camp. They wore brown summer uniform shirts, black shorts and hiking boots. Each had a pack with their personal belongings on his back. There were smiles and laughter and pats on the back; Emil would have thought they faced a summer of swimming, games and camp songs. If he hadn’t known better.
“I’ve never been on a train before,” mumbled Moritz. Johann and Emil nodded, they hadn’t either. Most of the boys had never been out of Passau before, especially not without their parents. The seats were hot where the sun beat on them and they burnt the back of Emil’s bare legs. Though none of the boys was smoking, the smell of tobacco hadn’t disembarked with the last group of travelers.
The stress induced chatter died away and Emil watched the town of Passau slip out of sight; the chug and rumble of the train vibrated the metal trim against his calves and he shifted to get comfortable.
Heinz made an effort to rally everyone, insisting that they all sing. Rah, rah, rah for Germany.
It was a less than stellar effort but it worked to pass the time. Soon they arrived at a station in the mountains; Heinz indicated that this was their stop.
But it wasn’t the end of the journey. Five Krupp army trucks with canopy-covered decks were parked on the side of the road.
“Everyone, get into the back of a truck!” Heinz yelled.
Emil climbed vying for a seat near the opening at the back; he needed air. His guts churned and he felt a shimmer of moisture form on his hot forehead. Summer heat, or nerves, Emil wasn’t certain. The engine roared to life and the driver shifted into gear. A wake of dust frittered across the pavement.
Moritz and Johann didn’t look so good, either, Emil thought. Dark patches formed under their arms, and Johann’s fists were tight, his knuckles stretched white. The mountainous roads twisted and turned, and Emil’s stomach with it. This must be what is meant by travel sickness, Emil thought. His stomach hurt and the blood drained from his face. He hoped he didn’t barf out the back.
“Are you sick, Emil?” Johann leaned over.
“It’s just the ride. I’ll be fine once we get there.”
Johann nodded and held his stomach tighter, too.
Finally, they turned down a gravel road and the truck tires kicked dust in their eyes. Emil rubbed them clean and when he looked up, he saw the sign.
WE ARE BORN TO DIE FOR GERMANY.
They had arrived.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY HERDED everyone like cattle into a rectangular stone hall. The Passau youth were not alone—Hitler Youth and Deutsches Jungvolk groups from all over Bavaria were gathered together. Emil pushed in a little closer to Johann and Moritz.
They sat on long benches situated on either side of equally long tables. The scent from the kitchen wafted into the place, sausages and fried potatoes Emil guessed, but it didn’t trigger his usual appetite. The motion sickness lingered and he felt bile creep up his throat. What he wouldn’t give to stretch out on one of these benches and groan freely.
Officer Vogel, who was in his early twenties and as expected, tall, blond and fit, was the camp leader and called them to attention. He was quick to get to the point.
“You will learn to love the virtues of being a good soldier,” he said. “You will esteem to the highest level of cleanliness, tidiness, teamwork and obedience. These requirements are non-negotiable and anyone not complying will be punished.”
Emil observed two types of boys: those with an eager glint in their eyes, an excited blush of red in their cheeks who had difficulty sitting still; and those with stiff expressions, mouths twitching with apprehension who, though they may really want to serve the Fatherland, were already beginning to miss their mothers.
There were three brothers sitting across from Emil who belonged in the first group. Emil guessed them to be twelve, fourteen and sixteen, all with dirty, blond mops of hair and gray eyes that sparkled. Emil realized with a shock that he belonged to the second group. All he wanted right now was for his mother to tuck him into bed and bring him a warm bowl of chicken soup.
“Each week has a motto,” Officer Vogel continued. Week one: We fight! Week two: We sacrifice! Week three: We triumph!
The hall erupted with choruses of “Heil Hitler!” and type one shouted the loudest.
Then Emil saw Moritz and Johann’s grim expressions and realized that there was a third type. A small group of two that wasn’t buying any of this at all.
After they ate, Officer Vogel took everyone on a tour. He showed them the playing field for sports and the rifle range and Emil thought that maybe summer camp wouldn’t be so bad. Then he showed them a shed full of shovels and pointed to a field of hard dirt and rocks. “Here you will learn to dig trenches and fox holes,” he said and Emil changed his mind.
Last he directed the youth to the lavatory and their sleep cabins. The room was sparse with only wall-to-wall bunks with perfectly made beds. It smelled like disinfectant. He left them to claim their own beds and Emil quickly chose his, wasting no time to get flat on his back, a mouse-like moan escaping his lips.
“It’s only three weeks,” Moritz mumbled, taking the bed next to him.
Johann climbed up on top of Moritiz’s bunk. “I didn’t see a beach,” he said.
“Or girls,” Emil added. “Some vacation.”
It was a joke, but no one smiled.
&nb
sp; The light-haired brothers were among them. Tobias, Jörg and Marcus Schindel. Turned out Tobias was their cabin leader. Great, Emil thought sarcastically.
“Young soldiers,” he called out. “We are required to do ten laps around the sports field before Abendbrot. We are to meet Officer Vogel in precisely five minutes.”
At least Emil was feeling better and the mention of the evening meal to come made his stomach growl. Ten laps wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t like they weren’t used to it.
They were in bed by 20:00. Not so early when you knew the wakeup call came just after dawn. Emil laid on his back in the dark in the mandatory silence. He had never been away from home before and surprised himself with sentimental thoughts of his family. His throat felt tight, and he worried about the moisture that formed around his eyes. He wished he were tough and zealous like the brothers Schindel. Sometimes he even envied the unwavering devotion of Friedrich and Wolfgang, if only they weren’t such idiots.
Emil could hear Jörg in the bunk above him, snoring; not a worry or longing to keep him awake. He let out a long sigh and waited for sleep to come.
The horn blew at 05:00. Emil and the rest of the boys had half an hour to wash up and make their beds. At 06:00, they carried their mess tins, mugs and cutlery to breakfast. After breakfast, they cleaned up again, and then they went on a morning hike followed by some kind of sport.
Just like on all their hikes with Heinz, Emil hung back with Moritz and Johann for the first while, all of them knowing that he and Johann would break away at some point and leave Moritz with the slower movers at the back.
Friedrich always started off easy so he could show them all how fast he could sprint. Even with a slow start he would make it to the finish in the lead. He liked to slap everyone from his own unit on the head as he passed by. Inevitably, he’d get Emil, Moritz, and Johann, three in a row. Slap, slap, slap.
“Hey!” Johann said.
“Dummkopfs!” He called them dumb heads.
“He’s such an idiot,” said Moritz.
“I’d like to give him a taste of his own medicine,” said Johann, rubbing the burn from the back of his head.
