by Lee Strauss
In April, Emil’s Hitler Youth unit started Flak training. Emil would learn how to shoot planes out of the sky. Actual planes with real pilots flying them. Rolf, Friedrich, Otto, Hans, Wolfgang, Moritz, Johann and Emil were all there with Heinz, of course, at the helm. It felt weird not having Katharina around, Emil thought. She was with her girls’ league unit, and she hated it. If there was one thing Emil agreed with National Socialism about, though, that was the policy that women should not bear arms. Though Katharina was one of the boys, sort of, she was still a girl. A part of Emil wanted to protect her.
This was a special training event and another unit from across town joined in, their leader demonstrating zeal to match that of Heinz’s.
And for the first time, they met SS Officer Heimlich.
He wore a sharp-looking gray Waffen-SS uniform with a row of medals and ribbons pinned neatly above the right pocket and a Tank Destroyer badge stitched on his upper right arm. This meant he had destroyed at least one enemy tank using a hand held explosive.
Even Heinz seemed intimidated.
SS Officer Heimlich introduced the light Flak and medium Flak gun models. While a medium Flak took a large team to operate, a light Flak could be run by one person.
“This light Flak is equipped with a 12.7mm anti aircraft machine gun and 20mm towed cannons,” he explained. He pointed to Heinz who proceeded to position himself in the seat that was low to the ground, his long legs reaching out in front of him. His left hand held on to a handle while his right hand rested on a grip attached to what looked like a large gear. A narrow cannon shaft, taller than a man, pointed to the sky.
“These guns are light,” SS Officer Heimlich said, each word clipped and accentuated. “And can be set up quickly. They are fast firing and quite effective against aircraft flying at low altitudes.
A capable Flak fighter will provide necessary protection for railroads, bridges, towns and coast-lines,” he said, his mouth forming a grim line.
“Since Passau is a city where three rivers join and it has many bridges, this will be very important for us.”
He peered at the boys seriously, “Now, it’s your turn.” He nodded at Heinz, who pointed to Rolf.
Rolf walked stiff and tall to the Flak gun and positioned himself in the manner demonstrated by Heinz. In fact, Emil thought, Rolf was looking more like his brother all the time: taller, stronger, and more arrogant.
SS Officer Heimlich instructed him on where to put his hands and how to shoot. Emil jerked back with surprise when a cannon shot into the air and exploded!
Rolf’s stunned face expressed the worry they all felt. Was Rolf in trouble?
SS Officer Heimlich’s stern face cracked slightly, a grin.
“Well, done,” he said. “Next.”
One by one they took turns, shooting Flak gun arsenal into the sky.
Emil watched nervously as Johann turned the handle, his strong arm bulging with the effort. Then Moritz. His eyes followed the orange streak that seemed to go on forever, but didn’t look too impressed with his success.
By the time Friedrich’s turn came, he was like a bulldog just let loose from his pen.
“Down with you, you dirty Allied dogs!” he yelled. SS Officer Heimlich seemed particularly pleased.
When it was his turn, Emil stepped up with feigned confidence, settling into the seat like the boys had before him. It was heavier than the others had made it appear. The cannon nose pointed straight up and Emil moved its weight toward an imaginary enemy. He turned the crank with his right hand and pushed the button to release fire.
Energy burst into the sky and back through his body. One day they would want him to shoot an Ally out of the sky. Could he do it? While he didn’t believe in this war, would he fight anyway? How could he not? Emil felt an uncomfortable lump build in his throat.
SS Officer Heimlich nodded his approval and called for the next boy. Emil returned to his place in line.
They couldn’t end the day without a public display of unified pride and importance. Both Hitler youth units marched through downtown Passau in unison, goose-stepping in perfect-metered time, right arms stretched forward, straight and stiff. The crowds stopped to watch and admire. “Heil Hitler,” they shouted. “Heil Hitler,” the boys cheered in return.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE ARMY in Passau had set up several Flak stations on the outskirts of town, near the rivers. Emil couldn’t believe it when Heinz directed him to man one with Friedrich. Eight hours alone with Friedrich and his ego would make him crazy for sure.
“We’re immensely lucky to be alive and of age to fight in the German army,” Friedrich said to him while puffing on a cigarette. “We may not yet be soldiers, but damn, we could quite possibly shoot an airplane out of the sky. Imagine that!”
Ever since their time on the playground, Emil knew that Friedrich loved to hit things. Or throw things. As long as the object broke something or was broken itself, or in some way injured a bystander, Friedrich was happy. His mother gave him trouble for breaking his toys or beating up kids in the playground. It got to the point where their arrival at the children’s park caused a mass evacuation, Emil and his mother included. You could see the humiliation on Friedrich’s mother’s face but Friedrich had thought it was funny.
Operating flack must seem like the best of both worlds to him, Emil thought. Throwing cannons and hitting the Allies.
“I wish I was manning a Flak in Berlin,” Friedrich said, after a seriously long moment of awkward silence. “Then I’d see some action!”
Emil raised his eyebrows, and Friedrich took it as encouragement to keep going.
“Imagine shooting down a dirty RAF dog?” He pointed the nose of the Flak at an imaginary plane and made rat-at-tat noises with his mouth.
“No one’s ever going to come to Passau,” Emil said, stifling a yawn. “We are in the dullest part of Germany.”
“You are right there, Kamerad.” Friedrich paced in a small circle. He fished out another cigarette from his pack, and lit up. It was his seventh this shift and they’d only been there for two hours so far. No wonder Friedrich was so jumpy. “Soon we’ll be called to fight, then the fun will begin.”
“Why are you so anxious to fight?” Emil said. “You got a death wish?”
“I want to fight, Emil, because I love my country.” Friedrich said this like he was addressing a child. “The Fuehrer has a dream for a great and glorious nation, free from vermin. Pure and strong. It’s my dream, too. And if you want something bad enough, you must be a man and fight for it.”
Emil stirred in his seat but didn’t respond.
After a while, Emil said, “Aren’t you hungry, Friedrich?” Because of the war? Is this the promise of greatness?
“Of course I am. Why do you think I smoke so much? Helps to dull the pain in my gut, takes my mind off the here and now, so I can focus on the greatness to come. You should try it, Emil. You want one?”
It was tempting. Emil’s gut hurt, but he imagined himself taking a drag and then collapsing to the floor in a fit of coughing. Friedrich would love that and tell everyone. With embellishments.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Emil said.
“Fine by me,” Friedrich slipped the pack back into his pocket.
Emil tried to think about other things besides his hunger to pass the time and to block Friedrich out. What was there besides the war? There was their secret mission. And the fact that his father was in Berlin and they hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Not much to ponder that didn’t create a vice grip of anxiety in his chest.
Except Katharina. He thought of her a lot. She didn’t know it, but they often passed the time together.
When Emil’s shift ended at dusk and he could finally escape Friedrich and his ego, he rode his bicycle to the bus stop to meet Mother when she finished work. The streetlights were turned off due to the black out and Emil didn’t want her walking home alone in the dark.
“Hello, son,” she said after disembark
ing. Her shoulders were slumped and she sighed with fatigue. Emil pushed his bike alongside her slow strides in silence. All the things they never talked about—like Father in Berlin and if he was still alive, and how thin and weak they all were, especially Helmut who didn’t seem to be growing—hung in the air between them.
He was waiting for them when they arrived home. Mother gave him a hug and told him to be careful and then, with heavy steps she went upstairs.
Helmut turned on the small flashlight in his hand. Emil handed over his bike, as Helmut didn’t have one, so he could perform his duty to the Fatherland. His job was to ensure the blackout order was fulfilled and report any violators.
Emil’s bike was too big for him, so he stood while riding, pushing ahead in the dark. Such a brave little boy, Emil thought.
It was Emil’s observation that bad things happened in clumps. A string of mundane events—school, Hitler Youth, church, Flak duty—would be followed by the catastrophic. Just enough monotony to lull them into a slumber, to cause some of them to drop their guard.
This time it was Herr Schwarz. Early one morning Emil awoke to the pounding of fists on their neighbor’s door. He peeked out his window and yelped. The Gestapo.
“Mother!” Emil shouted while running down the steps to get a better view out of the kitchen window.
“Emil! What is it?”
“There’s trouble at the Schwarzes!”
They knocked their heads together vying to get a good look. No way would they actually step out doors; that would only lead to more arrests, and going to jail was not on Emil’s list of things to do.
Frau Schwarz was frantic, crying, grabbing onto her husband’s shirt, an action that was sharply reprimanded with the swat of a bat. Frau Schwarz whimpered in pain, holding onto her wrist as she watched them take Herr Schwarz away.
Every window on the street had the curtains pulled to one side with curious faces peering out. Frau Schwarz ran back inside.
“I’m going to her,” Mother said. She pulled her housecoat together and slipped out the back door.
Later she told Emil the story: Herr Schwarz had made a joke. Of course, he was the type of person who liked to laugh, and thought laughter was a good medicine for troubled hearts. He said something unflattering about the Fuehrer to a co-worker, who promptly reported him.
“Margarite told him to lie,” Mother said. “There were no witnesses to the conversation. Herr Schwarz didn’t say he would do it though. Margarite’s not sure that he’ll deny the truth to save himself.”
Mother had always told Emil and Helmut that lying was a sin. But what the Gestapo was doing was a bigger sin. Herr Schwarz didn’t deserve to go to jail for this. What would happen to Frau Schwarz and Karl now?
Emil didn’t know if Herr Schwarz had lied or not, but they didn’t send him to jail, they sent him to France. Not to work at an office job like Father. Herr Schwarz was sent to the front lines.
All of Germany’s efforts were turned to fighting the war. Because of this, Emil’s days at glider camp came to a sudden and abrupt end. He almost cried. He didn’t get his turn to fly.
Even the carefully controlled German press couldn’t minimize this event. Two days later, the Allies bombed Essen. Johann, Moritz, Emil and Katharina talked of nothing else, and when George Orwell, with his deep rugged newscaster voice, addressed the citizens of Britain on the BBC, which was followed by a German translation, Moritz, Johann, Katharina and Emil were listening.
“On two days of this week, two air raids, far greater in scale than anything yet seen in the history of the world, have been made on Germany. On the night of the 30th of May over a thousand planes raided Cologne …”
“Oh, my dear God,” said Katharina.
“…during the autumn and winter of 1940, Britain suffered a long series of raids which at that time were quite unprecedented. Tremendous havoc was worked on London, Coventry, Bristol and various other English cities.”
“I knew we were going to pay for that,” Moritz whispered.
“The big bombers now being used by the Royal Air Force carry a far heavier load of bombs than anything that could be managed two years ago. In sum, the amount of bombs dropped on either Cologne or Essen would be three times as much as the Germans ever dropped in any one of their heaviest raids on Britain.”
“Wow,” Emil said, stunned. Like everyone in Germany, they had seen the propaganda photos of the damage done to London after the Blitz. Emil couldn’t imagine what Cologne must look like now.
Orwell continued, “… It should be noted that these thousand-plane raids were carried out solely by the RAF with planes manufactured in Britain. Later in the year, when the American air force begins to lend a hand, it is believed that it will be possible to carry out raids with as many as 2,000 planes at a time. One German city after another will be attacked in this manner.”
“City after city?” Emil said. “Is that possible?”
Moritz, Johann and Katharina’s wide eyed shock reflected the same fear as he had. The broadcast ended and a thick silence filled the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ON October 27, 1942, Helmuth Huebener, the young Nazi resister from Hamburg, was executed. Moritz, Johann, Katharina and Emil were in the loft passing around another newspaper Emil had absconded.
“They chopped off his head!” Katharina said.
“I can’t believe it,” said Johann. “Prison yes, but death?”
“They’re only kids,” added Katharina, “not much older than us.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” Emil said. “You know, for a while.”’
“No!” Moritz was adamant. “Now is the time to go harder, not slow down.” He paced the loft almost bumping his head on the slanted ceiling. “Don’t you see? People are listening. They may pretend not to agree, but the more people talk about it, the more likely they will see the truth!”
Emil sat across the loft from Katharina. He couldn’t stand the thought of anything bad happening to her. “I hear what you’re saying, but do we really want to risk prison?” Or worse? “I’ve heard stories. Prison isn’t a playground.”
“I’m not afraid of prison, or death,” stated Moritz calmly. “All great revolutionists faced the danger of death. People deserve to know the truth.”
They were quiet for a while.
“Look,” said Moritz, “if any of you want to walk, you’re free to walk. But I’m still in.”
“I’m in,” said Katharina. That sealed if for Johann and Emil. No way they’d let her take this on without them.
“So am I.”
“Me, too.”
On his way home from school one day, Emil pulled the mail out of the box. In it was a folded piece of paper with a small rose sketched in the corner.
He began to read it, then stopped, folded it and slipped it into his pocket. With a brief scan of its contents he knew he had to read it in the privacy of his own bedroom.
Then Emil ran to see Moritz.
“What’s the matter?” Moritz could see excitement on Emil’s face. He silenced him with a look and directed him to the shed behind his house. It was imperative that no one heard what Emil had to tell him.
“Look at this,” Emil said. “It was in my mailbox. From a group that call themselves The White Rose.”
He read aloud: A call to all Germans!
The war is approaching its destined end. As in the year 1918, the German government is trying to focus attention exclusively on the growing threat of submarine warfare, while in the East (Russia) the armies are constantly in retreat and invasion is imminent in the West. Mobilization in the United States has not yet reached its climax, but already it exceeds anything that the world has ever seen. It has become a mathematical certainty that Hitler is leading the German people into the abyss. Hitler cannot win the war; he can only prolong it. The guilt of Hitler and his minions goes beyond all measure. Retribution comes closer and closer.
Moritz grabbed the paper from Emil’s hand. “This
was in your mailbox?”
“Yes.”
Emil watched Moritz’s face, knowing what he was reading: But what are the German people doing? They will not see and will not listen. Blindly they follow their seducers into ruin. Victory at any price! is inscribed on their banner. “I will fight to the last man,” says Hitler – but in the meantime the war has already been lost.
“Wow,” Moritz said.
“Do you think they know about us? Do you think this is a trap?” Suddenly Emil was suspicious of every crackling twig and stirring of the wind. He looked around nervously, certain he had been followed.
“No, I don’t think it’s a trap. I think it’s a coincidence. Someone else is randomly distributing flyers, and happened to choose your house.
“This is great, Emil!” Moritz did a little jig. “I love it. We aren’t alone. The White Rose. What a great name. We should give ourselves a name.”
“This flyer wasn’t handwritten, or even typed with carbon copies,” Emil said. “It’s duplicated. Someone has a duplicating machine.”
“In Passau?”
“Doesn’t seem likely. A bigger center, like Nuremberg or Munich.”
It didn’t matter. They just felt great that they were part of something bigger.
“We need to go out again tonight. I have flyers written from last night’s broadcast.”
“Maybe we should wait,” Emil said. “The Gestapo will be on alert.”
“But my flyer will support the message of The White Rose group. We need to blitz the town with truth. Maybe something will sink in.”
“I suppose,” Emil said, still unconvinced.
The four of them met in the loft, the seriousness of their mission evident in their stern expressions. They scribbled copies of the broadcast notes until their fingers cramped up. They had ten copies each, the most they’d ever written and distributed before.
They decided to split up, each covering a different section of town, and would meet in the park at St. Stephen’s Cathedral when they finished.
A terrible foreboding brewed in Emil’s gut, and he feared another onslaught of the trots. He slipped into an apartment block and dropped off six flyers. He considered leaving them all—that would be easiest, but it was also the most cowardly way. Their message needed to spread throughout the city.
