by Jack Murray
‘Such as?’ pressed Manfred.
Kahn smiled again, and said, ‘Well, there we come to the other thought. The government, and by that, I mean the National Socialists, may use this fire to implement some of the policies that they have been wanting to do for a while now. This may result in a curtailment of some civil liberties. I’m only speculating, you understand, but it is a possibility.’
Manfred thought for a moment. The implication of Herr Kahn’s statement was abundantly clear. He looked at the teacher and asked, ‘Do you think the National Socialists were responsible?’
The smile slowly faded from Kahn and he became very solemn, ‘I think it best, Herr Brehme, that such thoughts are left unsaid, even among friends. I think classes are starting soon. Go to your class, boys.’
Manfred and Erich watched him go and then looked at one another.
‘Pretty clear what the Jew thinks anyway,’ said Erich dismissively. Manfred laughed.
‘Yes, but we should do as he says, though. C’mon, let’s go.’
The two boys hurried off to class and no more mention was made of the fire from that day forward in the school.
No mention was made, either, when one of the teachers, Herr Fischer, a teacher known to have sympathies with the communist party, did not return to the school. A veil of silence descended on any discussion about politics. No mention was made of the disappearance that evening in the house as Manfred and his family ate in silence.
Around nine in the evening, Manfred went up to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and read for a while. Suddenly he heard a noise at his window. He looked towards it and then back down to his book. It came again. He rose from the bed and went over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he saw Erich down below, with some other boys. He opened the window.
‘What are you doing?’ he whispered loudly.
‘Come on.’ said Erich, motioning with his arm.
‘Where?’ replied Manfred, mystified. ‘It’s late.’
‘Come on, we’re having fun.’
‘I can’t. My father will kill me if I sneak outside,’ pointed out Manfred in a loud whisper.
‘Grow up,’ sneered Erich, about to turn away.
The gauntlet had been thrown down. Grow up. He’d just turned twelve. Such challenges could not go unanswered. Yet, he also feared his father. Obedience was everything in his family.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Manfred reluctantly. A few moments later, Manfred climbed out of the window and down to the front garden.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. This was the first time he’d ever done something so reckless. At the very least he wanted to know why he was putting himself at such great risk.
‘Let’s go. You’ll see,’ replied Erich. Manfred followed Erich and three other boys. All were from his school.
Ahead, Manfred could hear noise levels rising as they neared the centre of town. It seemed like a celebration. There was much shouting and laughter. He glanced at Erich, who merely smiled back without saying anything. At last they reached the source of the shouting. There were two dozen boys. Most were older than Manfred. They were all wearing brown shirts. All were chanting slogans in support of the Nazi government. Manfred, Erich and the other boys attached themselves to the main group. As they did so, Erich joined in with the chants.
Manfred was unsure of how to react. The atmosphere was celebratory. Everyone looked happy. All of the faces around him were young and their eyes were lit with a fire that Manfred found strange and oddly compelling. His own life felt so repressed. He envied the joy and lack of restraint in the other boys. It felt like a release.
These boys seemed to be having a life that he was excluded from. They were able to follow their passions. The mood was triumphant, and Manfred felt he wanted to be part of this. He didn’t want to be a spectator. Erich looked at his friend and saw the slow change come over him and then with a nod of encouragement, Manfred joined in the chant.
Nearby, another boy was wearing a khaki shirt and black shorts with a black tie which looked like a stain across his heart. He produced a tin of white paint and a brush. Then, brandishing it over his head, he shouted to the rest of the crowd. The others quietened but Manfred still struggled to hear what he was saying. It seemed he was urging them to follow him. The crowd was now no longer dozens of individuals. It was a single organism. It followed the boy to the tobacconist’s shop. The self-appointed leader dipped the brush into the paint and then brushed the door to the shop with a Star of David and the word ‘Jude’.
The crowd cheered and they followed him as he repeated the same message on the doors of a number of shops that were known to be owned by Jewish people. The chants returned, only this time they were directed at the Jewish people, ‘Deutschland erwache; Kommen die Juden’ (Germany awake; the Jews are coming!). Unlike before they were no longer random shouts among groups of boys. Now the chant beat a steady pulse. The screaming darkness was lit up by the torches the boys were holding. Demonic shadows danced on the walls of the shops in the square echoing to the abominable noise. Manfred, drunk with excitement, joined in.
They passed some houses and the leader of the mob went to one door and painted the same message. Manfred stopped chanting for a moment. Something was wrong. He looked at the house. It seemed familiar. He looked around to get his bearings. In the night and with the crowd of boys and the torches he had lost track of where he was. Then he saw a face at the upstairs window. It was a man and he was scanning the crowd. Recognition dawned on him. This was the house of Herr Kahn. Manfred turned away lest he be recognised. Now uncertainty gripped him.
Slipping away quietly, he picked his way back towards his house making sure to stay in the shadows. He saw the police coming towards the mob. He saw his dad. For the first time in his young life, Manfred saw something in his father’s eyes he’d never seen before.
Uncertainty.
Manfred’s upbringing had been no different from most of his friends’. He didn’t know if his father was strict or not. Infringing the rules laid down warranted disciplining that rarely took verbal form alone. All of the teachers, no less than the fathers, seemed to think and act as one in this regard. His father’s approach was governed by a certitude, emboldened by his position as head of police, that few of the fathers among his circle could match.
The fearlessness and the youth of the mob were unsettling. His father was looking around. There were only a couple of other policemen with him. They could not possibly halt what the Hitler Youth had set in motion. Unsure of what to do, Manfred watched in fascination. At last his father made a decision. He marched forward alone and sought out the ring leaders.
Hiding in a shop doorway, Manfred watched them pass and then he broke out from the shadows and sprinted home driven by fear, driven by excitement and something else.
Elation.
3
His father’s mood, always serious, was now more volatile. The uncertainty had been replaced by fear. There had been no repeat of the mob-like behaviour of the other night, but Manfred could see the change that was transforming both the town and his father. Each day, as Manfred returned home, the warm familiarity of the market Platz was replaced by a coldly threatening atmosphere. Young men dressed in brown shirts paraded around town.
Manfred longed to join them.
A few days later at school, Erich opened his bag and showed Manfred the contents. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘look what father has bought me.’
Manfred reached inside the bag and pulled out a brown shirt.
‘Your father gave you this?’
‘Yes,’ said Erich delightedly.
‘He doesn’t mind?’
‘No, he’s really happy that I want to join. He supports Hitler. Doesn’t everyone?’
Manfred was unsure how to answer this. His father certainly appeared to have little respect for Nazis but said nothing on the subject.
‘You seem surprised,’ pointed out Erich. Thankfully he did not push for an answer to his original
question.
‘My father,’ said Manfred by way of answer, accompanying it with a shrug. As he said this, Herr Kahn came into the classroom for their science lesson. Erich smiled and rolled his eyes. He understood. Manfred’s father was unlikely to be supportive of the Hitler Youth. They were competition. Manfred replaced the shirt in the bag. He was burning inside. Looking around the classroom he knew a few of the other boys had joined. It felt like he was an outsider. He didn’t want this. He wanted to be with his friends.
Herr Kahn began the lesson, but Manfred barely listened. His mind lay elsewhere. He wondered, at one point, if Kahn was aware that some of the boys. he was teaching, had daubed the front of his house with paint. He suspected yes. Manfred felt uncomfortable about this but also recalled the excitement he’d felt. The sense of release. The sense of power.
There was no doubt Herr Kahn was the best teacher in the school. This was Manfred’s view. He was certainly the most lenient. In the two years he had been in Herr Kahn’s class, Manfred could not recall a single incident where violence had been deployed to control the classroom. In fact, Manfred realised this made him almost unique within the school. Yet things had changed. He could see this on Kahn’s face. He sensed it in the classroom. It was there, almost palpable, brushing against his face, reaching inside the heads of the children. A reckless energy crackled in the air that was moments away from igniting. The least flammable substance in the classroom seemed to be the chemicals themselves.
It was clear both pupils and teacher were waiting for something. A moment when the changing balance of power could be made explicit. Kahn seemed to understand this. Each day the pressure built, unspoken but recognised.
At home, too, tension was mounting. Manfred’s mother was openly dismissive of the Hitler Youth, but this was based on a contempt she felt for all young people.
‘Well, they seem to have fired up the young people. It’s very distasteful,’ commented Renata Brehme.
His father was more circumspect about the movement but clearly uncomfortable.
‘Fires run their course,’ replied Peter Brehme sourly. He tried mockery, aware Manfred was listening. Manfred understood it was a message to him.
‘They think they’re little soldiers with their uniforms. They don’t know what war is.’ Nor do you for that matter, thought Manfred. Peter Bremhe had remained in the police during the War and avoided service.
Matters came to a head on Saturday evening.
-
Manfred was a member of the church scouts. His father had been in favour of his participation; his mother was, as ever, ambivalent. For Manfred, it represented a chance to be away from the house, to be with his friends during the evening.
As he arrived at the church hall, later than usual, he sensed something was different. It was quiet. When he opened the door, he could see why. Marius, the group leader was standing to one side, fear and shame etched deeply on his face. He was looking at three young men, all dressed in Hitler Youth uniform. Marius turned and walked away from the group towards the door Manfred had entered through.
He saw Manfred and said bitterly, ‘You can stay if you want to, that’s it for me. I’m having nothing to do with the Nazis.’
Manfred looked from Marius to the rest of the group. There were about twenty boys, all young teenagers. Some, like Erich, also wore Hitler Youth uniforms. They were all looking at him. Manfred looked at Marius and then back to the group. His heart was beating so loudly he wondered why it was not echoing in the hall.
He walked forward without looking back at Marius. All at once the group broke into a celebratory song "Vorwärts! Vorwärts!" Manfred didn’t know the song. He felt as if his feet were being carried on air. He bathed in the acclaim of his rejection of Marius, a young man in his early twenties who had run this group for the last three years. They all liked Marius.
Later that evening, Manfred returned home. The exhilaration of the last few hours was dissipating quickly as he wondered how he would tell his parents that he wanted to join the Hitler Youth. Each step closer to the house clipped away at his courage. His previous mood of elation was replaced by anxiety, then fear and a desire to keep it a secret. But, how could he? It was a small town. Soon everyone would know of what had happened to Marius. The poor fool.
The thought of Marius brought a stab of guilt. He had not led the coup d’etat, but his final denial of the young man had sealed his fate as surely as Nero turning his thumb downward or Peter denying Jesus. What, two hours ago, had been a moment of triumph became his shame. Manfred knew Marius deserved better.
As he thought this, he grew angry. Angry at Marius. Why hadn’t the fool joined them? Couldn’t he see what was happening? The Hitler Youth offered so much more than the scouts. The scouts were for children. How could they be prepared for the responsibilities of manhood, of rebuilding their shattered nation by talking about God and how to help your parents in the house? What use was that? Now his mood had changed. His exasperation towards Marius had changed his sloping walk into a stride and his back straightened as he thought about how Marius had slunk out of the church hall. This would not be his fate. He arrived at the door of his house.
He walked into the house. His mother ignored him, and his father was in the study. Leni, the housemaid smiled at him, but he ignored her and thought about going straight up to his room without saying goodnight. For a moment he was undecided; then he decided to go to his mother.
‘Yes?’ asked his mother looking up from her book.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and said ‘Goodnight.’ Then he walked along the corridor to his father’s study. His heart was now beating fast and he felt his throat constrict.
Two quick knocks on the door were greeted with a curt ‘Enter.’ Manfred did so and found himself in front of his father who was sat behind his desk.
‘Yes?’ asked his father.
‘I’ve come to say goodnight,’
His father glanced at his pocket watch and looked back to his son and said, ‘A little early, isn’t it?’ Manfred remained impassive. His father had not reached a position as head of police without some understanding of when someone is holding something back. ‘Is something wrong, my child?’ he asked, sympathetically.
‘The Hitler Youth have taken over the scouts.’
This seemed to trouble his father and he sat back in his chair. After a few moments he said, ‘Marius is now with the Hitler Youth? I’m surprised.’
‘Not Marius. He left tonight.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed his father. Now he sat forward and looked at his son. ‘Are the rest of the boys happy about this?’
‘Yes, Father.’
His father nodded slowly. It was immediately apparent what had happened. What was happening. He looked his son in the eye and asked, ‘Are you happy about this, my child?’
‘Yes, Father. I want to join the Hitler Youth.’
His father slammed the palm of his hand down on the desk and roared, ‘Never.’
4
The next week was governed by silences and looks of recrimination between
Manfred and his parents. This would have been uncomfortable for Manfred had it not, in his opinion, represented the usual state of affairs. It was almost funny. Each night at the dinner table had been characterised by staged conversations between Peter and Renata on the ridiculousness of the Hitler Youth. Manfred grew bored very quickly but remained silent.
He had a plan.
The toppling of Marius would have been the major topic of conversation in the classroom had not one other even more shocking event taken place. It happened midway through the week during a chemistry lesson.
From the beginning of the class, it was apparent to Manfred and his friends when they chatted afterwards, that there had been an atmosphere in the room. Professor Kahn was particularly ill at ease. Of late, though, he always seemed so. Erich claimed that he saw the looks between Diana Landau and the professor. He said he thought the two of them were ‘having it off’ w
hich was a cue for much ribaldry that made Manfred burn inside, but he smiled along anyway.
Midway through the class, there was a knock at the door. Professor Kahn went to answer it. Manfred looked on as he seemed to be having a conversation with someone outside. Although he couldn’t see, he was told afterwards it was Diana Landau’s mother. When Kahn returned, he asked Diana to collect her books. Moments later Diana Landau floated out of the classroom.
Manfred never saw her again.
The incident provoked a lot more comment the next day when it was clear that Diana was not going to return. Klaus Steicher, Manfred’s classmate, provided the confirmation.
‘She’s gone; the whole family’s flown. The house is empty,’ said Klaus. He added to this, ‘Pity.’ The smile on his face required little interpretation.
At the weekend, the silences had been replaced by lectures from his father on duty and obedience to family. They came randomly. Anything that Manfred did was used as an opportunity for Peter Brehme to extract a meaning that Manfred found scarcely credible, and even pathetic. In the space of a week, his view of his father had transformed from one of fear mixed with love to one of contempt mixed with pity. In a moment of shock, he realised he felt more derision for his father than love.
Even his mother seemed to weary of the lectures and there was also a tension between her and Peter. But then there always had been. Manfred often wondered if his parents had ever loved one another or was the match borne and preserved out of a sense of duty.
‘Peter, you’re over reacting,’ said Renata on the fateful Saturday morning. ‘It seems harmless to me. Just boys dressing up in uniforms and singing ridiculous songs.’
Manfred’s father looked at his wife, the rage building up in him. But rage with his wife was pointless. She was as indifferent towards him as she was towards her son. This was her power and his impotence. In the end he shook his head and stalked off to his study saying, ‘He will not be going to the meeting tonight.’
