Manfred explained his dislike of dirty Army work and his aim of some higher task, preferably in a dry office, and possibly with some important decisions to take. He was ready for a challenge.
“Well, young man, I must say I like your attitude. Are you a member?”
“I want to apply today,” Manfred answered, the memory of his promise to his father stowed away in the deepest recesses of his conscience.
“Good. That’s a beginning. But I’m afraid it won’t be so easy. Can you come for a more detailed interview on Friday?”
“Of course, Herr Keppler.”
“I’m warning you. The interview won’t be so easy. The interviewers will want to know a lot of things about you. But if you pass the interview, I will investigate what we can find for you. It’s for your father’s sake. Mind you! Do not disappoint us.” With these words he stood up, came round his big desk and led him to the door.
Back in the street, Manfred felt proud. He had taken the first step in his own career. Even though his father had given him his first entry ticket, he would now take his life and his career in his own hands. He thought it was strange to find Keppler such a hardliner of the Party even though he was friendly with Father, who was opposed to the Party. It was probably because Father kept his opinion well-hidden. Most of his customers knew he wasn’t a member but they tolerated it because of his good business and his excellent service.
At school two days later, Herr Mollenhauer winked at him in the corridor. “Well done, young Weidmann!”
Manfred was going to ask him what he meant, but the young teacher had already turned round the corner to the staffroom. Could it be that the Party officials were making enquiries about him at school? Did they already collect information about him to have some reliable background knowledge about him for the interview on Friday? Well, he wouldn’t have to worry on that score. His school work was brilliant. He was nearly at the top of his class, especially in English and Maths.
When, after school, he told Anna about it she was full of enthusiasm. “It could be the making of you. Of course, the Party leaders have to make sure of a candidate’s loyalty before they entrust him with any task of importance. You’re lucky your father has this connection. It’s obvious you need connections to get anywhere these days.”
“But won’t you mind if I have to leave Gera? I’ve heard most of the opportunities in a Party career are not to be found here in the province. I may have to go to Leipzig or even Berlin.”
“Of course, I want to have you here with me, that’s obvious,” she said and kissed him. “But if the greater cause for our country takes you to another place, you have to go, and I’ll wait for you. You know I’d always wait for you.”
He thought he was a lucky man to have such an understanding girlfriend. It was comforting to know she wouldn’t oppose his plans. The only problem would be his father. It was better not to tell him too much. When, in the evening after the visit to Keppler’s office, Father had asked him about it, he had been unspecific and only gave him some general answers. Keppler had been friendly and sent him his best regards, Keppler had said he might help him into a career when the time came - he didn’t say it could be soon, long before his Abitur exam - and Keppler hadn’t made any promises. Manfred didn’t know how much of this his father believed him. He suspected him to understand more than he let on. It was quite possible his father knew exactly what his younger son had in mind, and it was equally possible that he fled into his own romantic notions ignoring the hard realities of the times and believing his son would first follow his education before any other plans. Whatever his father’s insight, Manfred would have to be careful not to let him know too much. He wasn’t going to let anyone thwart his noble plans.
At the interview on Friday, which took place at the same address as his first meeting with Keppler, only in a different room, Manfred was surprised to learn how much the three interviewers already knew about him. They asked him lots of tricky questions about his political views, about his past, about his family, and about his ambitions for the future. They even knew about Anna. One of the interviewers smirked when they mentioned her, just as if a relationship with a girl was a special asset, but of a nature that Manfred didn’t like. He was reminded of Wolfgang’s vulgar behaviour and realised he hadn’t had a private word with him since that day at the café. He wondered if Wolfgang had reached his desired posting in the Wehrmacht by now. He was just speculating on running across him again one of these days when the first interviewer pulled him out of his thoughts with another unexpected question.
“And how do you think you could make your amorous relationship with Fräulein Kleinschmidt useful for the Party?”
He was shocked. Why and how was he to make use of his love? It wasn’t something to make use of. He abhorred the expression. But he had to give these men something. He had to throw a bone to these dogs.
“I believe she could become very useful when I need to procure sensitive information for the Party.” It was a phrase he remembered from a cheap spy novel he had read on his last holidays on the beach of the Baltic Sea, a book his father had brought along, and he only picked up because he’d run out of his own reading material.
There was a pause. The three interviewers exchanged meaningful glances, then continued with less sensitive questions about his school work. The dogs had obviously accepted his cheap bone.
They were highly impressed by his excellent school work. One of the interviewers tried to show off his own knowledge, asked him a tricky calculus question and went on to elaborate on a lecture about a graph of which he only had superficial knowledge. It wasn’t really a question but rather a discourse to display his love of his own importance. The other interviewers didn’t seem to be very happy about it, but when Manfred explained the mathematical problems associated with the graph that was under discussion, they smiled. He knew he had impressed them, and he hoped this would get him the desired success.
At the end of the interview, they told him he would hear from them in due course. They dismissed him in a friendly manner and shook hands with him.
A week later the results came. Manfred took the letter from the letter-box with a twitch in his left shoulder. His father was not at home, so he could devote himself to his career at his leisure. He opened the letter and read it through several times. It explained that he fulfilled the requirements for recruitment as an elite Jungmann, which meant he wasn’t admitted into the Wehrmacht or any other combat organisation yet, but he was ordered to complete his secondary education first, and this had to take place at Pirna, an elite educational institution at Sonnenstein Castle near Dresden in Saxony. It said he was to report at Pirna immediately upon receipt of this letter.
Manfred sat down. His feelings were divided between disappointment and excitement. He was disappointed that they didn’t accept him immediately into one of their organisations and thus ensure that he wouldn’t have to join the Wehrmacht. But he was excited over the new prospect. Of course, he had heard about so-called Napola Schools. They were really called Nationalpolitische Erziehungsanstalten, National Political Institutes of Education, officially abbreviated NPEA, but everybody called them Napola, short for Nationalpolitische Lehranstalt, National Political Institute of Teaching. The location, Sonnenstein Castle in Pirna, promised to be a very pleasant place, so there was something to look forward to. When he came to think of it, he realised that he was probably very lucky. Naturally they wanted him to get his Abitur first, he was still only seventeen, but from Pirna his brilliant career would be waiting for him. He was a truly privileged young man.
He rang Anna at once. She took the news without emotion, it seemed to him. He thought she might have shown more disappointment over their impending separation.
When Father came home in the evening, Manfred had his suitcase packed and ready to leave for Pirna. Father accepted the news with a stony face. Manfred saw he was
n’t pleased. Nevertheless, he said, “I’m proud of you, my boy. But be careful and critical about what you’re letting yourself in for.” That was all.
Manfred spent his last evening with Anna. She came to his home, and because Father had to go out again, they were alone, which was wonderful. But it was a sad evening. Even though they made love, the atmosphere between them remained strained. Neither of them could throw off their nervousness. After all, their separation for several months was imminent.
The next morning, Manfred got up early. His train would leave around lunchtime. To pass the time, he switched on the radio. The news at ten o’clock announced a speech by the Führer. He barked into the microphone:
“Seit 5 Uhr 45 wird zurückgeschossen...”
The Poles had attacked Germany, and this was a Declaration of War!
Five
It was the barking of the dogs that made the place so daunting. They were huge and black. Two of them were Labradors, one appeared to be a Rottweiler. At the slightest noise or movement, they went berserk. The smallest disturbance would set them off on a barking rampage. They certainly guarded the place like no other animal, and any intruder would have to cope with them. There was no way around them.
When he climbed over the fence near the edge of the forest in the dim twilight of the early-morning dawn, he believed the place might give him some shelter for the day. But hardly had he stepped away from the fence towards the barn when the barking began.
The barn loomed dark but inviting against the grey sky. It wasn’t raining, but it was a bit cold, even though this was July. He wished the summer would come at last. He rubbed his hands.
The barking didn’t stop. On the contrary, it seemed to grow in volume. He decided to wait a few moments without movement, hoping the barking might stop eventually. He froze into a statue and kept his breathing low.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been surprised by fierce dogs, but he usually managed to get them used to his presence. It was only a matter of patience. His experience had taught him that you could just outstay the dogs’ patience, and they would normally give up after a while. Some took two or three minutes, others kept barking for nearly ten minutes, but in the end, they would all get used to his presence and accept the situation.
But not these dogs.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but the barking wouldn’t abate. The dogs just refused to calm down. What tenacity! He couldn’t help admiring these animals, even though they were making life a lot more difficult for him.
He began to think of alternatives. How far could he make it under cover of the dark? How far was it to the nearest farm on the other side of the forest?
He decided to give them another five minutes. His wrist-watch was still in working order, which was important for him in his present predicament. The minutes crawled along while the dogs kept up their frenzy. He knew that the way we experience the passage of time was relative. The same five minutes would appear like a quick flash if he was in a different situation. For example, if he was active doing something exciting, or if he was in the middle of a joyful intimacy with a lovely woman. He nearly grew angry with himself for having such thoughts, for even imagining or remembering beautiful moments in his life. To be honest, he had to admit that he hadn’t really experienced unaffected, pure happiness for more than five years. He considered the possibility that he might never have any beautiful moments again. Who could tell?
It was no use ruminating on philosophical questions like the passage of time or the likelihood of renewed happiness in his life. The here and now needed his full attention.
When, after those five minutes, the dogs were still barking, he turned round and walked back to the fence. Reluctantly, he climbed back over the fence, leaving the alluring barn behind his back and making his way into the darkness of the forest.
Fortunately, it was a dry day. After walking through the dense undergrowth for another half hour he found a suitable spot, secluded and protected by thick bushes all round and with a soft, mossy ground. He sank to the ground, folded up the small bundle he was carrying and covered himself with his worn army-greatcoat. He was so tired that he soon drifted off into a troubled sleep. His uncomfortable physical position couldn’t keep him awake. It wasn’t the first time that he had to spend the day in similar circumstances. He had been lucky most of the time, finding a dry spot in some barn or hayloft, but when such luxuries were inaccessible he had to make do with a snug corner in the woods, which wasn’t really so bad when the weather wasn’t wet.
His sleep was troubled because he couldn’t shake off some of the recurring images and dreams. Were these mere fantasies or genuine memories? He didn’t know for certain. No longer. The past few months had been so earth-rocking and traumatic that he had begun to doubt his own memory. He couldn’t dismiss all the images of dying men from his mind. He saw them again and again. There was one man in particular, not very old, with a narrow face and dark curly hair. It was shocking and utterly unbelievable how a man could face his own death with such equanimity. He knew they were going to shoot him. When they’d pulled out his fingernails, he’d confessed he’d been working as a spy. After such a confession he must have known his fate. His life was worth absolutely nothing. They let him watch some of the other executions to give him a foretaste of what he had coming to him. One never knew, he might even tell them more. But the man remained completely calm. How could he eventually walk up to the trench full of dead bodies, knowing he would be one of them in just a few moments, and keep up his calm dignity? He’d looked him in the eyes. Not a flicker, not a tear, no sign of panic! This image came to him almost every night. The man’s calm dignity. His eyes. His firm step up to the trench. His silent acceptance of his imminent death. No begging for mercy, no crying, and worst of all, no accusations.
Then there was that woman. A Jewish whore. She had been caught in the cellar of a grocery store during a raid in Wolgast. They’d taken her to the brothel they’d set up for their own entertainment in Greifswald, and they’d drawn lots over who could enjoy her first. She was so beautiful, they all wanted her. His turn came third. But when he walked into her room at the brothel - a bare room with a bed and a chair - he found her dead on the bed, her throat cut, blood everywhere. He couldn’t remember the results of their short enquiry into her suicide, whether they could find out how she’d got hold of the knife, all he could remember was the sight of her on the bed and his mixed feelings. Disappointment over a missed opportunity to enjoy her merged into something like respect for the woman. He knew she was nothing but a worthless Jewish whore. But he just couldn’t forget her, her fine features, her bold eyes and her personal dignity in spite of her humiliating situation.
Today was no exception. His bad dreams and visions came to him like almost every day in his sleep. There were other images, besides the spy about to be executed and besides the beautiful Jewess who committed suicide. There were those groups of Russian prisoners of war that they’d picked up somewhere north of Minsk. As they were being paraded in the dirty snow on the edge of that forest, to be shot presently, they began to sing. He remembered the silencing of their fine bass voices by the rattling of the machine-gun that mowed them to the ground. He had the impression that the sound of their singing voices was buried in the snow and would re-emerge in the spring when the snow melted.
Faces, eyes, voices, shaking bodies, calm postures, terrible fears, unexpected surprises of human behaviour; men, women and children in extremis: They all haunted him in his sleep.
His back ached with stiffness when he woke up. It was late afternoon. He stood up and stretched his worn back. He would walk to the other end of the forest hoping to find another farm where he might be able to steal some food. If the farmer or his wife looked trustworthy he might beg for food, but he had to be careful. He hoped it would be easier to find a farm, now that he’d reached the other side of the hills in Thuringi
a Forest. The area ahead would be slightly more densely populated, which was a danger and an opportunity. There was a higher danger of being betrayed and caught, but there was a higher probability of finding food and shelter. He still had to be careful. He still didn’t dare to show his face during the day. There were too many military patrols. Russians, Americans? He wasn’t sure. He walked all night. He had crossed the main road between Suhl and Schleusingen yesterday. He hoped to reach the border to what promised to remain of the American zone in another two or three nights. It was over a month ago when they’d announced on the radio that the Americans were going to hand over Thuringia to the Russians. So this part of Germany was becoming too dangerous for him. However, things had gone well so far. Apart from that farmer near Königsee who had tricked him into a shed with a promise of a piece of bread and a bowl of hot soup while he had sent his wife to telephone the military administration in Ilmenau. That had been a close shave. He’d only just got away when he saw an army jeep approaching round the bend on the narrow road from Dörnfeld. It was a tricky business. You never knew who you could trust.
Meanwhile, he had developed a certain radar awareness of a farmer’s political allegiance. Those who were still proud Germans and couldn’t accept the foreign occupation usually had softer features. They seemed somehow familiar. Whereas those who welcomed the occupation had sly faces. They were dreamers who were hoping for a better future. They were wrong, of course. The future wouldn’t be better, but a lot worse.
This morning he was lucky. As he was approaching the farm, he heard the farmer grumbling and complaining to his wife, as it seemed. He was complaining about the shortage of seeds and about the arrogance of the new Russian regional administrator who had sent him home with empty hands.
White Lies Page 8
