To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  The vibrations dislodge a few of the sticks above me and small bits of mud fall onto my face. Now the roar is a howl, the deafening howl of a tank at close range. For a second the strips of light above me disappear and I realise that the tank has passed over me. I sit up and thrust the Panzerfaust through the sticks and mud above me. My arms move sluggishly but they lift me out of the foxhole. In front of me I see the back of the tank which has just driven over me. Looking back, I am surprised to see the rest of the column a hundred metres behind. Perhaps they were expecting landmines; whatever the reason, I have been granted a few vital seconds before the next vehicle is on top of me.

  I raise the Panzerfaust until the tube is under my armpit, then I line up the lower back panel of the tank with the rim of the warhead and the rear sight. I pull the trigger. The warhead appears to travel in slow motion but its flight is true. It strikes the tank square in the middle of the weak rear plate. The tank explodes in a ball of flame and a rush of hot air blows over me.

  I am dazed by the explosion. Everything seems unreal. I cannot hear anything. I run towards the bush where my bicycle is hidden. I wrench the bicycle free. Not far in front of me the earth is being torn up by volley after volley of machine gun fire from the vehicles behind. I am about to leap onto the bicycle when I see a German officer standing at the edge of the wood, just twenty metres away. He waves frantically. He wants me to follow him. But I don’t want to leave my bicycle behind. I am in two minds. Then my hearing returns and I become aware of the rattle of artillery. The officer waves one more time before diving into the woods. I see a number of other German soldiers retreating. I throw my bicycle to the ground, then I run for the margin of the woods.

  We run for almost an hour, until we reach the Wehrmacht HQ outside Heiden. I am a good runner and the distance is not a problem for me, although the snow makes it hard work. When we reach the HQ I am sweating despite the cold. And I feel weak. The last soldiers to arrive are bent double, hands on knees, trying to catch their breath. I can see from their uniforms that they are from an elite unit. I am proud that I was able to keep up with them, though unlike them I am not weighed down with a weapon or a pack.

  Clouds of condensation rise from the soldiers. They remove their helmets which steam in the cold morning air as if they contained hot soup. Other soldiers come out from the HQ to meet us. They are accompanied by a number of shepherd dogs who similarly send up little puffs of condensation. Two of the soldiers pull out packs of cigarettes. They each place one in their mouths and pass round a box of matches. Then they lean back against the broad trunk of a pine tree and exhale slowly. The smoke is caught in the sunlight that has started to filter between the branches. The soldiers stamp the snow from their shoes and say something which I do not catch. Then the taller of the two looks over at me. ‘Gut gemacht,’ he says and throws me the pack of cigarettes with the matches inside. I feel very proud.

  Chapter 7

  BY THE time I get home it is too dark to go surfing. I am disappointed – I haven’t felt like surfing for a while, but I do right now. Perhaps it is because of the long conversation I had with Seu Otto. I asked him what made him strike the gunman in the store. He told me that he was angry that they thought he was of no consequence. The cover of a magazine had made him think about his childhood in the Hitler Youth. He was even commended for the Iron Cross second class; he told me how he destroyed the lead tank of the 7th Armoured Division. I can’t stop thinking about it. Sometimes, when I have ideas spinning around inside my head, it can help to paddle out and sit on my board in the ocean. Things often seem to fall into the right place when I do that, and it barely matters whether I catch a wave or not. Though of course, that’s not the way my sponsors would see it.

  I am in awe of Otto’s bravery when he was only fifteen years old. Perhaps it is easier to be brave when you are younger; you don’t think of the consequences. There are certainly waves that I used to ride a few years ago which I wouldn’t ride now. Surfing can be dangerous too, but it is dangerous in a different way. For one, the choices you make are your own. No one forces you to surf.

  The way Otto described it, no one forced him to spend the night in the foxhole or to blow up the tank. That’s why he was commended for the Iron Cross second class. It’s true that he’d been training for just such an opportunity for years, but it also seems he was driven to do it, just like he was driven to strike the gunman in the store.

  *

  Tomorrow is my night at Divino, so I drive into Lagoa to hand out fliers. I wander up and down the main street. There are many tourists, mostly drunk. I give them the fliers and watch as they take one look before letting them drop to the street. Usually I would find that depressing, but tonight it doesn’t seem to matter.

  I still cannot stop thinking about Otto. It is strange that the cranky old man is the same person as the brave young warrior. I suppose the incident in the shop proves it, but still, it is hard to picture. It makes me wonder about all the other old people I see wandering about – they all have pasts and histories which may be very different from the present. Unlikely to be as extraordinary as Otto’s, but nevertheless, still not as predictable as I usually assume.

  Marina returns home shortly after me. It is early, for her. She tells me there was a fight in the bar and the police closed it down for the night. Then she asks about my meeting with Seu Otto.

  ‘It was very interesting,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says. But for some reason I don’t want to. It is too early, I don’t yet know what to think.

  Marina is disappointed. She thinks I am refusing to tell her in order to spite her.

  ‘I promise I’ll tell you when I’m ready,’ I say. She nods, unconvinced. ‘He is an extraordinary man,’ I add.

  ‘Well, have you worked out how you are going to make any money out of this?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not yet. But it’s not just about the money.’

  Marina laughs, though it comes out as a snort. It is not an attractive sound. ‘Look Pietro,’ she says, ‘I am happy that you are enjoying yourself with your Seu Otto, but that’s not going to help you get a job, or a degree, or stop losing money at your damn nightclub.’

  She spits the last words out and I am surprised by her vehemence. Then I think to myself that she is probably still angry because of the rumours about Sara.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say. ‘I’ll work something out.’

  ‘What?’ she asks. ‘What will you work out?’

  I am not sure what I will work out. But it feels as if Seu Otto holds some secret, something I must find out. It’s not that I think he’s hiding something from me. Maybe it’s just that I admire his courage, his willingness to dedicate himself to something. Maybe I could use some of those qualities myself. Talking to him certainly makes me wonder about the way I live my life.

  ‘I’m sorry Pietro,’ says Marina. I notice that her eyes are glassy.

  ‘Are you ok?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t mean to nag,’ she says. ‘It’s just that I want you to be the best you can be. And you’re better than this, than the girls at Divino and handing out fliers and promoting.’

  Now she really does have tears in her eyes.

  ‘This could be your big break. You could write a story, sell it to a paper, clear your debts. It could help you get a job, something with a real future, away from this damn island.’

  I wrap my arms around her. I don’t understand why she is crying, but girls can be like that. But she’s right too. This is a big opportunity.

  Chapter 8

  WHEN I awoke, the ward was bright with sunlight. My jaw and my hip both hurt much more than on the day before. I reached up for the button on the morphine drip but the drip was gone. I rang for the nurse. As I waited for her to arrive, I noticed a pile of cards and flowers on the table next to my bed.

  Fernanda came in carrying a number of parcels in her arms. She placed them on the table.

  ‘Bom dia, Seu Otto,’ she said
. ‘You are popular.’

  ‘They are all for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Sim, com certeza.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I don’t know, they arrived in the post,’ replied Fernanda. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Not so good. Everything is hurting.’

  ‘I can give you another morphine drip. But have a look at all your cards, Seu Otto. You are very famous. And you had a visit from a very sympathetic boy last night.’

  ‘Yes, he is sympathetic. So you met him?’

  ‘Oh yes, I spoke to him after you had fallen asleep. He said he was going to write about what a hero you were during the war.’

  I suddenly felt a little flushed, though not with pride. I am not usually as outspoken as I had been with Pietro. In fact, I rarely speak about the war. It is not good to talk too much of one’s own achievements. In any case, unless you were there you cannot understand how things were.

  Fernanda pushed my shoulders forward and plumped my pillow.

  ‘Did you not enjoy the visit?’ she asked. ‘You look very thoughtful.’

  ‘I did enjoy it, but I fear I may have said too much. I do not usually talk so much.’

  ‘You can never say too much,’ said Fernanda. ‘Talking is the best cure. The patients who talk the most recover the fastest. Keeping things bottled up inside is what kills people. I’ve seen it happen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I promise you. Now here are two painkillers for you to swallow, and here is your water. I will see about the drip. Dr. da Silva will be here soon and he will tell you about the operation tomorrow.’

  *

  I started opening the letters piled on the table beside me. A couple were from acquaintances, but the majority were from people who had seen the footage on the news – the channel had also announced which hospital I had been taken to – and wanted to wish me well. One parcel contained pictures drawn by a class of school children whose teacher had shown them the footage in order to ‘subvert common stereotypes of the elderly.’ Good luck to her. In any case, I was just leafing through the drawings, ranging from stickmen cartoons to technicolour abstraction, when Dr. da Silva arrived.

  ‘Ah, Seu Otto, your notoriety is causing problems for our internal post,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Não há de quê. It is not everyday that we have a real-life hero in the hospital.’

  Dr. da Silva turned to the back-lit screen beside the bed and pointed to the x-rays that had been taken when I first arrived. He explained to me the procedure for the hip replacement. He would make an incision over the buttocks to expose the hip joint, then he would cut out and remove the broken head of the femur and clean out the remaining cartilage. After that, he would implant the new socket and insert the metal stem into the femur before fixing the artificial components in place with a special cement. Then the muscles and tendons would be laid back against the bone and the incision would be closed. After surgery I would be back on a morphine drip for up to three days, and I would also have IV lines in place for fluids and nutrition. I would wake up wearing inflatable pneumatic compression stockings to prevent blood clots; I did not like the sound of them at all. Dr. da Silva said I would have to try to move the joint as soon as possible after surgery, already on the first day. I would have physiotherapy for the next five days before leaving the hospital and would continue the programme from home, coming in to see the therapist daily. The operation was booked for the following afternoon; I was not allowed to eat anything beforehand.

  I confess that I was apprehensive about the operation. Nevertheless, I think it is important to remind oneself of the advances that medicine has made; it is too easy to take them for granted. What is more, Dr. da Silva said that the results of hip surgery are excellent, that over eighty percent of patients need no help walking. And I would almost certainly be able to swim as well as before.

  Anna-Maria arrived later that morning and began to fuss in a most exhausting manner. Perhaps I was just tired, but I found myself being quite short with her. However, she told me that Pietro had enjoyed our conversation the evening before and that he hoped he could visit again that very afternoon. Earlier that morning the recollection of laying bare the past had left an unpleasant taste in my mouth, and I had resolved not to repeat the mistake. However, hearing that Pietro was so keen to come again made me reconsider. I did not wish to disappoint him and, what is more, his presence would enable me to escape from Anna-Maria’s excessive solicitude. The well-meant ministrations of women can be so trying.

  *

  A nurse came in to replace my morphine drip after lunch. I may have celebrated its return a little too enthusiastically since I subsequently had a very peculiar experience. I was slipping in and out of pleasant dreams when I saw the door to the ward open and Siggi himself came in and sat by my bed. He looked young and healthy. I knew I was dreaming, but it was such a pleasure to see him, and to remember his features so clearly, that I wanted to extend the dream indefinitely. After a while, Siggi said, ‘Seu Otto, are you awake?’

  This surprised me. The characters in my dreams do not usually inquire as to the state of the dreamer. I was also surprised that the voice sounded like Pietro’s, not Siggi’s.

  I was about to reply when I saw that Siggi’s face was dissolving into Pietro’s, as if they had previously been layered on top of each other.

  ‘Seu Otto, are you ok?’ asked Pietro, for it was clearly Pietro who was now addressing me.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I replied.

  ‘Thank you for talking to me last night. I was wondering…’

  I couldn’t concentrate on what Pietro was saying. The image of Siggi sitting in that very chair was still so fresh and vivid in my mind. What was the meaning of this?

  There is certainly a strong physical resemblance between Pietro and Siggi, but I think it is more than that. Siggi was always very curious, always asking questions, as Pietro is doing now. Asking questions was not encouraged in the Hitler Youth, and Siggi would have got into more trouble if it hadn’t been for his natural charm, which meant that even the strictest instructors treated him with a degree of indulgence. Pietro has natural charm too – I don’t think I would so willingly subject myself to this interrogation if it weren’t for that quality. Vague as this may sound, the way I feel when talking to Pietro reminds me of the way I felt when I was with Siggi all those years ago. It is a very pleasant way to feel.

  Indeed, I cannot shake the sense that there may be a real connection between Pietro and Siggi, something more than merely a projection of my own mind. Could Pietro be related to Siggi? Hadn’t Pietro’s grandfather Horst been born here in Brazil without knowing who his father was? Could Siggi have been Horst’s father? Extremely unlikely, but perhaps just possible.

  ‘Seu Otto?’

  ‘I’m sorry Pietro, I’m a little distracted today. What were you asking?’

  ‘I was just saying that I’d really like to write an investigative piece on the Hitler Youth – how it worked, who was involved, what it was like. I think I could get a very good grade with that. And then I have the chance of getting a decent job.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So, would that be ok?’

  I thought for a moment. I had been worried that Pietro was going to ask to do a piece all about me. In fact, I’d been preparing to tell him that I wasn’t entirely comfortable discussing my own achievements. But that no longer seemed necessary. I could explain to Pietro how in the beginning we joined the Jungvolk, and about the attraction it held for us. I could tell him about the initiation at Marienburg and the long march to Nuremberg. I could tell him all this without having to dwell on my own achievements.

  ‘Yes, we can talk about that,’ I said.

  ‘Beleza.’ Pietro took his notebook from his bag, then he sat back in his chair, his silver pen poised. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how did you come to join the Hitler Youth?’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ I said, ‘that is a very big question.’


  Chapter 9

  I GREW up in a suburb of Bochum, in the industrial Ruhr. Everyone was very poor in the 30s; it was the depression. My father was an engineer but even for him there was no security until the Führer came to power. I had an older brother who died of tuberculosis before I was born. I know my mother thought that he would not have died if we had been richer, if she had been able to take him away to the mountains or to the sea.

  I do not have many happy memories of the small house I grew up in. There was always something sad about it, and about my parents. I spent as much time as I could out of doors, playing in the streets and around the workshops. As far back as I can remember, I used to see the Hitler Youth boys marching in the streets and singing. They were purposeful and impressive in their uniforms, and I hoped that one day I would be like them.

  At school we were encouraged to volunteer for the Jungvolk. The government had decreed that all teachers had to belong to the National Socialist Teachers’ Alliance. They had to wear swastikas on their lapels. Teachers who didn’t join were dismissed. A couple of the older teachers at my school refused to join; they had fought in the trenches in the First War and they distrusted the Führer. They were removed from their posts and replaced by much younger men who were handsome and athletic and encouraged us to sign up. The teachers who left had been old and stuffy; the ones who now arrived were dynamic and inspiring.

  At that time there was a sense of shame in the air. Shame of being poor, of having lost the war, of the humiliating dictates of Versailles. When the Führer came to power and his policies started to create jobs and wealth, people became optimistic about the future. My father bought a Volksradio. Neighbours used to come round to listen to the Führer’s weekly broadcasts in our kitchen. We all crowded around the Volksradio, although there was often so much static that you could barely make out the words. One of the first broadcasts I heard was about the remilitarization of the Rhineland. I remember my father embracing me then – that was very unlike him. I felt proud that once again there were German soldiers on German soil. I was only six years old and already I loved the Führer.