A couple of years later I joined the Jungvolk. I didn’t know anything about politics but I knew this was what the Führer wanted; that was enough. My friends all joined and the new teachers praised us for it. Also, we were happy to be connected to the National Socialists. It’s hard to imagine now, but at that time ‘Nazi’ was not a bad word. The National Socialists were the most modern, the most efficient, the most stylish of the political parties. They were very appealing. I wanted to be one of the boys marching in the streets; I wanted to be like the young athletic teachers who had replaced the two old fuddy-duddies. What is more, joining the Jungvolk gave us a form of freedom, freedom to oppose the older teachers and our own parents.
If you were in the Jungvolk you didn’t have to go to school on Saturdays – you played war games instead. There was nothing the teachers could do about it. The meetings were called Dienst and the place we met at was our Heim. You couldn’t get into trouble for not doing homework if it was because of Dienst. My parents didn’t like me going out alone at night but they couldn’t stop me. In our Jungvolk uniforms we were no longer treated like children; we did not always have to obey adults. It was intoxicating.
In fact, nothing was more intoxicating than the initiation into the Jungvolk itself. It was on that occasion that I first felt a sense of history, and greatness, and solemnity. The initiation took place on the same night every year, the 19th April, the eve of the Führer’s birthday. That was no coincidence; it was a birthday present - Baldur von Schirach delivering Germany’s youth to their Führer. The Volksradio used to broadcast the ceremony from inside Marienburg castle. I had first heard the broadcast in 1936, when I was just six yeas old, and it had sent shivers down my spine. Of course, I did not know then that I would be one of the boys chosen to be initiated at Marienburg two years later.
Germany was divided into Gaue; each Gau sent a contingent of boys to Marienburg. I was part of the East Ruhr contingent. I do not know whether our names were picked out of a hat, or whether the HJ instructors, who were also teachers at the school, had selected us personally. I remember standing in assembly one morning and hearing my name read out. I was given a letter to bring home to my parents and a week later my mother accompanied me to the train station in Bochum. Ten or so of my classmates, whose names had also been read out, were already there, as were the two young teachers.
We took the overnight train to Danzig. I was eight years old and this was the first night I had ever spent away from home. We climbed into the narrow bunks of the sleeper compartment as soon as it grew dark, but we were too excited to sleep. We whispered to each other late into the night. We had all heard the broadcasts of past initiation ceremonies but most of us had never left Bochum before and we had little idea of what to expect.
We arrived in Danzig on the morning of the 19th April. It was a beautiful spring morning, very sunny and breezy. Herr Reiter – one of the young teachers accompanying us – had grown up just outside Danzig. He led us from the train station through the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town. The corners and doorways were decorated with carved stone gargoyles which fascinated and frightened me in equal measure. We walked around the dark, brooding tower which housed the torture chamber in medieval times. Herr Reiter told us about the thumb screw, the Judas cradle, the pear of anguish, the brazen bull and other medieval torture devices. By the time he’d finished we were all quite pale. From the tower he led us down to the river to see Europe’s largest wooden crane. Normally this would have bored me but now I found it a pleasant relief.
In the afternoon we returned to the railway station and took a train to Zoppot, ten minutes away to the north. In the 20s and 30s Zoppot was a fashionable seaside resort where many politicians and industrialists used to spend their holidays. On the train Herr Reiter told us that Zoppot had Europe’s longest pier. It seemed to me that everything I was coming into contact with was the biggest and the best.
I had never seen the sea before. Only one or two of my classmates had; they were boys whose parents were wealthy and had taken them on holiday. So, I was very excited when the long white wooden pier came into view. Herr Reiter said we could have a race; we ran towards it as fast as we could. When the instructors had caught up with us, they led us down to the beach. I didn’t know how to swim then, though of course I had to learn as soon as I joined the Jungvolk. Later I became a good swimmer. But on that sunny morning the instructors let us take off our shoes and socks and walk in the surf. The water was very cold but I liked the feeling. My feet hurt at first but soon they started to warm up from within; I had never experienced that before.
After a while I left the others in the surf and wandered barefoot up the beach. I wandered a long way. I would certainly have been in trouble if the instructors had realised that I had gone so far by myself. But I was so absorbed watching my own naked feet on the sand that I lost all sense of time. After a bit the wind started to pick up and the fine white grains swirled over the surface and whipped at my ankles. At times I even lost sight of my feet. I was staring very hard at my toes, trying to distinguish them among the swirling sand particles, when I saw a small, round stone – almost a perfect sphere. I picked it up; it was very light. I spat on it, rubbed it against my shorts and then held it up to the sun. Frozen in its honey-coloured centre I saw the delicately veined wing of an insect. I walked back to the others and showed the stone to Herr Reiter.
‘That, Otto, is a piece of amber,’ he said.
‘From someone’s necklace?’ I asked.
‘No. Amber is used in jewellery, but really it is fossilized resin from the pine forests which used to cover northern Europe and Scandinavia.’ Herr Reiter held the piece of amber up to the sun. ‘In prehistoric times, this insect landed on the resin and got stuck. Eventually the resin encased the insect. When the tree fell it was carried by rivers to coastal regions. Over millions of years the tree was covered with sediment and the resin hardened into amber. Pieces are often washed up here on the Baltic coast. Danzig is famous for its amber craftsmen.’
Herr Reiter returned the stone to me and I put it in my pocket. That piece became my talisman. Sitting in the train on our way back to Danzig, we were all apprehensive about the initiation which we would be undergoing that evening. However, touching that small, smooth, ancient piece of amber gave me confidence. When it was warm I could just make out the faint scent of resin – the scent of the pine forests of the north.
*
We arrive back in Danzig station and board one of the special buses bound for Marienburg. The journey takes two hours and leads through flat farm country. It is dusk by the time we arrive. Descending from the bus, I have never seen so many vehicles and people in one place. Small contingents of eight-year-old boys accompanied by their instructors have been arriving all day from all over Germany. The surrounding fields are full of tents. Beyond the tents, on the other side of the river, loom the walls of the castle. Herr Reiter explains that Marienburg is the largest brick castle in the world. It was founded by the Teutonic knights in the thirteenth century and once housed three thousand men at arms. Herr Reiter takes me aside and tells me that the Teutonic knights used to regulate the amber trade on the Nogat river – it became a lucrative monopoly. It is the first time I hear the word ‘monopoly’. I repeat it. It has a fine ring to it. Monopoly.
The castle is enormous and made even more imposing by the fact that it is lit entirely by flaming torches. There are three separate sections – the High, Middle and Low castles. Each section is separated by moats and towers and each is more heavily fortified than the last. We enter by the main gate in the Low castle and cross two moats to get to the High castle. Twice we are stopped by the black-clad soldiers of the Schutzstaffel – the SS – Hitler’s bodyguards. They are enormous men. In the flickering torchlight their dark eye sockets and chiselled jaws make them seem like a race apart – like the race of supermen we would later hear so much about. We stand in a long line waiting to show these men the folder of papers which each of
us is holding in our trembling hands. The folder contains affidavits of racial purity, statements of physical fitness and school reports.
I hand my folder to the SS man in front of me. He glances through the sheets of paper and ticks a number of boxes against my name on a list on his desk. I am very nervous in case something is not in order. He removes the affidavits and passes the rest of the folder back to me. He notices my trembling hands and the suggestion of a smile tweaks the corner of his mouth.
‘Keine Angst,’ he says. ‘One day it will be you sitting here, and my son in front of you. You always have to start at the bottom.’
I salute as we have been taught to do, then I rejoin the rest of my group who are waiting with Herr Reiter in front of the gateway to the High castle. I touch the amber in my pocket and feel proud of what the SS man said to me.
Despite the warmth of these spring days, the nights are still cold. I can see my breath condense in front of me as we make our way to the Great Hall. Now there are SS men lining the walls either side of us, all the same height, all unblinking in the torchlight. From the Great Hall I can hear the sound of music, but I do not hear high joyous voices singing the Hitler Youth marching songs which I already know so well. Instead I hear music of great solemnity, traditional hymns and ancient Germanic chants delivered in a deep liturgical monotone. The effect of the music and the torchlight is haunting – it sends shivers down my spine.
Wherever I look in the Great Hall there are enormous Swastika flags – against the walls, draped from the dark vault of the roof far above, flanking the distant stage at the end of the hall. The flags too are lit by flickering torches. After the last group of boys has been led in, the huge iron gates of the hall are closed. They make a noise of tremendous weight, tremendous finality. I feel that what happens in this place cannot be undone. Then the singing begins to change in character. We are too far away and it is too dark to see the choir, but there must be a women’s choir too. Above the deep incantations rise ethereal voices. Years later Siggi would tell me about the ships which were lured onto the rocks by the voices at Lorelei; these were just such voices. I feel the amber in my pocket and think to myself how it is this music, these songs, that would have been sung when that delicate fly’s wing was caught in the resin of an ancient tree.
The singing grows in intensity, male and female voices intertwining. A man climbs onto the stage at the far end of the hall – Baldur von Schirach, Reichsjugendführer and head of the Hitlerjugend. Even at this distance I am able to recognise him – I have seen his face on many posters. He looks like a movie star. Then the singing stops and von Schirach begins to speak. At first he speaks very quietly, so quietly that I find it hard to hear. He describes the Nibelungentreue, the fidelity of the Burgundians who were slaughtered to a man at Etzel’s castle when they refused to hand over Hagen, the vassal of King Gunther. He speaks about the Order of the Teutonic Knights who built the Great Hall in which we are standing – the knights who had defended Acre against the siege of the Seljuk Turks. Then the singing begins again, quietly at first then louder and louder until the enormous gates behind us open and a cohort of the black clad Schutzstaffel march in bearing the Blutfahne – the blood flag.
‘Jungs!’ shouts von Schirach, ‘This is the Blutfahne, the most sacred object of the party. As you know, it is this very flag that was drenched in the blood of the martyrs who died at the Hitlerputsch. It is this flag upon which poor Herbert Norkus breathed his last, having left a bloody trail from door to door after the Communist pigs stabbed him through the heart. Let us never forget the bravery of those men who have given up their lives to make our dream come true. Let us celebrate their courage and emulate their faith. In the years ahead, it may be that you too shall have the privilege of dying for the Führer. If such an opportunity should fall to you, may you seize it with joy in your young hearts. In the presence of this flag, let us repeat the oath together.’
There is a moment of silence before we all repeat in unison the words which we have spent our evenings committing to memory:
In the presence of this blood banner which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the Saviour of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God.
There is another minute of silence before von Schirach speaks again. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you on becoming members of the Jungvolk. You are Germany’s future; may you make the Führer proud.’
*
It is not quite true that I was a member of the Jungvolk from that moment on. There was a trial period of a couple of months during which you had to pass a number of exams. You also had to receive your Ahnenpass – the document that proved your racial heritage. This was based on the affidavits we had handed to the SS man. If you were denied an Ahnenpass for whatever reason, then you were expelled from the Jungvolk. We were all nervous about this, even those boys with blond hair and blue eyes. By the time we were eight years old we had already had countless hours of lessons on race theory; it was one thing they could not teach us enough of. We all knew exactly how to recognize a Jewish nose or a Slavic skull. We had also learned that entry to the SS required proof of perfect Aryan blood back to 1650, sometimes as many as 12 generations. The Jungvolk was not as strict as that, but we were eight-year-old boys – most of us had no idea about our more distant family history and we knew that there would be people investigating us. That was a little frightening, though in the end I need not have worried. I passed and officially became a member of the Jungvolk in June 1938, shortly before my 9th birthday.
Chapter 10
I HAVE to leave Seu Otto when the nurses arrive with the dinner trolley. They say I can come back after he has eaten, so long as it is ok with him. Otto says that’s fine, so I say goodbye and make my way to the hospital car park. I have a couple of hours to kill. I decide to go and pay João a visit. Talking to Seu Otto has made me think about my own childhood, and tonight I would like to see João.
João is one of my oldest friends. We have been surfing together since we were little kids. In one way or another, he has been a part of most of the adventures of my childhood. We are still good friends but it’s fair to say that in recent years we’ve grown apart. I think he doesn’t push himself enough. He doesn’t understand why I am not content just to surf and to hang out on the beach. João dropped out of university and barely ever goes out, so we don’t see much of each other anymore.
João is working a summer job at the sand dunes before you get to Joaquina beach. He rents sandboards to tourists and teaches them the basics of sandboarding. He says it’s not as competitive as the surfing industry; I’m sure that’s right. The sand dunes are not far from the hospital and this is a good opportunity to see him.
I park my car at the bottom of the dunes, on the side of the road. Joaquina beach is a few minutes further on and there are no buildings here, just a couple of stalls where you can rent sandboards. I hope João is on top of the dunes and that he has a sandboard he can lend me. I start to climb. The dunes rise steeply from the road and the sand makes it heavy going. I pause to catch my breath and admire the sunset. At moments like these, I understand why photographers and filmmakers are fond of dawn and dusk – the light is soft and warm and and the shadows cast by the dunes are gentle and undulating.
I have removed my chinelos and I watch my feet kicking into the sand at every step. Strange to think of Otto walking barefoot on the beach at Zoppot all those years ago. Strange also that on those northern European beaches you can find pieces of amber with insects frozen inside. I think back to Otto’s description of the initiation ceremony at Marienburg. It is almost too theatrical to be believed. But then Otto doesn’t seem the kind of person to invent things. What’s more, he himself said that the Nazis were obsessed with style. Maybe their theatricality was just another aspect of that. I make a mental note to check the facts about the Jungvolk initiation when I return home.
The top of the dune forms
a ridge. A narrow path has been forged by feet walking along it but in the distance it is hard to make out the path and the ridge appears pointed and sharp. There is a group of figures up ahead and I look for João. The wind contains particles of sand and I have to squint to protect my eyes.
‘Oi, Pietro!’ I turn round. João is directly behind me. He is carrying a number of sandboards. ‘Tudo bem?’ he asks.
We embrace. Although we have grown apart, João is still an old friend.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I came to see you. I had some time to kill – I’m visiting a friend at the hospital. How are you doing?’
‘Tudo joia,’ says João. ‘Enough business, but not too much. I have time to surf in the evenings. Hey, are you entering the Joaquina contest?’
The Joaquina comp is one of the smallest on the island. In the past I was one of the organisers. I’ve won it too, two years ago. This year I will not be organising, but I should take part. It would be a good way back into competitive surfing.
‘Sure, I’ll enter. Are you organising it?’
‘I’m helping,’ says João. ‘We’re still short of judges so if you know anyone…’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. There are plenty of pros on the island who would be happy to judge, but most would want to be paid. A small contest like this does not have the money to pay judges. There is barely enough for the prizes. In any case, judging is not hard. Pretty much anyone can do it. Often it’s best to attract someone prestigious; that way the contest may get some media coverage. That is really more helpful to aspiring surfers than a strict interpretation of the rules.
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