Playing with Matches: Coming of age in Hitler's Germany.

by Lee Strauss

  “I am required to let them go. They are no longer permitted to work at the factory.”

  “That’s unbelievable. How many names?”

  Father took a long drag on his cigarette, and watched the smoke plume lift to the ceiling. “Fifty-three.”

  “That many?”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “If only it were so easy.”

  Emil muffled a moan and pondered their conversation. What should Father do? Emil personally had nothing against the Jews, especially ones like Anne and her family, but what if they were in some way hindering the growth of the new Reich like Heinz and his teacher, Herr Bauer, said? Emil only wanted what was best for Germany. He loved his country. Was it possible Father didn’t? That idea sent a shot of fear through his bloated body. How could Father not love Germany? Everyone did. At least, everyone at school and Deutsches Jungvolk did. He wouldn’t want Heinz to hear the way his father spoke sometimes.

  Emil didn’t understand everything that was going on around him, but there was one thing he was sure of. He was glad not to be a Jew.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A WEEK later, on his way home from school, Emil took a detour. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was checking up on Anne. Why, he didn’t know and he berated himself for being so stupid. If he were to follow the Nazi decrees, he would avoid everyone who was Jewish.

  Truth was the Jews were in big trouble. Bigger trouble than ever before. Ernst Von Rath, a low-ranking Nazi stationed in Paris had been recently shot and lie on his death bed. The shooter was a Jew who apparently was protesting the poor treatment of his family in Poland. This “disgrace” had been a top news story on the government radio station and headlined on the national newspaper chains.

  Icy air nipped at his ears. He rubbed them vigorously with chilled fingers, and then blew warm breath on his hands.

  The crisp, dull grayness that filled the November air distracted him at first from the extra activity in the square. There were more police than usual, more soldiers and a rumble of heavy vehicles behind him caused Emil to spin around. A small troop of SS men followed the trucks. They marched in formation staring straight ahead with stern expressions, like well-oiled machines. Emil spotted Herr Schwarz in the crowd that had gathered and ran to him.

  “What is going on?” Emil asked.

  “Von Rath died.” Herr Schwarz’s normal smile was knotted in a frown so tight; Emil thought his face would implode. “Just stay out of their way.”

  The trucks stopped suddenly and soldiers with sticks, and bats, crowbars and other types of archaic weapons in their hands, fanned throughout the market district.

  Then Emil witnessed the first strike. He sprung back as shattered glass hit the street. The crowd, surprised by the unprovoked burst of violence, screamed and the shopkeepers, whose stores were being vandalized, ran outside yelling and shouting.

  “Stop!” shrieked one merchant, only to have his cries answered with a severe blow to the head.

  All around Emil and up every street, they smashed the windows; the shrill of glass breaking, sharp splinters, sparkling in the light, splayed on the street. The crowd thinned, some running for home, others looking for a safe place to watch the show.

  Emil’s legs felt frozen to the spot.

  Were they crazy?

  A shower of glass tinkled on the ground near him and he snapped to his senses ducking low behind a parked car.

  A cacophony of voices shouted, “Stop! Please, stop!”

  He recognized the men who protested, the shop owners being attacked. They were all Jews.

  The soldiers threw out clothes, shoes, jewelry, food items—all the merchandise from the Jewish shops were flung into the streets.

  Mayhem broke loose. People screamed and cursed, “Jewish Pigs!”

  A flurry of glass. Emil ducked lower, covering his head.

  Stunned, he witnessed people, non-Jews he’d known his whole life, scoop up these articles that didn’t belong to them and scurry away.

  The soldiers pushed the Jewish men who dared to challenge them to the ground, kicking them, and tossing them into the backs of army trucks.

  A couple soldiers approached Anne’s shop. They had short wooden planks in their hands, and they were laughing. Emil groaned and muttered, “Oh, no.” One after the other, they smashed the windows, shouting obscenities.

  They pulled Anne’s father, Herr Silbermann, out of the bakery, and dragged him down the road. They threw him in the back of an army truck like a sack of garbage. Frau Silbermann and Anne ran behind, screaming. Emil wanted to chase after the truck, too. No, no! Stop! Herr Schwarz seemed to read his mind, and grabbed his shoulder with his meaty hand, shaking his head. If he ran after Anne’s father, he’d no doubt the soldiers wouldn’t think twice about swinging him into the back of the truck to share the man’s fate.

  Anne crumbled to the ground; her mother fell alongside her, wailing. Emil wanted to go to them, to help them somehow, but he knew he couldn’t. He just stood there, trembling.

  Someone shouted, “Fire!” Plumes of smoke and flames poured from the synagogue. Emil couldn’t stop himself from running down the block to stare. An SS soldier climbed to the roof and waved parts of the Torah, the sacred Jewish religious scrolls.

  “We’ll use it for toilet paper!”

  These were Emil’s Nazi superiors, his mentors, yet he was mortified. His mouth felt dry and thick, it was difficult to swallow. They expected Emil to cheer and celebrate what he was witnessing, but instead he felt weak and winded.

  Emil’s Deutsches Jungvolk comrades, Friedrich and Wolfgang, seem to appear from nowhere. They threw stones at the Jews as the SS dragged them down the street.

  Friedrich saw Emil and waved for him to join them, his eyes popping with excitement, a crooked grin on his face.

  “Com’on, Emil!”

  Emil hesitated.

  “Emil!”

  Emil took a step forward, but he felt sick. He knew he should join them, show a united front, but he just couldn’t. He pretended to twist his ankle and hopped around, moaning.

  “Man, Emil,” Friedrich spun towards him. “You’re missing all the fun!”

  “Sorry, I can’t.” Emil limped some more. Friedrich shrugged and ran off to catch up to Wolfgang without him.

  Emil wanted to serve his nation and make her great again. He wanted to be a good Nazi, he really did, but when he thought of Anne and the terrified expression on her face, he shook his head.

  He faked a limp all the way home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROLF KNOCKED on Emil’s front door early the next morning.

  “All the Deutsches Jungvolk and Hitler Youth are required for street clean up. Heinz wants us to meet him in fifteen minutes.”

  Johann and Moritz were already there, brooms in hand, when Emil arrived. The older boys nailed plywood across broken windows; some cleaned up the synagogue.

  “See what you missed,” Emil said, gesturing to the streets full of glass. Johann and Moritz lived on farms further out of town and didn’t hear about the assault until it was over.

  Emil’s breath hit the winter air like bursts of steam. Snow couldn’t be too far behind. They were smart enough to wear gloves.

  “I hear every town and city in Germany had Reichskristallnacht,” said Johann. “The reports say the fanatical hatred of the Jews by the German citizens was stirred up by the slaying of Von Rath.”

  Emil frowned. From what he saw, it was the soldiers not the citizens that attacked the store shops.

  “The citizens are exceptionally well organized for such a spontaneous event,” Moritz muttered while scooping up a dustpan of glass, letting it slide into a bin.

  The streets were too quiet. Normally, the shopkeepers would step outside their doors with friendly smiles, greeting potential customers. Today they were like shadows as they cleaned up their shop fronts with heads bowed.

  It was like a ghost town, Emil tho
ught. No one was shopping. It was eerie.

  “What happened, Emil?” said Johann, shaking his head. “This is a big mess.”

  “It was loud. People were screaming. Glass shards fell from the sky.”

  Moritz poured another dustpan full of trash in the bin. He said softly, “They really have it out for the Jews.”

  Emil stomach churned with confusion. “The Jew did kill Von Rath. It’s natural to be angry over it.” Emil was angry. None of this would’ve happened, if the Jew would’ve just left things alone.

  Would it?

  Friedrich’s sudden shouting echoed through the streets. “Yahoo! We showed those filthy Jews a thing or two, didn’t we?!”

  The boys put their heads down and continued sweeping. Sweep, sweep, sweep.

  Across the street, Herr Jäger, a short plump man with leathery skin, stepped out of his shoe repair store and turned the key to lock the door. He had a spring in his step and was whistling. Emil was certain that the upcoming lunch Frau Jäger had prepared wasn’t the reason for his joyfulness this time. He could see Herr Finkleman’s new arm band. Red with a deep-black swastika.

  There had been whispers that someone would be appointed to watch over their neighborhood, to watch everyone, to make sure they were in compliance with all the new laws. He didn’t believe the rumors at first. But, Emil knew at that moment that they were true. Herr Jäger was their new watchman.

  Rolf instructed them to go home for the mid day meal, and to return in one hour. Before too long, Passau would be up and running like nothing had happened. Like Kristallnacht hadn’t happened at all.

  Emil was nervous about going home. Last night Mother had been in hysterics. She wept and prayed and mourned. The things she said about the Reich couldn’t be repeated and Emil just hoped their shared walls were sound proof.

  The table was in order and Father called everyone to it. He bowed his head to pray and at the end they agreed together, Amen. Mother passed the bread and the cabbage rolls around. They ate in silence.

  The quiet was too much for Emil. “It’s almost cleaned up,” he said. “Things should be back to normal soon.”

  “Nothing will ever be normal again, Emil,” Mother said, stiffly. “Not if the Jews are not welcome in our country.”

  Just then they heard a commotion coming from the street. Emil beat his father to the front door.

  A woman yelled, “Let me go!” while two SS officers in black suits pushed her into a car. Emil recognized her as Fraulein Kreutz, a second grade teacher at his school. She lived in a flat two doors down across the street.

  “What’s going on, Father?”

  He shook his head. Herr and Frau Schwarz from next door watched, too.

  “What on earth could Fraulein Kreutz have done?” Frau Schwarz said.

  She must’ve done something awful, Emil thought. Something harmful to the Reich.

  There were no formal announcements at school the next day, but Emil heard the students talking in the hall. Fraulein Kreutz had criticized the swastika. Herr Jäger had overheard and reported her to the police.

  Herr Bauer acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He told the class to stand and recite the refrain he had written on the blackboard.

  Your name, my Fuehrer, is the happiness of youth; your name, my Fuehrer, is for us everlasting life.

  He made them say it three times.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “LIFE IS a struggle,” began Herr Bauer. He taught math and literature but seemed to have a special interest in racial science.

  “It is a struggle for survival. He who wants to live should fight. He who doesn’t want to battle in this world of eternal struggle does not deserve to be alive. Therefore it is the utmost of importance to be strong.”

  Herr Bauer paced across the front of the class, hand on his chin, finger to his long nose. The back of his rounded, bald head thickened at his neck, reminding Emil of a gigantic thumb.

  “Just as plants and animals are divided into species, humans are divided into races.” He stepped up to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk and wrote: Culture Founders.

  “Now, our very intelligent National Socialist researchers have gone back through history, studying all the advances in civilization and have tested the heredity of various historical societies and figures. What they discovered was that all important accomplishments in art, science and technology have been made by the Nordic or Aryan race. Therefore, this is clearly the only race of culture founders.”

  Emil, who sat in the desk behind Johann, saw his friend’s shoulders slump as he dared to stare out the window. Emil poked him with a pencil while Herr Bauer scribbled Aryan under the words Culture Founders.

  “Now, most Aryan people are tall, slender, have a small face and high-set, narrow nose, rosy-white skin, smooth, golden-blond hair and blue eyes.”

  Emil heard a little giggle come from Irmgard Schultz. She was Heinz’s sister, and therefore, Emil thought, worthy of attention. Anyone studying the various characteristics in the room could see why she smiled and giggled. She and Rolf, who was her twin, were the only ones in the room who completely fit that description. Emil though tall, had dark hair. Moritz was short and stocky. Of the three friends, Johann came closest, though no one would call his nose small and he had brown eyes.

  “Aryans are uncommonly gifted mentally. Therefore, they are outstanding for truthfulness and energy. Nordic men possess, even in regard to themselves, a great power of judgment…”

  Herr Bauer paused and Emil thought his teacher was imagining himself to be the epitome of the Nordic male.

  Herr Bauer continued, “They are persistent and stick to a purpose when once they have set themselves to it. Their energy is displayed not only in warfare but also in technology and in scientific research. They, we, are predisposed to leadership by nature.”

  He took a moment to scan his students’ faces. Emil squirmed slightly when Herr Bauer got to him.

  “Children, you are members of the fittest race and citizens of the greatest country on earth. Therefore…”

  He grinned, strolling casually across the front of the class room. “… it is of the utmost importance that you remain racially pure. Under no circumstances should there be mating with people from a lesser race.”

  A round of muffled giggles circled the room. Emil felt his face grow red and saw that he wasn’t alone. Johann’s face was an unattractive shade of scarlet, too.

  Herr Bauer returned to the blackboard and wrote: Culture Destroyers.

  “Now class, who would be the culture destroyers?”

  A flurry of arms waved in the air. Friedrich, Wolfgang and Rolf all had their right arms stiff, pointed towards the ceiling, faces bright and eager as if competing with each other over who had the longest arms.

  “Rolf?”

  “The Jews, sir,” he said with a winner’s confidence.

  “Yes, you are right, Rolf, the Jews.” Herr Bauer scratched ‘THE JEWS’ in big bold letters under the words ‘Culture Destroyers.’

  “These culture destroyers are tricky, clever and evil,” Herr Bauer continued. “They want to rule the world, disguising themselves as one of us in order to destroy the Aryan race.”

  He paused, finger to nose, facing the class. “We know this is true by the fact that the Jews ran so many successful businesses. It is obvious that they cannot, under any circumstances, be trusted, and therefore, Krystallnacht is justified.”

  Krystallnacht is justified because the Jews were good businessmen? Emil didn’t get the connection, but there was no way he dared to question Herr Bauer about it and be made a fool of in front of the whole class.

  “Evidence to the superiority of the Aryan race can be seen throughout history,” Herr Bauer continued. “Even literature, such as the common fairy tale points to the prominence of the German race. Can anyone give me an example?”

  Irmgard raised her hand. “Cinderella?”

  “Yes, Cinderella is a great example.” Herr Bauer
propped himself on the edge of his desk. “Cinderella, our heroine, is obviously a racially pure maiden. All the pictures show her as blond, with blue eyes and physically healthy. In contrast to her is the evil stepmother, who is from some alien country, possibly a Jew. It seemed that Cinderella’s father was a man of weakness, and thus his apparent lack of presence in the story.

  “Our prince, also from a superior blood line, rescues Cinderella from her dismal situation. Clearly, a hero and brave warrior like those found in our own great army.”

  Elsbeth Ehrmann raised her hand, “Our great Fuehrer is my prince,” she gushed.

  “And mine!” added Irmgard and the rest of the girls joined in giggling.

  Those silly girls and their giggling. Emil felt itchy with irritation and wished Herr Bauer would do something to shut them up.

  Later that evening, Emil and Helmut did homework at the kitchen table. Father read the newspaper by the fireplace and Mother was next door visiting Frau Schwarz. It was quiet except for the sound of the wind whistling through the window and the rustling of paper as Father turned the pages.

  “Emil can you help me?” Helmut said. “I don’t get this.”

  “What?”

  “This math. It’s stupid.”

  Emil craned his neck over Helmut’s work. Simple addition. He reached for Helmut’s pencil, but before he could show him what to do, the slamming of the back door interrupted him.

  Mother stood there in a daze. Her pale face blanched even whiter if that were possible.

  She rushed to Father’s side and bent down to whisper something in his ear. His eyes narrowed, deep wrinkles fanning from the corners.

  “What happened?” Emil asked.

  They both turned to face him slowly. Mother looked at Emil as if he had a gun pointed at her.

  “Mother?” Helmut said in a small voice.

  What was the matter with them? Why wouldn’t they talk?

  “Mother? Father? What’s wrong?” Emil said.

  Father cleared his throat. Mother shot him a look. “It’s all right, dear,” he said. “Emil, your classmate, Elsbeth Ehrmann…”