by Liz Kessler
Max glanced in the mirror one last time to check his hair was parted perfectly, his Hitler Youth shirt was buttoned up correctly, his neckerchief was straight. He slid the swastika armband on to his sleeve and stood to attention. Thrusting his right arm forward, he uttered, ‘Heil Hitler!’ to his reflection.
Yes. He was ready.
The drive took a little under an hour. Max had not been this far out of Munich since they’d moved here. And he had never been to his father’s place of work with him. He’d told his friends what he was doing today and they were all envious.
‘It’s so unfair,’ his friend Hans had complained. ‘Why do you get such an important father?’
Max had shrugged. ‘I guess I’m just lucky,’ he said.
And he certainly felt it. Just last week, on another Hitler Youth weekend camp, he had been praised for his crisp marching style, led his team to victory in the relay races and been awarded a new badge for his uniform, for his survival skills. He was popular, too. He no longer even remembered the days when he could count his friends on the fingers of one hand. And now he was going to get first-hand experience of the Nazi regime at work alongside his father.
‘Lucky’ was the word!
The car came to a stop outside some big gates. They were heavily locked, with soldiers parading along both sides, rifles over their shoulders and eyes darting around everywhere like eagles’. Above a door in the centre of the gates, the iron had three words wrought into it: Arbeit Macht Frei. Work sets you free.
Max’s chest filled with pride. He could hardly believe that he was really here. That he was allowed to be a part of this.
‘Here we are,’ his father said as he got out of the car, indicating for Max to follow him.
The soldiers at the gates snapped their heels together when they saw Max’s father. ‘Heil Hitler!’ they shouted. Max’s father returned the salute. Max stood beside him and thrust his arm forward. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he said along with his father.
One of the soldiers laughed as he unlocked the gate. ‘I see we have a new guard today,’ he said, pointing at Max.
Max’s father appraised his son before replying lightly, ‘Perhaps one day. When he is a man.’
Max puffed his chest out. Why could his father not see that he was a man? He was twelve years old, for goodness’ sake. He wasn’t a child! Everyone else could see it. Why did his father still treat him like a little kid?
Max decided to take a risk. ‘I hope so, sir,’ he replied, kicking his heels together and standing to attention.
The soldier laughed again. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be one of us before long. I’ll look out for you.’ He pulled the gate open to let them come through. ‘Welcome to Dachau.’
As Max followed his father through the gate, he felt as if the words above the door held a magical power just for him. He had never felt so light, so capable of anything.
They walked along a concrete path. Long white buildings with tiny windows lined the path on both sides.
‘I have some paperwork to do first of all,’ his father said as he opened a door into one of the buildings and they entered a small office. He pointed at a chair in the corner of the room. ‘Sit there, keep quiet and wait, and then I’ll show you around.’
Max did what he was told. He watched as various soldiers came into the room with forms for his father to check and sign. He listened as his father barked orders to men who instantly jumped to fulfil them.
‘Yes, sir. Heil Hitler!’ they would say, standing to attention and saluting before they left the room.
Max already knew his father was an important man, but being with him at work made him realize that he had never understood quite how important he was. He was one of the top officers of this whole place!
Watching him work – his efficiency, his clarity, the respect he had from all of his staff – Max swore to himself that he would be just like him one day.
‘Right.’ The paperwork was finished and his father checked his watch as he got up from his seat. ‘Midday. You want to see how we do roll call around here?’
‘Yes please!’ Max jumped up and followed his father out of the office. They walked along the concrete path between the buildings.
To their right, from behind the buildings and stretching ahead, high poles stood at regular intervals. They were joined together with rows and rows of barbed wire and ran as far ahead as Max could see.
‘Don’t go near those,’ his father instructed when he saw Max looking. ‘They are electric. It’ll kill you if you touch them.’
Max could see soldiers parading the length of the fence. He hoped none of them accidentally tripped and got electrified.
His father was still walking and Max ran to catch him up. They turned into a big square in the centre of the camp. Ahead of them Max could see rows and rows of low buildings.
‘That’s the barracks where the workers live,’ his father said.
‘Workers?’ Max asked. ‘You mean the soldiers?’
His father’s mouth did the nearest thing it got to a smile. Then he shook his head. ‘The soldiers are loyal Nazis,’ he said. ‘No. I mean the prisoners. The ones who have no use to society. The Jews, the Poles, the Gypsies, the homosexuals, the criminals. We protect everyone else by containing them here and putting them to good use. You could say we are doing a service to the German people by keeping these vermin off their streets.’
‘I see,’ Max said. He’d learned to keep his face completely passive when his father or anyone said things like this – even if it still made a tiny part of him twitch inside. The twitchy bit got smaller and smaller every time, and buried deeper and deeper – so deep, in fact, that sometimes he didn’t even notice what was being said or register anything wrong with it.
The days when he agonized over whether such words applied to his old friends were long gone. It was easier just to ignore it and not think about it too much.
‘Here they come now,’ his father said.
Max watched as a huge group of men came towards them, marching in between the barracks to the square. On each side of the group, SS soldiers watched the men as they marched beside them. Most of the soldiers had their rifles by their sides while a couple of them pointed them towards the prisoners in the middle. The soldiers looked so smart in their uniforms and Max found himself standing straighter as they marched towards him and his father. He hoped they could see how much effort he had made with his uniform.
The prisoners were a different matter entirely. There were lots of them: hundreds, maybe even more, Max thought. They didn’t march with the sharp snap of boots and the high kicks of their legs like the soldiers. And their uniforms were shabby and dirty. They didn’t even seem to be trying to look smart. Max couldn’t help agreeing with his father. Real Germans were better off with these people kept away from them.
As Max watched, the men were marched towards them and told to halt right in front of him and his father.
Max’s father glared at them in silence for a few moments. Then, with no warning, he suddenly bellowed, ‘Numbers. Now!’
Instantly, the prisoners started calling out numbers, one at a time. If any of them didn’t shout loud enough or paused too long before shouting a number, the nearest guard would nudge them in the side with his rifle.
Max even saw one man get punched in the stomach so hard he fell to the ground. He let out a small gasp before he could stop himself, and glanced up instinctively to check his father hadn’t heard him. He didn’t need to worry. His father was staring intently at the group, his eyes popping like they were on fire, his neck taut, a line of sweat dotting his forehead.
The roll call seemed to go on for ever. Eventually, his father nodded at one of the soldiers. ‘Take over,’ he said. ‘Lunch. But not too much. We don’t want them getting fat now, do we?’ He laughed as he said that, and the soldier did too. Max didn’t really get the joke but laughed along to show that he knew his father was funny and clever.
‘Come,’ his father said. ‘
We’ll get our lunch too.’ He started to walk towards the main building.
Max saw that his bootlace had come loose and quickly bent down to tie it before his father noticed. The prisoners had started to disperse, each coming past him to collect a small tin bowl of something that looked like cold porridge.
As Max stood up, one of the prisoners caught his eye.
‘Max?’ he said.
Max’s insides turned cold. Why was this filthy, scruffy prisoner saying his name? He looked at the man more closely. His face was gaunt and grey, covered in scabs and scratches and grime. His outfit was a misshapen grey suit – it looked more like pyjamas than a uniform. His dirty hands held an equally dirty bowl. Max thought he had never looked at anyone so disgusting.
And yet, there was something familiar about him.
Then the man did something Max hadn’t seen anyone do since he’d entered Dachau. He smiled. His teeth were black and rotten. Those he had, anyway. At least half of them were missing.
‘Max, it’s me,’ the man said. ‘Mr Grunberg.’
Mr Grunberg? The name rolled towards Max like a rock gathering pace as it hurtled down a hill. Leo’s father!
No. It couldn’t be. There was a mistake. Leo’s father was always the best-dressed man in town. He was twice as wide as this man – and had twice as many teeth. He always looked immaculate. He wouldn’t be seen dead walking around like this in an ill-fitting uniform with buttons missing and covered in mud. He wasn’t even wearing shoes!
And why would he be here? With these prisoners? The man who used to make everyone laugh? It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.
But the smile. Even with half his teeth missing and the other half rotting, it was definitely familiar. His eyes. Amongst the greyness of everything about him – and everything about Dachau, come to think of it – they still twinkled in a way that danced like light on a speck of dust.
‘You remember me, don’t you?’ Mr Grunberg was saying.
Just then, his father turned back to Max. ‘Max! Come!’ he bellowed before continuing to march ahead.
Without thinking about it, Max did something that came so instinctively he didn’t even have time to be ashamed of himself. Just like he had done that other time when his best friend was humiliated in assembly.
He moved away from the scruffy, dirty man. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’
And then he ran as fast as he could to follow his father to the warmth and comfort of the officers’ dining room and join him for a hearty three-course lunch. As he ate, he banished any thoughts of Leo, his father, his old school – his old life – from his mind. Those thoughts had no place in his world. He shut them out with an imaginary gate as big, as hard and as cold as the ones at the entrance to Dachau.
ELSA
I’m in bed, fast asleep, when I hear noises downstairs.
I sit up and rub my eyes. Doors slamming. Raised voices. Something that sounds like furniture being thrown around.
Are Mutti and Vati having an argument?
The idea is ridiculous. I have never in my life heard my parents argue. At the absolute most, they have maybe disagreed over minor decisions in quiet voices. They would never argue like this.
Otto appears at my door. His face is white.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask him as I push the covers off and get out of bed.
‘Soldiers,’ he says simply.
‘In our home?’
He nods, then puts a finger over his lips and together we creep out of my bedroom and across the landing to the top of the stairs where we can listen without being seen.
‘You can’t just go around trashing my home like this!’ Vati is shouting at someone.
A voice I don’t recognize – I guess one of the soldiers – replies, ‘That’s what I am telling you. This is no longer your home.’
I look at Otto. ‘Not our home?’ I whisper. What does that mean? Of course it’s our home.
‘I’m going downstairs. I need to know what’s going on. Come on,’ Otto says.
But I’m nowhere near as brave as Otto and the last thing I want to do is talk to the soldiers who have said this is not our home any more. Or maybe that’s the second to last thing I want to do. The last thing I want is to be left on my own. So I meekly follow Otto down the stairs, doing my best to hide behind him as he strides into the kitchen.
‘Mutti, Vati, what’s going on?’ Otto asks.
Mutti rushes towards us. ‘Go back upstairs, darling,’ she urges. ‘Nothing’s going on.’
But Vati holds an arm out to stop her. ‘They need to know, Stella,’ he says. ‘There’s no point in pretending it’s not happening.’
One of the soldiers wags a finger at Vati. ‘See,’ he says, turning to the other two soldiers and laughing. ‘At least one of these stupid Jews has finally understood what’s going on.’
‘Vati?’ I ask.
He crouches down and talks quietly. ‘We have to leave,’ he says.
‘Leave where?’ I ask. ‘Our home? Prague? Czechoslovakia?’
‘Just our home,’ Vati says.
‘For now,’ one of the soldiers says with a laugh, and the three of them guffaw.
I can see Otto’s jaw tightening and his fist curling into a ball. I reach out for his hand.
‘We have to live somewhere else for a while,’ Mutti says, coming over to join us. She takes my other hand. ‘We’ll all be together, like we promised. We just have to move to a different house.’
‘Why can’t we stay in this one?’ I ask. My voice comes out in much more of a whine than I want it to. ‘This is our home.’
‘Not any longer it isn’t,’ one of the soldiers replies. ‘You Jews don’t get to own a home any more. It’s your own fault for choosing to live somewhere so nice. Much too nice for a family of Jews. And so near to our headquarters, too. Perfect for us.’
‘You can’t just take our home from us,’ Otto says to the soldiers.
One of them steps towards us. I flinch and take a tiny step back. ‘Actually, we can,’ he sneers, his face right in front of Otto’s. ‘We can do whatever we want.’ Then he moves to me. ‘We don’t like Jews. And we need your house. So you’re moving. Understand?’
I nod fiercely.
He glances at his friends and they both grin back at him. One of them jumps up to sit on the table – the kitchen table where we’ve eaten our dinner every evening for the last three years. He pulls a chair around and as he puts his feet on it he reaches for the silver candlesticks that we have had for as long as I can remember.
We barely used them when I was younger. Neither of my parents had ever been religious and we didn’t practise the traditions or rituals of our faith. That’s changed a little since coming to Prague. Only a little. Vati takes us to shul on Saturday mornings when he can, and every Friday night Mutti lights candles in these candlesticks and says a brachah – a blessing – over them. I like it: the feeling of being part of something bigger than myself.
And now, the soldier is waving the candlesticks at his friend as if they mean nothing at all. ‘What d’you think of these? They’d make a nice present for Helga, eh?’
One of the others makes a vulgar move with his body and replies, ‘Oh yes, she’ll be very grateful for a present like that!’
The soldier sitting on the table laughs as he reaches down to put them in his bag.
Vati is in front of him, his hands clasped together as if in a prayer. ‘I beg you,’ he says. ‘Please do not take them. They have been in my wife’s family for three generations.’
The soldier looks him in the eye and replies lightly, ‘Well, they’re not in your family any longer.’
‘Please, let us keep one thing. They are so special to us,’ Vati insists.
‘That is a good lesson to learn,’ the soldier says softly and for a moment I think he has understood how important they are and will let us keep them. Then, in a snarling voice, he adds, ‘Now you will understand
that you Jews own nothing!’
He jumps down from the table and shoves the candlesticks in his bag. ‘You’ve got twenty-four hours to pack,’ he says. ‘We’ll be back to move in tomorrow.’
Tomorrow? I am to pack the contents of my life overnight? What should I take this time? The last time I packed a case, I still thought fine dresses and shiny shoes were important and had packed them carefully with my other belongings. Something tells me I will have less reason to wear jolly clothes where we’re going.
Beckoning to the others to join him, the soldier crosses the kitchen. ‘One day,’ he repeats at the door. ‘We will be back for you tomorrow.’
When the soldiers have left, I head up to my bedroom to start the process of packing up my life once again. One thought comforts me amongst the horror.
After what has just happened, this house no longer feels like home. At least it won’t be quite so hard to leave it now.
LEO
I stood in front of my mirror and practised my smile until it looked convincing. Every morning I did the same thing before leaving for school. Mama had given up so much for us to have this opportunity and the Stewarts had been so incredibly generous.
The last thing any of them needed was to know how miserable I was at school.
Mama was in the kitchen with Mrs Stewart. They were sitting together at the table with cookery books spread out in front of them. I had never known Mama to have a best friend before, but since we’d been in England she and Mrs Stewart had been inseparable. Mrs Stewart had spent hours and hours with her, teaching her English, introducing her to people, helping her adjust to our new life.
The Stewarts had done at least as much for me. They’d found me a place at the local school. They’d converted Mr Stewart’s study into a bedroom for me. They’d even paid to have an English teacher visit twice a week to give me extra lessons.
I could speak pretty good English now. I just couldn’t get rid of my accent. That was the issue. Well, it was one of them. That and the fact that I still felt scared every time we left the house. I still flinched when anyone came to the door. I still expected to be told to stand up and move to the back of the room every single morning in assembly.
