Wunderland

by Jennifer Cody Epstein

  The plane lands to a sea of marching men in brown shirts, all perfectly united in rhythm and pace. Ilse knows all of this happened months ago, but her heart still pounds as the plane door opens and its passengers begin their descent: first Hitler himself, in his neat uniform and jackboots, his smile quiet and self-deprecating, almost shy. He is followed by a trench-coated Goebbels and then other members of the administration, mostly dressed in business suits.

  But on the tarmac, as in the theater, the crowd clearly only has eyes for their Führer. The camera pans across the outstretched arms and beaming faces of old and young alike, and their love seems to pass through the screen like light passes through glass, filling the breathless theater with that same sense of worship. Ilse all but feels it in the air, an extra current of excitement and adoration, heightened by a startling sense of proximity. For while she’s seen the German leader’s countenance a thousand times, she has rarely seen it like this: so close, so casual, so entirely alive that it seems possible he might turn his head to address her personally.

  Day turns to night, then back to day. They are now in a place so familiar that a murmur of recognition sweeps the rows of uniformed youths in the Palast: a Hitlerjugend campsite filled with circular tents, from which a thousand boys sleepily emerge and begin preparing for the day’s pageantry by bathing, eating, and doing calisthenics: a thousand Rudi Gerhardts joyously offering themselves up to Führer and Palast viewers alike. It’s so huge, Ilse finds herself thinking, and is unexpectedly awed by this realization. For how many times has she confided this in Renate: her desire to matter, to be part of something bigger? And yet even in her most hopeful moments, it never occurred to her that that something could ever be quite this big, this mammoth and panoramic in scale. It’s like spending one’s entire life knowing only a single constellation, then suddenly being shown an infinite universe full of stars.

  On the screen, Hitler is now addressing legions of young men bearing shovels. But again, it feels as though he’s really speaking to the room: “The whole nation will be educated by you,” he tells them. “And at this moment, it is not merely we here in Nuremberg. All of Germany sees you for the first time.”

  All of Germany, Ilse thinks, with the same shiver she’d felt upon realizing that millions might soon be reading her poem. But it’s more than simply the thrill of it she’s feeling. She is also, she suddenly realizes, so profoundly grateful. Not just that this man—this marvelous, miraculous man!—is saving Germany from enemies both beyond and within its borders, but that he’s offering her, Ilse, a role in this all-important battle. And as the Hitlerjugend line up before their namesake in scores of straight-edged blocks of two hundred, and as the surrounding stadiumgoers—thousands of men, women, and children, packed like sardines but clearly not minding it one whit—stand on tiptoe to cheer on the marchers and marvel, their chant (“One People! One Führer! One Reich! Germany!”) seems to be picked up by her own pounding pulse.

  Someone gasps aloud behind her, and twisting in her seat Ilse sees that District Leader Meindel is unabashedly weeping.

  Mädelschaftsführerin Meindel is one of Ilse’s favorite BDM leaders. Slight, dark-haired, and pretty, and still only in her midtwenties, she comes from a working-class background: her father, a fruit vendor, lost literally everything after the war. She’s told Ilse stories that make Ilse’s own childhood seem unspeakably luxurious: about being turned onto the street after the banks took her family’s flat. About having to move from house to house for over a year. About leaving primary school even though she loved reading and art and going to work in a factory, since her family needed the money.

  Since Hitler took over, however, Mädelschaftsführerin Meindel not only has been able to resume her studies but has a steady income from doing what she loves most: working with girls like Ilse. Even better, her father has not only climbed out of debt but been able to open up his own little grocery shop. Last autumn he even bought a car. “You can’t understand what the Führer means to us,” she said to Ilse over coffee once, “unless you understand what it’s like to live without hope. To wake up hungry. To constantly be running away from creditors.” She’d shaken her head. “To have all that gone! It’s like being brought back from the dead.”

  Ilse turns back to the screen. Now the sun is setting in Nuremberg; torches illume a thousand black-and-red flags carried in concert in the evening’s rally. Hovering over it all is an enormous gleaming eagle, wings outstretched. And in the center, on the podium, the great man stands alone. On his face Ilse sees something she’s never noticed before: a kind of sorrow, mingled with another emotion that at first she can’t quite put words to, until she recognizes that it is love. Hitler’s face, she suddenly realizes, is the face of a prophet. And even as she understands this she finds herself leaning forward, as though to bring herself as physically close to him as she can.

  “A year ago,” he begins, “we met for the first time upon this field of the political leaders of the National Socialist Party. They were brought here by nothing other than the call of their hearts. They were brought here by nothing other than their loyalty. It was the need of our people which moved us…and which brought us together. We wrestled and struggled together.” Around her, she senses the older members of the audience nodding; hears faint grunts of assent and agreement. One people, thinks Ilse. One Führer. One Reich. It’s like an incantation; a magic spell that makes them all as invincible as any righteous fairy-tale prince she has dreamt up for Renate in her stories. (A faint pang: she so wishes Renate were here to see this. But soon, she thinks. I’ll see it again with her soon.)

  Around the theater some people are starting to stand now: wave upon wave of them rising from their cushioned seats to join the thousands standing before them on the screen.

  “This is our vow tonight,” Hitler intones, his voice echoing in every corner of the vast hall. “Every hour, every day, think only of Germany. The people, the Reich, the German nation, and the German people!”

  And then: “Sieg Heil!”

  And from all around him and all around her the cry comes thundering back, each incantation louder and more potent than the last:

  “Sieg Heil!”

  “Sieg Heil!”

  “SIEG HEIL!”

  Ilse has also leapt to her feet, along with every other person in the room, so instinctively that she didn’t realize she was doing it. As she flings her hand toward the screen her voice joins the endless, reverberating chant that seems to somehow be filling the entire world; the words at once losing their meaning with repetition—SIEG-HEIL-SIEG-HEIL-SIEG-HEIL—and yet gaining something much deeper than mere words could ever embody. As the chorus reaches its crescendo she is almost physically lifted by its power: as though it, and not her own strength, is what is truly holding her up. It feels dizzying, but also exhilarating. As though she’s learning to escape earth’s gravity; to launch herself like a comet toward the sky, and fly.

  5.

  Renate

  1935

  “Can you speed up?” says Ilse. “You’re moving like my grandmother.”

  They have just emerged from the Wittenbergerplatz U-Bahn station and are standing on the street by its steps. Rather than speeding up, however, Renate stops altogether. “I’m sorry,” she says, and leans against one of the railings. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept worrying about the letter.”

  “I keep telling you. They probably won’t even ask for it.”

  “But what if they do? And what if they can tell?”

  Ilse heaves an exasperated sigh. “All right. Let’s see it, then.”

  Renate pulls the envelope from her satchel, then pulls the thrice-folded sheet of paper from the envelope. She hands it over, swallowing her anxiety as Ilse runs a well-chewed fingertip down each carefully typed line:

  Dear Fräulein von Schmidt:

  Please allow my daughter Renate to register as a H
itlerjugend Jungmädel and provide her with the appropriate physical exam: she has our full approval on both counts. I apologize that neither my wife nor I could accompany her today, but we’ve had a death in the family and must leave town immediately. Thank you for your consideration.

  Heil Hitler!

  Otto Bauer

  “Completely fine,” pronounces Ilse. “The signature is spot-on.” Folding it back up, she winks. “Next you’ll be pointing guns at bank tellers. You and Raina.”

  “Don’t say that!” Renate smacks her on the shoulder. “I already feel like a criminal.”

  Ilse laughs as her friend snatches the page back, carefully refolding it and stowing it in her skirt pocket. “Like I said,” she adds. “You probably won’t even need it. Ursula Koch said they didn’t even ask for hers. It’s just better to be safe.”

  She is in a good mood. In fact, she’s in the best mood Renate’s seen her in for weeks—probably because she’s just been offered a position as a junior reporter for the BDM monthly. Though her main job will be to write about BDM track events and charity drives, she is hoping to be promoted to more ambitious assignments—covering the lifestyles of German nationals living in the Sudetenland or Silesia, for instance. Or the Berlin Olympics next year. Or interviewing Triumph des Willens director and filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl—or (who knows?) even Propaganda Minister Goebbels himself. Renate sees her as a kind of uniformed Bette Davis in Front Page Woman, fighting to prove that girls can report the news too.

  Ilse’s face is bright, her hair tidy for once: two sleek Gretchen braids wrap her head, like a textured golden crown. The late-afternoon sunlight gives her pink skin a golden sheen and turns the loose white-blond tendrils of her hair silver. She is so brilliant, Renate thinks. And so pretty. And I’m so lucky to be with her. I’m so lucky that she has chosen me.

  “What is it?” Ilse is looking at her oddly.

  “Nothing.” Renate ducks her head. “I’m stupid today.”

  “You look nervous.”

  “I am.” Renate yawns. “Being tired always makes me anxious.”

  “Well, try to calm down. They’re not recruiting nervous wrecks.”

  “You’ll still wait for me during the exam, though, right?”

  “I’ve told you three times now—yes!” Ilse resumes walking, humming “Deutschland Erwache” under her breath and pulling Renate along like a mother towing a sluggish child. Renate finds herself almost stumbling to keep up. For an instant she imagines falling and simply staying there where she lands. And maybe going to sleep.

  For as usual, Ilse is right: Renate is a wreck. Her hands are clammy, her mouth dry, her stomach clenched in hungry resentment. She’d known it would be this way almost from the moment she switched her light off last night; had known the next eight hours would be filled with limb-tossing and sheet-thrashing. Her teeth and jaws ached from unconsciously grinding them, and her legs felt taut and jumpy, as though ready to run a race.

  Even more disrupting were her thoughts, though she’d tried to think of only good things—The House of Dora Green, which she and Rudi are going to see on Sunday. The special meal Maria’s promised her for her birthday next week. Rudi’s sea-glass eyes when he sees her in the navy skirt, the crisp white shirt. For in the end, of course, she is really doing this for him: her statue-perfect, beautiful boy.

  He’d come for her the day after the library incident. Renate had been waiting for Ilse in the Gymnasium courtyard, so buried in her novel that she didn’t even notice his approach. It was only when the page she’d been reading was suddenly obstructed by the Book Lady’s now-familiar depravity that she registered he was there, right behind her shoulder, smiling smugly.

  “So you apparently like books too,” he said, lifting a fine blond brow as she snapped the book—with its incriminating new content—quickly shut.

  “I do,” she’d managed, feeling like a deer in the limned spell of a hunter’s lamp.

  “I hope that one’s more decent than what I just put inside it.”

  “Oh, no.” Starting, she turned breathlessly to face him. “I mean, of course. It’s—” Lamely, she turned the cover to show him. “It’s about a Chinese family that goes from being very poor to being rich. She grew up in China, you know. The author, I mean.”

  “You should be careful,” he said sagely, “of American authors. A lot of them are Jews. But I do applaud that you’re interested in world events.” He smirked. “Among other things.”

  Renate felt her cheeks heat like small suns. “The card wasn’t mine,” she said quickly.

  “Oh? My mistake, then.” He held out his hand.

  “I mean,” she corrected herself quickly, “it was from my house, obviously. Well, not obviously. I mean, I did bring it in. But that was a mistake. Well, a kind of dare. And it really belongs to my brother.” She sounded, she realized, fully insane. She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Either way,” she went on, carefully, “you completely saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I have an idea.” He smiled a sleepy Cheshire Cat kind of smile, and for one dreadful moment she thought he was about to suggest something Book Lady–level filthy. But he simply said: “Let me walk you home from school. You can tell me more about your Chinese American lady writer, and I’ll tell you about my favorite German writer.” He winked. “That at least will be a start.”

  And he did, that afternoon and then nearly every afternoon thereafter when he didn’t have Hitlerjugend affairs. He carried her satchel and held the door for her, and even though he wasn’t particularly interested in the books Renate loved, he listened indulgently as she’d rattle on about them, just as she did when he’d quote from Mein Kampf and other writings of the Chancellor, for which he clearly felt an equal level of passion. By the second month he held her hand as they walked, and the month after that he put his arm around her in the Babylon, even as they both kept their eyes carefully trained on Tarzan and His Mate. After several more months of secret courtship (for Renate knew better than to introduce him to her parents; they’d forbid the romance in a heartbeat) they’d ceased to watch the movie at all. Instead, they spent the time twined together over the wooden armrest that separated their seats, their lips and tongues and limbs and fingers in various heated combinations, their breaths damp and quick in that darkened, flickering space. The way he looked at her in such moments—with vulnerability and pain, almost with a kind of reverence—made her think: This is it—this is what real love feels like.

  But last night, when she had tried to distract herself from her nerves by summoning those deliciously disorienting feelings, her brain had other ideas. Remaining rebelliously fixed on the next day’s application, it presented one calamitous scenario upon another: not just the Obergau Führerin seeing right through Renate’s application, but the letter slipping from her satchel like the Book Lady did in the library that day, landing face up at her mother’s or father’s feet. Or somehow ending up in her trigonometry homework bin, leading to expulsion. Possibly even imprisonment. Or what if rumors of the Book Lady incident–even though it happened nearly two years ago now—have somehow made their way to the Obergau Führerin? Rudi had scoffed at this idea, citing Renate’s “overactive imagination” (which he also called “adorable”). Overactive or not, Renate can still picture it all too easily: the woman in charge of her very future looking down at her with scorn and disgust. Ah. So you’re the one.

  Then there’s Renate’s terror of the physical examination itself. Both Rudi and Ilse have assured her that it’s nothing arduous; that the Party doctors just want to make certain she is of sound German stock. But Renate is still worried they’ll see how frail and weak she is and easily intuit that at school, she’s always picked last for games of football or Capture the Flag.

  Ilse, on the other hand, is always among the first. Strong and stocky, she can climb a rope and perform a cartwheel and the
n pinwheel around a metal bar in rapid sequence. When she flexes her biceps, its muscles rise like milky hills beneath her skin. When Renate flexes her biceps, nothing happens. There is just her arm, thin and floppy, as useless as an overcooked piece of spaetzle.

  If her muscles are soft, though, her resolve is firm: she will go through with this. No matter what. Everyone but her parents says it’s the right thing to do. The Chancellor himself would approve. After all, the very pledge of the Hitlerjugend (which Rudi had her memorize and recite to him until she got it completely perfect) states this fact: Leader and country before family. I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the savior of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God.

  Help me, God, Renate pleads silently now, nearly colliding into Ilse, who has come to a sudden stop.

  “This is it?” Renate asks. Ilse nods.

  Before them is a stern gray Volksschule whose thick walls and deep-set windows might have once housed Prussian warlords. Its modern-day purpose, however, is clearly marked: billowing between the roof and the first floor is the now-familiar scarlet banner, centered by a spidery black Hakencreuz. As they pass beneath it Renate finds herself glancing up at the arching doorway, half expecting steel spikes to trundle down in their wake. But the only thing moving is the red-white-and-black fabric, shivering in a breeze she cannot feel.

  Inside, the lobby is just as dark and ancient-looking. As her eyes adjust to the dimness she makes out two more banners on the walls, on either side of an enormous portrait of Adolf Hitler himself. The Chancellor holds a riding crop and glares balefully over her head, as though he’d been expecting someone far more important.

  Directly below the portrait is a curving center staircase, flanked on either side by a heavy oaken desk. The man sitting on the left side looks up and smiles briefly before going back to his paperwork. The woman on the right, however, stands up smartly and gives the Führer’s salute. The girls respond in unison—Heil Hitler!—and as always Renate thinks of Franz’s interpretation of the gesture (that it is only so stiff and upright because the men who invented it were compensating for less-erect parts of their bodies).