Part One

One

When their mother called them to leave their games in the garden and come back into the house, it was the beginning of something so unbelievably meaningful, so big and yet so problematical, so influential, so determining, so full of traumatic consequences and so absolutely shattering in their lives. At least that was what bothered his mind and sometimes his conscience through the later years of his more mature life.

“Boys! Where are you? Come back in, I want you here in the kitchen at once!”

This call wouldn’t have been such an unusual event - their mother often called them in from the garden, usually when lunch was ready - had it not been for the time of the day and for her tone. Manfred understood at once that there had to be some important matter, much more important than an announcement of potato soup and sausages. He did not know about Thomas, who was older but somehow less sensitive, but Manfred thought he could detect not only the importance of the matter at hand, but equally a slight concern or even worry in his mother’s voice. It was her wording as well as her forced tone.

When the boys arrived in the frame of the kitchen door, their mother was wiping her hands on her apron. She was such a beautiful woman, always pale and sometimes a little frail. But she maintained the authority required of all German mothers of her generation. A role, Manfred sensed, which did not always come easy to her. She seemed nervous. “I want you in the house because I just had a message from your father. He’ll be home earlier tonight because he has some great news. He asked us to prepare for a celebration.”

“What are we celebrating?” Thomas asked.

“Shall we get presents?” Manfred wanted to know.

“I don’t think so. But you will see. I don’t want to spoil your father’s joy in telling you himself. He’ll expect us to be ready for him when he comes home. So, quick, quick! We haven’t got a lot of time. Thomas, you take this brown purse and run to Frau Helmbrecht’s shop round the corner. Here’s a list of things I need.”

“But Mama, Father can bring all these things from his shop.”

“Don’t argue, Thomas. He’s not coming from his shop, he’s coming straight back from a meeting in town. And you, Manfred, you get the fine tablecloth from the bottom drawer in the sideboard and the fine silverware and lay the table for dinner in the dining-room. Don’t forget the Bohemian crystal glasses; they’re at the back of the middle shelf. Off you go, boys. I want your father to be proud of you.”

What could it be that was so important? Manfred was puzzled and a little apprehensive. He knew he couldn’t always rely on his parents’ word. Especially Father liked to announce things in a theatrical manner, usually standing in the middle of their living-room, so that you expected some really great things to follow. But more often than not, things turned out to be some silly news that only concerned the grown-ups. For the boys it was often a disappointment. He remembered the flamboyant announcement only just over a year ago, when it turned out Father had merely decided to refurbish his shop. Why should that have been of any concern to the boys? Sometimes he asked himself why parents did what they were doing. This puzzle, or rather the extended version of this question, was to become one of the repeated enigmas to occupy his adult mind: Why do people do what they do? He puzzled over the logical concept that there had to be reasons, ideas, objectives, motivations behind people’s actions.

* * *

Of his early childhood he would remember very little in later life. It was a peaceful period of unspoilt happiness, and he would remember it as a time of permanent summer with clear blue skies and comforting temperatures. He particularly liked to listen to the blackbirds in spring and to the rasping sound of the crickets in July. Despite the blissful nature of those early years, one of the earliest memories concerned his brother’s attempt at superiority. His brother Thomas, who was two years older and whom he admired in every possible way, was convinced that he was responsible for their games, their choice of trees to climb and the formation of all their friendships.

“Now, look here, Freddy,” he admonished him from time to time when his reign appeared to be questioned, “I’m a lot older than you. So, it’s only natural you should have to obey my orders. It’s the way of the world.”

Though he hated to be called Freddy, Manfred usually went along with this order of things. After all, this arrangement also had its advantages. Thomas’s spirit of adventure and courage was far greater than his own, which meant that the older boy initiated most of their more daring games and led his younger brother into many an adventure that Manfred wouldn’t have missed for anything in the world once he managed to look back after all had gone well. It certainly was the case with the huge oak that Thomas climbed first and that proved to become their look-out over several neighbours’ gardens. Under his leadership, the boys built what they considered their tree-house, which in time became Manfred’s favourite retreat, even long after his brother had lost interest in watching other people’s private activities in their back gardens. It was hardly a tree-house but rather a higgledy-piggledy accumulation of wooden pieces, boards, planks, rafters and the like which they could get hold of. The largest pieces came from a near-by building-site on the Galgenberg, appropriated on Thomas’s initiative and under his guidance.

Thomas was tall for his age, with dark brown hair that hung down in wisps over his eyes when he moved his head too quickly. He didn’t seem to mind that, and his younger brother often wondered how anyone could live with his hair in his face most of the time. Their mother, who seemed to be quite relaxed about their appearances as long as they didn’t get into real trouble with any of the neighbours, also tolerated it and only very occasionally remarked that he might need another haircut. He was her first born, clearly her favourite, and she considered him very handsome even from childhood. It was true, he had a winning smile on his broad face with prominent cheekbones, his brown eyes were beautiful, although he would often keep them narrowed to two slits, which, together with his relatively broad nose, gave him a slightly Mongolian look. One of his classmates would later call him Genghis Khan when he wanted to annoy him. Thomas didn’t mind what he looked like, certainly not during his childhood. Puberty and adolescence were still far away.

Manfred was different. In fact, he looked so different that people were often surprised to learn that they were brothers. He was a small boy, even small for his age, with very fair and curly hair, and with clear blue eyes. Also, he was rather shy and generally preferred to remain silent while all the other children fought over vocal supremacy. He just couldn’t see the point of raising his voice to convince others. He believed that truth and the right way of things would always win in the end anyway. He knew he wasn’t his parents’ favourite child, and he accepted the fact that whenever there was a treat for only one of them it was always his brother who would get it. However, as he approached kindergarten age, he sometimes thought he would show them all one day. One day they would all see what he could achieve. He sensed that you didn’t need to shout when you wanted people to listen to you. There appeared to be enormous charisma and a capacity to exercise power over others in a quiet and even voice if you put enough energy and conviction into what you were going to say.

Life in Thuringia in the 1920s was a strange experience, although the boys did not know this, being quite unaware of the social and political upheavals of the time when they attended the overcrowded kindergarten in Untermhaus, an older and more established quarter of their hometown of Gera. Their father explained to them why the area was called Untermhaus. It was because those streets were first developed and built up in the time after the Thirty Years’ War, in the 17th century, just below the castle - hence Unterm Haus - which dominated the valley. The Reussen Schloss obtained its name from the dynasty that had first built or at least first occupied it - in those days one never knew how legitimate such occupations were - and the name of course first means “Russians”. Later in life, Manfred would read that fascinating picaresque novel by the seventeenth-century writer Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, enjoying those long Baroque names, that early novel set in the Thirty Years’ War, where the Russians were still called “Reussen”. When he discovered that so many years later, he remembered his father’s explanation. But already during his childhood, Manfred had heard many interesting facts and stories about the castle and the Reuss dynasty. Father often told them stories about the development of the town, the various achievements of its inhabitants and particularly of Heinrich Posthumus, the Reussen prince who was born after his own father’s death - a fact that Manfred found hard to believe - and who founded the first high school or “gymnasium” for the boys of the town, back in 1608. When he died in 1635 his sons tried to govern the town together, but they couldn’t prevent the Swedes from burning it down in 1639, which was why the town had to be rebuilt in the following decades. Manfred found himself reminded of that part of local history again and again throughout his life. Somehow, the period of the Thirty Years’ War and the atrocities committed in those days never left his consciousness completely.

The town’s kindergarten in Untermhaus was a happy institution that allowed children of different ages to mix freely, so boys and girls from three to six played together very happily, and the young teacher managed to keep them in order very easily. After all, most children came from middle-class families that still kept up the old German virtues of strict obedience and military-like discipline. Thomas and Manfred were among the few children from more liberal-minded families. For them, kindergarten was great fun. At the time, it was the only such institution in Gera, and neither Thomas nor Manfred minded the fact that they had to walk the distance from their home on the Galgenberg all the way down and across the Elster to Untermhaus every morning and back again every afternoon. It took them about thirty-five minutes down and about forty-five minutes back up again. This was not only due to the geographical conditions but equally to the demands of their social life. Their house on the Galgenberg had only just been constructed, it was one of the first houses to be built in Ypernstrasse, sometime after the Great War, and it took well into the late 1930s for the remaining plots to be developed and built up. This meant that their home was cut off from most of their friends, up there on the Galgenberg, overlooking the town centre, almost like the Reussen Schloss, only on the other side of the valley. The area was to become a prime site of Gera in the 1930s, with National Socialist Party members having some of the finest villas built for themselves as long as their standing could afford it, and with Russian officers and administrators taking over after the Second World War. But at the time of Manfred’s childhood, the beautiful hill of the Galgenberg still consisted mainly of pastures and orchards, with the town’s cemetery further to the southeast on the slope of the hill.

When their house was built, their father considered this the peak of his financial success. He was a jolly man with a bald head and a round belly who liked to laugh a lot. His name was Thomas, like his first-born son’s. His delicatessen business in the Sorge, Gera’s main shopping street, was thriving indeed. His shop was the first delicatessen in Thuringia to import spicy Italian sausages, caviar from Persia, graved lax from Norway and real Emmental cheese from Switzerland. He sold a range of first-class cold meats and cheeses from France and Italy, as well as a large selection of sausages from every corner of Germany. His Hungarian paprika sausages, his Polish quail’s eggs and his stuffed vine leaves from Greece created quite a stir among the wealthy merchants’ families in the area. Though he did not see himself as a political man, he found it hard to go along with most of the other citizens of the town, who seemed to have given up all national pride after the Versailles Treaty and displayed a lazy laissez-faire attitude when it came to political opinions. Thomas Weidmann was different. He strongly believed that Germany got such a bad deal after the War that it had become a national duty to hold one’s head up again. So, when the still reasonably respectable NSDAP approached him with their reformist views he was really taken with the visions of a once again proud and self-confident Germany.

* * *

When Manfred entered the dining-room dressed up for dinner, he felt uneasy because it was really too early for dinner. Why all this fuss over some news their father had to tell them? His parents often exaggerated things. They liked to make a big deal about things that seemed uninteresting or irrelevant to Manfred. So, their big announcements often fell flat in an awkward anti-climax. It wouldn’t be any different this time, he was quite sure. But then there was that undertone of apprehension and worry that he had detected in his mother’s voice. What was it going to be?

Thomas joined him in the dining-room. Manfred, though in admiration of his elder brother, knew how much more gullible Thomas was, so he wouldn’t have any misgivings.

“Here’s your father,” came Mother’s voice from the hall.

Thomas Weidmann planted his portly figure in the middle of the hall carpet, placed his hat on the hat-rack, took off his raincoat and beamed at the prospect of his home and his family. The boys stepped into the hall and stood in front of their father, who didn’t give them his usual stern look, but produced a hardly perceptible smile. At least that was what it seemed to Manfred. Nevertheless, they did as was expected of them, standing still and upright in a row of two, like soldiers standing to attention in front of their officer. As usual, their father patted their heads, first Thomas’s then Manfred’s.

“I am so proud of you boys, and today you can be proud of your father,” he announced in a booming voice. Then he placed a quick peck on his wife’s cheek, mumbling, “You look absolutely ravishing today, Elfriede.”

“Well, let’s go to the dining-room first,” she suggested. “And listen, Manfred, you stop jerking your shoulder. It looks disrespectful.” She was right, of course. Manfred felt embarrassed about his bad habit of jerking his left shoulder whenever he was excited. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful. He just couldn’t help it.

They marched off, and in the dining-room they took their positions for important announcements made by their stern father, fully confident that behind that stern façade there was a liberal mind with a capacity for irony and a healthy sense of humour. Father placed himself in front of the fireplace, one hand on the mantelpiece, the other hand behind his back, his jacket open, displaying his fine silk waistcoat and the gold chain of his pocket-watch dangling across his round belly; his family facing him in a row of three at a distance of more or less exactly one metre fifty. This theatricality, Manfred had perceived long ago, was meant to lend more weight to whatever their father had to communicate. Whereas his mother and his brother seemed to be happy to go along with such a charade, Manfred couldn’t help feeling a little ridiculous. But he lacked the courage to do anything about it.

“Well then, my dears. Today you can be proud of your father. And listen, boys, in decades to come you will remember this as a historic moment, a moment which marked the beginning of your family’s participation in the noble rescue and rehabilitation of your Fatherland.”

He paused for a few seconds to let this sink in. Then he uttered a small puff through his rounded lips and continued.

“Today your father has joined the Party. It is the party that will save us all from the humiliations of our enemies in the Great War. It is a party that will give us all back our self-respect and our national pride. Yes, boys, I have joined the NSDAP. Now, what do you say to that?”

Manfred knew that no answer was called for. It was the usual rhetorical question at the conclusion of his father’s announcements in front of the fireplace.

So, the Weidmanns celebrated their father’s historic decision and accepted it as the right step to be taken in such a volatile political climate. Manfred had no idea how his brother saw it, but he felt that such a step could mean many things he couldn’t explain yet. Mother’s nervous reaction seemed enough to sense some degree of danger, while Father’s attitude opened the door to endless possibilities.

Over the following few years, everyone accepted the developments as inevitable. There was nothing one could do to influence the situation in the small town. To Manfred, it seemed that the authorities weren’t doing anything about the crowds of people loitering in the streets, the growing unrest over more and more unemployed men hanging around the town centre, smoking, talking in low voices, some of them shouting political slogans, others just staring down at the pavement in sad silence. But Manfred was just too young to understand. And while he could discuss practically everything else with Thomas, the political situation of the day was a topic which was always avoided between them.

While politics were still only a haze on the horizon of Manfred’s consciousness, albeit a haze that was charged with possibilities and future developments that might very well encroach on his own life one day, the here and now of his life at kindergarten and then at primary school absorbed the greater part of his energies, his happiness and his fears. The most powerful force that occupied his mind in the years following his father’s entry into the Party was the increasing unease about girls. Whereas girls had merely existed incognito alongside boys in earlier days, they now suddenly stepped out from obscurity and monopolised his awareness of the world, of himself, of everyone’s social behaviour.

In particular, there was a girl called Anna. She was slim and had long blonde hair with a touch of ginger, eyes as blue as Manfred’s, and she moved around the playground with a refreshing lightness. He sometimes stole a glance at her while she was jumping like a rubber ball round the big elm with Thomas and some other children, and it seemed to him that she could fly through the air. He also liked her bubbly laugh which sounded like a small silver bell from the distance. Manfred had always taken it for granted that Thomas was naturally entitled to the better treats in life. He got the larger pieces of cake on Sunday afternoons, he got the more valuable Christmas presents and he was the recipient of more attention when they had visitors. Manfred had never questioned that. So, it was also quite natural that his brother should get more attention from Anna when they walked home from school, first together as a crowd, then, as they passed their various friends’ homes, gradually reduced to the three of them. Anna was walking in the middle, Thomas to her right, Manfred to her left. Manfred wanted her to listen to him and to look at him, but she seemed to give more attention to Thomas. She seemed to laugh louder at Thomas’s jokes and she seemed to take a keener interest in his plans and visions. Feeling excluded, Manfred wanted her to turn her lovely face to him more often.

One day, when the brothers were on their way home, just the two of them, Thomas asked him, “What do you think of Anna?”

“I think she’s very nice,” answered Manfred carefully.

“You know what?” his brother asked. “I think she wouldn’t mind if I told you that she agreed to be my Schätzchen - my sweetheart.”

Manfred didn’t quite know what to do with this information. Nor did he know why his brother was telling him, but he was clearly puzzled. He had heard from other children that you ought to get yourself a Schätzchen sooner or later.

“So, what are you going to do with her?”

“Well, you know,” Thomas hesitated, “I don’t really know that I’m supposed to DO anything in particular. It’s more, like, you know, how we feel about each other. But now that you’ve asked, well, we might go for walks together.”

Manfred thought you could go for a walk with a girl without having to call her your Schätzchen. He himself liked Anna very much. Should he call her his Schätzchen, too? He wondered.

“Can she be my Schätzchen, too?” he asked.

“Of course not, you daft boy!”

“Why not? If you can, why can’t I?”

“Because, because, because... It’s very simple. A girl can have only one boy who calls her Schätzchen, and a boy can have only one Schätzchen. That’s how it is.”

“All right then,” Manfred stammered, “in that case I don’t want one. It’s too complicated for me.”

Thomas laughed. But despite his loud laugh he felt a sense of relief. How awful if his little brother had become his rival!

Manfred, on the other hand, was too young to know jealousy. If Anna could only be his brother’s Schätzchen, that would be all right. He could still enjoy looking at her, and she might also walk with him. What difference did it make?

Things changed when Thomas left kindergarten for school. All of a sudden, Manfred found himself in a new role, the role that his older brother had occupied before. Only about three weeks into the new school year, one morning in the playground of the kindergarten compound, Anna came up to him and asked him, “Will you walk with me after school?”

The children all referred to kindergarten as “school”, a habit that Thomas resented once he had joined proper school. He asked his younger brother to be more precise in this matter. So, Manfred found himself on the brink of correcting Anna, but when she gave him a playful wink, he discarded the impulse and just answered, “Of course, that would be fine.” He hoped she wouldn’t notice the slight jerking twitch in his left shoulder.

When, after school, they walked around the streets of Untermhaus, Manfred found it a very pleasant experience to have Anna to himself. Up until that day he had always been with her in the company of other children, mostly his elder brother. Now, alone with her, he was just a little excited. He didn’t know why, but it was a very good thing. They talked about the games they had played during the day and about their families.

“I’m an only child,” Anna explained. “So, I haven’t got anybody to play with when I’m at home. My parents say I can always bring home other girls to play with.”

Over the following months, the two became a fixed item. The other children accepted the fact that Manfred and Anna were together most of the time when it was possible. It was also clear to everyone that the two of them shared everything. If you told Manfred a secret, you could count on Anna to be informed, and vice versa. One evening, walking up the Galgenberg after saying good-bye to her at her garden gate, Manfred remembered his discussion with his brother about a Schätzchen. He smiled to himself, confident that by now Anna was his. He had no need to call her Schätzchen, because they had a tacit understanding that they belonged together, at least for the foreseeable future.

One of the places that they felt particularly pleasant was the huge sandpit at the back of the kindergarten compound, a happy place where many other children liked to play too, but Manfred’s new roads through the sandy mountains were only embellished by castles and turrets along the way by Anna. No other child cared about the artistry of his even roads and daring tunnels. One afternoon in September, Manfred was digging a tunnel through the sand, his right hand already into the tunnel nearly up to his elbows, when all of a sudden, his hand was met by Anna’s hand, digging from the other side. Both of them worked quickly to shovel out the remaining sand at both ends, which finally allowed their hands to clasp each other in the middle of the tunnel. They held on to each other for several minutes, while neither of them spoke a word. They just smiled over the top of the sandy mountain and enjoyed the feeling of secrecy. What an adventure! Holding on to each other’s hands when nobody could see or know about it!

Suddenly Wolfgang, the pompous bully, stomped over the top of the sandy mountain and crushed the tunnel underneath. It was the end of a magic moment for Manfred and Anna. They never repeated that special digging adventure, but they would never forget that magic moment.

The children were still blissfully unaware of what was going on in the big world around them. The adult population, on the other hand, felt themselves gathered into a maelstrom of social and political developments that allowed no sentimentality. One had to make hard decisions. Thomas Weidmann also found himself in an uncomfortable dilemma over his allegiance to the Party.

While he was proud and satisfied over some of the measures backed by the Party because they promised to fight the terrible evils of mass unemployment and galloping inflation even before the Crash of 1929, he was made increasingly uneasy by some of the slogans emerging from some hardliners in the Party. He was particularly disgusted by the stupid and short-sighted opinions about foreigners, Jews and Gypsies, propagated by certain Party members. He found it unfair, because he knew that many of the industrialists of the town who managed to attract all those commissions from Russia during the two years following the great Crash - commissions that secured thousands of jobs for the people of Gera - were in fact Jews. Without the so-called Russenaufträge, the working population of the town would have been a lot worse off. Also, many of his friends and customers were Jews, and he tried to maintain a balanced view on the causes and effects of the War. The Siegermächte may very well have treated Germany very badly at Versailles, but then he had to admit that his beloved Fatherland was certainly not without blame either, if one wanted to be fair. Also, if the German government wanted its old enemies to relent and allow Germany to become great again, if one was hoping for a remission of debts and for permission of rearmament, then wouldn’t it be a lot wiser to be proactive in diplomacy, rather than to antagonise all the other nations?

Early one Saturday evening in the summer of 1932, he attended a political gathering in the market square. There were men in brown shirts and black boots, with black leather belts and red armbands displaying black swastikas in white circles, standing in rows around the square as if they had to guard the entire gathering. He suddenly felt cold and terribly uneasy. Fear crept up in him. Was this going to be the new healing force for Germany? He began to doubt his own role in the midst of all those over-confident faces. To him, they had a threatening aspect. Flags were waved, a military band played several brisk marches, and then there were speeches. Thomas listened to all three speakers very carefully and was horrified. What these men advocated amounted to sheer stupid blindness. To him, the Jewish population, together with all the other minorities attacked by those hardliners, formed part of German culture, they were all part of German heritage. He wondered why nobody in that crowd seemed to realise that what was being put forward was against the principles of mutual human respect, principles that Thomas considered of prime importance. He also found it absolutely unacceptable that all three speakers referred to British and American politicians as well as international banking and business leaders as “the Jewish Conspiracy”, blaming them for all the evils and all the social problems in Germany.

On that day, Thomas went home a disillusioned man.

Only a few weeks later, on the 13th of September, the National Socialist government of Thuringia dismissed the mayor of Gera, Dr Arnold, along with his assistants, and the Staatsbeauftragte Dr Jahn established his direct dictatorial rule over the town. When Thomas Weidmann was told this bad news in the afternoon, he was truly shocked. The old mayor had been elected, whereas this new Staatsbeauftragte had no democratic legitimacy. This was the end of democracy for Gera and probably for the whole of his Fatherland. In the evening, he went home to his house on the Galgenberg, assembled his family in the living-room and told his wife and his children that he was leaving the Party. Their ideals no longer had anything to do with his world and his convictions. They were an uneducated and uncultured Lumpenpack - a pack of scruffy scoundrels. Criminals.

His wife Elfriede seemed relieved when he told her, for she had already felt rather uneasy about everything that she heard from the National Socialists, but she hadn’t wanted to contradict her husband. She was a weak and frail woman, very thin and very pale. Her skin had an almost bluish hue, and her grey eyes looked quite sad. She never spoke against her husband’s wishes. In fact, several of the Weidmanns’ friends thought she behaved like a slave. But the truth was that her husband was a very gentle and considerate man. He was always kind to his wife and never even raised his voice in her presence. Quarrels were extremely rare, and differences in opinion were usually resolved by her leniency. To those of her friends who made critical remarks about her weakness, she justified herself that she was just very happy in her role of voluntary submission. For her, it was the proper role of a good German housewife. Everything in their marriage appeared to contribute to their common bliss. If only it hadn’t been for her poor health.

A few days before Christmas, one of his customers chatting with him in the delicatessen shop mentioned the greatness of Adolf Hitler. Thomas Weidmann hesitated before he carefully answered, “I’m not so sure about him. He seems a bit too radical for my taste.” He did not dare to go any further in his mild criticism. This might be a secret agent, one could never know.

“Come on now, Herr Weidmann, a businessman like you must be in full support of Hitler. Men like you have the potential to become the true backbone of our great nation. You should read the new book that’s only come out. It’s about the Party, about its history.”

“How can anyone write a book about the history of a political party that’s only been tottering about for a decade or so?”

“Oh, you see, Herr Weidmann, this is a very clever book. Konrad Heiden, the man who wrote it, indeed calls it History of National Socialism, but what he gives us is a view into the glorious future of the Party and our glorious Fatherland. So, it’s a case of future history, very clever, can’t you see?”

Thomas Weidmann mumbled, “That looks like a contradiction.”

The man looked at him with big eyes. He was clearly fascinated by this new book. Such gullibility could hardly come from a secret agent, Thomas thought.

Walking home in the evening, Thomas Weidmann thought about what that customer had told him. If indeed such a book had been published, he had to get hold of it. Two days later he got it, and between Christmas and New Year he sat down in his study every evening after Elfriede had gone to bed and devoted his attention to Konrad Heiden’s new book. As he read page after page, a gradual feeling of unease rose in him. What this book showed him was not really Adolf Hitler’s greatness, but rather his despotic methods and his hypocritical and dangerous rhetoric. It pretended to show the way towards the country’s future greatness, but if you could read between the lines, as it were, you could see a clear warning. Such a leader might easily lead the country into total disaster.

Finishing the book, Thomas felt a cold shiver down his spine. He had been right to leave that Lumpenpack, and it was only to be hoped that the intelligent people in the country would eventually succeed in getting the people away from such a Rat-catcher of Hamelin.

* * *

Life for Manfred became more serious when he moved up through school. He was placed in the same class as Anna, but they were not allowed to sit together. The girls were seated in one row, the boys in another, and school life gradually took on a more military-like atmosphere. Their teacher sometimes yelled at them like a drill-sergeant, and he wanted them to stand up straight, put their heels together, keep their arms stiff down their sides and always address him as “Herr Lehrer”. When their country had elected a new Reichskanzler in January 1933, the teacher explained the importance of this event to the children.

“This new Führer of our Fatherland is going to save us all from those who only want to destroy our nation, our culture and our German heritage.”

Manfred wondered who that might be, who wanted to destroy the country. He was too young to understand politics. After school, he asked Anna.

“Do you understand our teacher? What does he mean when he speaks of those who want to destroy us? Who are they?”

“I don’t really know,” Anna answered, “but my father says it is the Jewish Conspiracy.”

Neither of the children knew what the “Jewish Conspiracy” was supposed to be. They both knew several Jewish families in Gera, but they couldn’t connect them with any conspiracies. They discussed the word “conspiracy” and came to the conclusion that it had to mean something like getting together to plan evil things. But neither of them could imagine any of their Jewish friends being involved in evil plans. Manfred thought of Isaac, a very nice boy, about the same age, the son of his father’s business acquaintance Mr Rosenbaum. The Rosenbaums sometimes came to lunch on Sundays. Mrs Rosenbaum was a very sturdy woman, always very charming and cheerful, and she always brought some sweets for the boys when they visited. Isaac was a very gentle boy, and Manfred really admired him a little because he was so clever and so knowledgeable.

Anna said she also liked their Jewish neighbours, the Mendelssons, but her father had already warned her not to become too intimate with them. They couldn’t really be trusted. “So perhaps we’d better be careful,” she mused.

“I don’t care what they say,” Manfred stated categorically, “I won’t believe that Isaac has anything to do with any conspiracy. He’s a really nice chap, and I like him a lot.”

They left it at that.

A new development in Manfred’s life was his relationship with Wolfgang. The big boy with his rasping voice and his bullying manner used to be someone to be avoided. Manfred even used to be a little afraid of him. And now, gradually, Wolfgang became more agreeable, and before long Manfred began to like him. When Anna asked him about Wolfgang, it came as a revelation to him that one could actually change one’s feelings towards another person in such a way that he found it hard to explain his new attitude to her. All he managed to say by way of an explanation was, “I was wrong about him. He’s actually quite nice.”

Anna accepted this. She admitted to herself that if there was one thing about Manfred that she particularly admired it was his easy way of finding other boys “nice”. To her, this was a sign of a gentle nature, a positive view of humanity.

Only just over three weeks later, the country was shocked because some Communist - a Dutchman, a foreigner, of course - had set fire to the Reichstagsgebäude, the National Parliament Building in Berlin. In Gera, two days earlier, Dr Jahn had dismissed many of the local councillors and appointed new ones from his own party, the NSDAP. The official explanation was that it was done in order to strengthen the local government against the threats of the Communists. Again, Manfred and Anna discussed these events. They had heard about the evil nature of Communists before, but this was really too much. And when the media reported the national duty to eliminate all Communists and supported the stricter measures taken by the government, the children thought they understood the logics of it, but Manfred couldn’t help feeling uneasy when he watched the faces of the men marching through the streets in their brown uniforms and their polished boots.

However, as the months went by, the political indoctrination, which had crept in on them so surreptitiously at first, gradually became more recognizable. Big new swastika flags were set up in every corner of their school building, and at the front of their classroom, on the wall just above the blackboard, there was a large portrait of the new Reichskanzler, Herrn Adolf Hitler. Every morning, their school day would begin with the singing of the national anthem, all children standing straight behind their desks and raising their right arms stretched out in a stiff salute. When the singing was over, the teacher would ask with a firm and strict voice, “Who is going to save our Fatherland?”

“It is our Führer, Herr Lehrer!” the children had to shout at the top of their voices. After which ceremony they could sit down, and regular teaching would begin. This routine persisted over the next six years, and before they realised what was going on, the children found themselves at an age where they began to ask some new questions and gradually understood that they had to make some important decisions for life. While they were learning to add and subtract, to multiply and divide, to spell correctly and to understand the intricate rules of German grammar, to know the secrets about plants and the anatomy of the most common domestic animals, things were easy, though some of the ideas about human races that entered the curriculum in biology seemed to Manfred to be the teachers’ particular hobby-horses. When they were learning about geography, naturally it was quite straightforward, where towns, rivers and mountains were on the map, the names of the world’s capital cities and the oceans around the globe, but their teachers began to add political aspects wherever they could. For example, it took Manfred by surprise to learn that certain countries were geologically so deprived and had such a poor climate that it affected their inhabitants over generations so that they became underdeveloped, some even became Untermenschen, inferior human beings. America was particularly affected, and that was why they had so many Jews. When it came to history and Reichskunde, things really amounted to pure political propaganda. The children learned about the rightful claims of the German race, indeed the Aryan race, over vast portions of Europe and beyond.

In the early years, Manfred and Anna would sometimes discuss these elements of their curriculum, and they both felt sorry that some of their old songs were frowned upon, some music was declared un-German and more and more books were banned by the teachers. As time went by, however, they tended to steer around such discussions, and they gradually learned to avoid any critical remarks about some of the more debatable things that they had to study for school. Besides, their curriculum was so demanding that it left them very little time to speculate over the relative importance or the future relevance of their subjects. They admired Wolfgang’s ease with which he seemed to sail through the subjects. After every test, Wolfgang came off with flying colours.

For Manfred, the best side of those years was his friendship with Anna. Thomas had long lost interest in her, and Manfred observed that his brother liked to walk home with another girl from his class. Her name was Charlotte. She was taller than Anna and had nice brown hair. Manfred did not really get a chance to get to know her; Thomas seemed to hide her from his younger brother. As the months went by, the two brothers, though still very close in their home and in matters of boys’ activities and interests, drifted apart when it came to girls. They no longer exchanged their impressions about particular girls, and they no longer talked about what they would like to do with a girl once they found themselves alone with one. Such discussions had never had any connection with what Manfred really felt for Anna and what they did when they were alone together. What the brothers had been imagining was childish and sprang from boys’ fantasies anyway. Sometimes Manfred regretted the loss of their former intimacy, and he wondered if it might have something to do with the way things had gone with Anna.

More and more of the children’s energy became absorbed by sports. Both Weidmann boys loved the challenge of athletics, and while more and more of their school life became regulated by Party rules and political propaganda, their sports activities left them a space of relative freedom. They enjoyed the camaraderie and the spirit of a common interest which they experienced in the sports club. Thomas was fifteen and Manfred was thirteen when they became fully immersed in their sports activities. While Thomas excelled in such disciplines as middle distance running and high jump, Manfred found the 100 meters and long jump more to his liking. And since both boys were growing fast they soon joined the basketball teams of their sports club, too. It was a happy time, and they did not mind the fact that they were only allowed to run or jump in their sports outfit with the swastika on their chests. Such emblems had meanwhile become normal elements of their lives so that hardly anybody took note of them these days.

When Manfred wasn’t busy for school, engaged in activities of the Hitlerjugend or occupied by his sports activities, he liked to go for walks along the Elster with Anna, although a great deal of her time was also taken up by her activities in the BDM - the so-called Bund deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls - and her role in the girls’ volleyball team. While her activities as a Jungmädel in the BDM took place in sports halls and in parks where Manfred couldn’t see her, he had the opportunity to admire her from time to time during her volleyball training. Often, he would meet her after her volleyball. Early one Friday evening, he entered the sports complex a bit earlier than usual. The girls were still playing their game of volleyball. Manfred spotted Anna at once. Though he had seen her regularly over the past years and never questioned the fact that he knew what she looked like, she suddenly seemed to look different. At first, he thought it had to be her seriousness and her commitment to the game, but then he realised it was her figure. When she jumped in the air to slap the ball the front of her sports shirt jumped, too. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her newly discovered femininity, the beautiful round shapes of her breasts. Up until now, she had just been his best friend, but this discovery gave him a stab in his stomach, and he realised he had to see her in a new light. She was becoming a woman, a real woman with a woman’s breasts and more rounded buttocks. After his initial shock, he had to admit to himself that this new discovery made him very happy in a way he had never experienced happiness before. He decided to treat her with even more respect than before. She deserved it. She was so beautiful. He would never forget this moment, his first glimpse of Anna as a woman.

One afternoon that summer, Manfred wanted to meet his old friend Isaac. They had arranged to do some of their maths homework together. When he arrived at Isaac’s house he found the door closed and no one seemed to be at home. One of the neighbours, a stout woman with a ruddy face and an ugly headscarf tied at the back of her head, looked over the fence, broom in hand, and brusquely asked Manfred what he wanted there.

“Can you help me, please? I’m looking for Isaac. I arranged to meet him. Do you know where he might be?”

“That whole Jewish lot ran away last night. The cowards sneaked off in the middle of the night. Well, good riddance, if you ask me.” She snorted through her pressed lips and threw him a significant glance charged with self-righteousness.

Manfred didn’t know what to say. On one hand, he was shocked. Why did they leave so unexpectedly and without saying good-bye? On the other hand, he began to think that perhaps there was some truth in what people were saying about Jews. They just couldn’t be trusted. Everybody was saying it, especially his leaders in the Hitlerjugend, a movement that Manfred had been forced by peer-pressure to join like all his classmates. And then there was Anna, who had told him that Wolfgang had explained to her how the banning of Jews was an international thing, it was the way of the modern world. The English also banned Jews from becoming boy scouts or girl guides. And from his history lessons he knew that the Russians had already persecuted the Jews in the 19th century because they were mean swindlers and criminals and the non-Jewish population had to be protected from them. So, the Jews must be a very treacherous race, after all. He must have been deceived by his former friend Isaac. Manfred knew that he was not in agreement with his father’s views in this matter. In fact, both boys thought their father was a blind romantic. Whenever it was reported that yet another Jewish family had disappeared from Gera, he said he was very sorry. One day, shortly after their mother had been sent to a health spa in Czechoslovakia, they had a fierce argument. It began with their father’s report about the disappearance of a Jewish family that he used to know very well.

“What a pity the Levis from Weimarer Strasse have left. They were such nice people and good customers. You know, boys, I used to play cards with Chaim Levi, and he–”

“–Filthy people!” Thomas interrupted his father, “We’re better off without them.”

“How can you speak about the Levis like that?”

“They were thieves and swindlers. Everybody knows that. We were just taken in by them. They were never really part of our town. They never really belonged. They can’t have made their money in any rightful way. You can’t believe that.”

“And Wolfgang told me,” Manfred joined in, “that they were lucky they weren’t arrested for worse crimes. Very cowardly of course, to sneak off like that in the middle of the night.”

“Yes,” Thomas added, “they say they were really American spies.”

“Nonsense!” their father shouted. “I knew them very well, and I can tell you they were perfectly honest.”

“And I can tell you,” Thomas snarled back, “you’d better not say such things when other people can hear.”

“What next!” His rage mounted, as he could sense his authority melting away in front of his sons. “I can say what I like in my own house.”

While their father grew angrier and angrier by the minute, his sons remained relatively calm. They knew they were on the winning side. The whole country was behind them. Their father’s romantic views belonged to the past. And as the sons knew very well, these days, such blindness was even becoming dangerous.

Thomas said to his brother, “Come, let’s go. We don’t want to be associated with such seditious babble.” Of course, he wanted Father to hear this. The provocation was fully intentional.

The boys didn’t know that their disrespectful behaviour towards their own father was the result of two strong factors, puberty and political indoctrination. These two forces united in their minds and set them more apart from their father as the months and years went by. While their father could cope with the rebelliousness of his sons’ puberty, he found it an almost impossible task to save them from what he considered the dangerous and inhuman influence of their teachers, their sports coaches, their peer groups and the general hysterics in public life. He hadn’t even been able to make them see the terrible danger of the new legislation on racial segregation that the Führer had announced at Nuremberg recently.

They left their father sitting at the dinner table. Only three years earlier, such rebellious behaviour would have amounted to an act of high treason within their family, deserving the harshest punishment. But these days, Father’s pompous ways were getting him nowhere, and with Mother’s absence, the mitigating factor had also disappeared. Manfred could see that his father’s face was swollen with anger and disappointment. But this wasn’t the time for sentimentality. If they, as members of the Hitlerjugend, were going to be the builders of the new Germany, they had to place public well-being above petty little family disputes. They didn’t want to be left out of things on the dawn of the new Germany. They wanted to be part of it. Surely, this was a truly noble aim. As the Führer had said in his recent radio broadcast, this was the beginning of a new era, the future would be a future without Untermenschen, and the German Empire would last for a thousand years once it had got rid of all the undesirable elements.

Two

It was a grey Thursday afternoon when Manfred came home from school earlier than on other Thursdays because their history teacher was absent, attending some further training course on new research findings about the origins of the German people. The headmaster said the school was understaffed since they had lost two of their teachers recently, the maths teacher Dr Feigenbaum and the physics teacher Herrn Kahn, who had both disappeared unexpectedly, which had caused the headmaster not only to drop a number of maths and physics lessons but also to refuse to ask other teachers to replace any of their absent colleagues. This was his personal protest aimed at the education department of Thuringia, who should have sent more teachers to replace those who had left. After all, the headmaster had lost seven teachers in the course of the past eighteen months, and all without pre-warning. His protest led to an increase in free lessons for the pupils.

Manfred closed the garden gate and stepped up to the front entrance. He had hardly closed the front door and reached the hall when the telephone rang. This was still an unusual occurrence since it had been only about three months ago when they’d got their telephone. There weren’t many of his classmates whose parents had a telephone, but several houses on the Galgenberg had them. At that time, the telephone was primarily considered to be a communication tool for business purposes. Who needed such a contraption for private conversation? That was considered an absurd luxury by the general public. Naturally, Father had one in his delicatessen shop in the Sorge, so whoever wanted to reach him could call him there. And it was only two years ago when the telephone network in Gera was upgraded to a self-dialling system. Before that time, you had to call the operator to get a connection. Father told the boys that Germany was at the head of technical development in Europe. Three decades later in England, Manfred would remember this when you still had to get through the operator in Britain. But now, in the mid-thirties, he still felt very nervous when he had to answer the telephone. After all, it was a pretty strange thing to be talking to someone you couldn’t see face to face. So, it was with mixed feelings that he picked up the receiver from the hook on the new contraption hanging on the wall, opposite the clothes-rack in the hall.

“Hello, this is Manfred Weidmann speaking.”

“Oh, good afternoon. This is Dr Wolfsohn calling from the St Wenzel Sanatorium in Karlsbad. Can I speak to your father, please?”

“I’m sorry. My father is not here. But I think you can reach him in his shop.” Manfred read the telephone number of his father’s shop from a notepad by the telephone and wondered why the doctor from the sanatorium wanted to talk to Father. It must have something to do with Mother; perhaps they wanted to change her treatment. He was worried. Could it be a more serious situation? He was never told what Mother’s illness was, and neither was Thomas, or he would have told him. Two months ago, they had driven to Karlsbad in their new car to visit their mother at the sanatorium. Their new car, yet another emblem of middle-class affluence becoming quite common on the Galgenberg, was a dark blue Adler saloon-car with a sliding sunroof. Father had insisted it was a German car of the highest quality. Manfred liked the musty smell of its leather seats and the comforting purr of its engine.

After he’d rung off, he sat down at the kitchen table to do his homework. He opened his English book and began to memorise the list of three dozen irregular verbs that they had to learn for the test on Friday. Some were dead easy, others were quite tricky. Easy ones were verbs like “put, put, put”, “hit, hit, hit” or “cut, cut, cut” where all three forms were identical. Difficult were verbs like “come, came, come”, “hold, held, held” and others where you were never quite sure which of the three forms was different from the others, the present, the past tense or the past participle. And the really tricky ones were verbs like “lie, lay, lain” and “lay, laid, laid”, even the regular verb “lie, lied, lied” because it was so like an irregular one, those were verbs you could mix up so easily. Manfred was sure the teacher would try to trick them on these on Friday. Herr Frank was an unpredictable teacher, some of Manfred’s friends said that was because he had been abroad for too long. Everybody knew he had spent at least a whole year in Great Britain, and of course it was general knowledge that he must have got under the influence of lots of Jews and Gypsies over there. So, he could probably not be trusted one hundred percent. All the boys expected some foul-play from Herrn Frank, even though they had no concrete reasons for that. There were moments when Manfred found himself liking Herrn Frank - who, one had to admit, sometimes gave them proof of a very pleasant sense of humour - but it was only a fleeting whim that he immediately dismissed from his mind because he felt he had to go along with the other boys, who had to be right. Herr Frank was bound to have been infected by Jewish tricks during his time in such an untrustworthy society. Their history teacher had given them some examples of how the Jews dominated public life in Britain, particularly the British banking system, which in turn dominated the world of business all over the world. That was one of the things that the new Germany saw as its duty to rectify.

His thoughts drifted off, away from English grammar and irregular verbs. He remembered their last visit to Karlsbad in the Adler. Mother had been sitting in a wicker-chair under a group of very old trees in the large park at the back of the main building of the Sanatorium. There was a Scottish tartan rug in red and green spread across her legs, even though the weather seemed quite warm to Manfred.

“I’m so happy to see my dear boys,” she said, when Manfred stepped up to her. She gave both boys an extremely long and tight embrace. And Manfred could detect a tear running down her left cheek. He wondered what could have made her so sentimental. It wasn’t her usual way.

Manfred liked his mother’s aura, her smell, the touch of her cheek when she kissed him, and he felt safe in her embrace. He was sad that her embraces had become a lot rarer over the past year or so. Also, they had become physically altered, somehow, he wasn’t quite sure why. Could it be that she looked thinner and her bones stuck out more clearly? Did her tears have anything to do with her emaciated appearance and her pale blue complexion? While she was talking to Father, Manfred observed her body language and her general appearance, and it struck him that he didn’t really know his own mother. Was this pale, thin, fragile wisp of a woman really his mother? Was this the jolly, well-proportioned and well-balanced woman he had known in his early childhood? Where was her charming smile and her full face? Where had her air of self-confidence gone? Looking at her now, Manfred felt sorry for her and mysteriously estranged from her. He had to fight off a cold shiver down his spine, and all of a sudden, the day had lost some of its generally agreeable and comforting atmosphere. Thinking back to this moment in years to come, he became convinced that that afternoon in the park at Karlsbad had really marked the end of his childhood. It was the moment when he realised that he wouldn’t have his mother forever. It was his first taste of human mortality, although he couldn’t have expressed it as such at the time.

Their parents talked about the good air of Karlsbad, the healing power of its waters, the efficiency of the doctor and the nurses, and eventually the boys were sent on an errand to fetch the German paper from the Sanatorium’s reception area, an errand they knew was just a pretext to get them out of the way while their parents were discussing things the boys weren’t meant to hear.

When the boys returned with the paper, Manfred had the impression that their father looked more earnest. They handed him the paper, and while Mother was chatting to Thomas about his progress at school, Manfred was observing their father. As he was turning the pages of the paper, the frown on his face was getting deeper by the minute.

“The Führer really seems to have lost his mind,” he said, shaking his head.

“Father! How can you say such a thing?” Thomas countered.

“Well, just read the papers. His new legislation–”

“Oh, please, stop it!” Mother begged, “I don’t want any arguments between you, and I don’t want to hear about politics. Everyone seems to go on and on about things the Führer is going to do, especially the Czech nurses.”

Although they respected their mother’s wishes, Manfred could hear his brother mumbling under his breath, “And they’ve certainly got their reasons.”

It was difficult to open another topic, so their visit drew towards its end. The boys said their good-byes and their parents embraced in a controlled manner.

So, what could be the matter with Mother now? Manfred, sitting over his English grammar, alone in their big house, found it hard to concentrate on his homework. He hoped his father would return from work soon, so he could tell them what the doctor had told him about Mother’s health. It could very well be good news. Mother might be released and come home, a healthy woman again.

The front door opened, and Father stepped in. His manner was brisk and business-like. He didn’t lose a lot of words, but merely informed Manfred that he’d come home earlier because he had to drive to Karlsbad.

“It’s about Mother. I’ll leave the shop in Herrn Wachtveitl’s hands while I’m away.” Herr Wachtveitl was his Bavarian office clerk, an able man with a funny accent and a ruddy face. “He can look after things in my absence. Now, be a good boy and tell Thomas when he gets home. Frau Müller can cook for you, I arranged it with her.” Frau Müller was their neighbour in the dark green house behind the tall fir-tree. This wasn’t the first time she was helping the Weidmanns in an emergency.

After a very quick good-bye, Father was out of the door again, and Manfred could hear the engine of the Adler being revved up. Looking out of the kitchen window, he could see the car reversing into the street and then shooting forward in the direction of the broader street leading down to Berliner Strasse.

The house was very quiet. Manfred could hear the ticking of the hall clock.

It was in the evening three days later when Frau Müller came over with a saucepan full of carrot soup, two pairs of Viennese sausages and a chunk of dark bread for the Weidmann boys. She placed the food on the table, where the boys had already laid out their water glasses, their plates and cutlery. She heaved a deep sigh which told Manfred that she had something to say to them.

“Well, well, my boys, it’s a sad business,” she began. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

Thomas looked up from his soup and demanded, “What is it, Frau Müller?” But Manfred didn’t need to ask, he already knew.

“It’s your dear mother. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you. You see, she passed away peacefully this afternoon. I had a phone call from your poor father. He begged me to tell you immediately, tonight.” She slowly walked round the table while she told them, and when she had delivered the bad news she stood behind the boys and placed her heavy hands on their shoulders for comfort.

Thomas looked down, staring at his bowl of soup as if he could see their mother in the food. Manfred couldn’t help himself; the tears ran down his cheeks and he couldn’t keep his jerking left shoulder under control. He tried to be brave. After all, bravery was one of the virtues that education had been trying to breed in boys of his generation. But he just couldn’t help himself. He felt embarrassed in front of Thomas, who managed to take it so bravely. Not a sound emerged from him, not a single sign of emotion. He just stared down. Manfred stood up and climbed up the stairs, reached his room and closed the door behind him.

Through the rest of the evening and through the whole night, he had the impression that the house was particularly quiet. He listened carefully from time to time. There was nothing but complete silence. For Manfred, this was the silence of the angel of death, a notion he had picked up from one of their old aunts the year before, when there was a distant death among her acquaintances. He had no idea what or who the angel of death was. Now he imagined it to be some kind of ghost that visited every living being who had known the deceased person. So naturally, it was also visiting them now.

He couldn’t go to sleep because his head was full of memories and conflicting emotions. He remembered the comforting warmth of his mother’s embraces, her blue eyes, her smiling face, her gentle voice and her serving attitude, especially towards her husband. Manfred didn’t know if he should blame his father for his mother’s sad life. But then he wasn’t so sure if her life had really been so sad, after all. Didn’t she love her husband? He had never seen his parents exchanging caresses or other tokens of love. The kisses that they exchanged were more perfunctory than tender, and he thought he couldn’t remember them ever looking at each other with any degree of true affection.

It was early morning when he finally dropped off into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Elfriede’s death marked the end of the Weidmann family as it had existed in their grey house on the Galgenberg. It affected her widower as well as her two sons, each in different ways.

The widower, Thomas Weidmann, delicatessen merchant and shop-owner, liberal-minded free-spirit and romantic, admirer and sponsor of the arts and head of the respected Weidmann family on the Galgenberg, a true man of substance in many respects, was so shattered by his beloved wife’s untimely death that he seemed to lose his hold on things. He no longer uttered any of his former romantic notions, he no longer opposed his sons’ ideas of a proud and new Germany about to rise from former humility, and he no longer avoided any dealings with the Staatsbeauftragte and with the Nazi mayor of Gera. When a large order came from the town offices, an order of exquisite delicacies for one of the official functions of the NSDAP to celebrate the Führer’s birthday, he accepted it without comment and even went so far as to come along with Mr Wachtveitl to deliver the goods to the town hall and help him set up the sumptuous buffet in the great hall with the old oak parquet floor, the dark paintings of German battles on two of the four walls and the long red wall-hangings with their swastikas all around. It was as if he had suddenly surrendered his former misgivings about the Lumpenpack and decided to go along with them, at least to profit from them if they wanted to become his most lucrative customers.

To cope with his new widowhood, he felt it was good for him to travel to Berlin every three weeks or so. It took his mind off the many places in Gera that reminded him of his happy times with Elfriede. They had only been to Berlin a few times, and now that the capital of the new Germany was undergoing so many changes under the guidance of the Führer’s architect, Albert Speer, the Reichshauptstadt had nothing to remind him of happier days. He would drive up in his blue Adler, park it near Unter den Linden and then walk through the Brandenburger Tor and into the parkland to the west of it. He liked to watch mothers with their children and stared with an empty mind at groups of young men in uniforms. In the evening, he liked to go to the theatre. The new developments that the Staatstheater had undergone recently seemed to justify his newly-found laissez-faire attitude towards the Nazi régime. After all, the Nazis had not only reopened the theatre under its old name, Schiller-Theater, but also appointed Heinrich George, one of the most popular actors, as its new director. Thomas Weidmann remembered how the stocky George with his Berlin accent had originally been a Communist and opposed the budding NSDAP only a few years ago when he worked with people like Brecht and Piscator. But within a very short period George - Georg August Friedrich Schulz with his real name - had accepted the leadership of the Nazis and even played in one of their propaganda films, Hitler Youth Quex, which Thomas had seen in Gera. At the time, he had found himself quite surprised that the great George should lend his talent to the Nazi cause, but now it served as an excuse for his own change of attitude. Also, the great name that George replaced as the director of the Schiller-Theater served as a similar model. Gustaf Gründgens, who only ten years earlier had been connected with Max Reinhardt and with the family of the celebrated novelist Thomas Mann - working with his son Klaus Mann and marrying his sister Erika Mann - had also been taken in by the Nazis and joined some powerful arts councils set up by Hermann Goering, Hitler’s right hand. So, if such important figures in the arts - among them Wilhelm Furtwängler, the gifted conductor of the outstanding Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra - accepted and even served the leadership of Hitler and his Party, Thomas argued for himself, he could very well acknowledge that at least the Nazis supported the arts and gave new impulses to the literary and musical life of Germany. And this was enough to give up one’s opposition to them. Wasn’t it possible that some of the awful things about the Nazis that were being rumoured would prove to be just that: rumours? Perhaps some Jews really deserved the bad treatment that they were given these days?

Like that, Thomas Weidmann’s regular visits to the Reichshauptstadt helped him not only to cope with his bereavement but equally strengthened his decision to go along with the Nazis and to deal with them in his professional capacity. His change of mind came just in time, because the Nazis had found out that he wasn’t a Party member and demanded that he should prove his allegiance to the great cause of the new Germany. They sent for him, and he had to appear for an interview at the town hall.

“Now, Herr Weidmann,” the young official behind the desk asked him, smiling benevolently, “how do you justify the fact that you refuse to become a Party member and at the same time you profit from your business connections with the Party?”

Thomas Weidmann managed to hide his nervousness and hesitated for a short moment. “Well,” he answered, “in fact, I was a member only a few years ago. But when my dear wife’s health declined I fell behind in my membership fees and decided it was more honest to quit.”

“Aha!”

“Yes. I felt it was a matter of honour. How could I profit from something without paying for it?”

“I see. German honour.”

“Yes. I have always believed in the importance of German honour.”

“All right,” the young man smiled. Thomas was relieved. The magic word “honour” had saved him. He hoped this was the end of the interview, but the official cleared his throat and looked at him in a questioning way.

“How do you intend to prove your allegiance to the Party now and in future?”

“What options do I have?”

“Naturally, your most obvious move is to join the Party again.”

“Or else?”

“Well, you could serve the Party in other ways. If you choose this option,” the man winked at him, “I will make a note on this form, which you will sign, and I will refer your business to Standartenführer Obermayer, who will in turn contact you. There are many ways in which you can be useful to us. And if you want to keep your business, you will be wise to cooperate. There’s just one condition, though. Do you employ, or have you ever employed, any Jews in your business?”

Thomas hesitated. Young Salomon Feigenbaum had run some errands for the shop, but that had been more than two years ago, and he’d never been properly employed, just a boy doing small jobs for pocket money. Besides, the Feigenbaums had left a while ago.

“No.”

“Fine, Herr Weidmann. A true German man of honour, as you say. You will hear from us in due course.”

When, a few days later, he was contacted by Standartenführer Obermayer’s office, he had to agree to spy on his customers. It was understood that housewives would exchange gossip while doing their shopping, and if they ever mentioned anything suspicious - like feeding more mouths than could reasonably be wanting food in their homes or listening to foreign radio stations - Thomas Weidmann was expected to make a note and report such instances to the same office, which he came to understand was an office working in liaison with the Gestapo, the Geheime Staats-Polizei, the secret police. He was to report regularly every fortnight.

As for his older son Thomas, the loss of his mother made him harder. He turned his back on his family. Often, he would not come home after school, but spend the rest of the day at the local headquarters of the Hitlerjugend, where he took over a range of new duties. One day he declared over breakfast that he wouldn’t be home in the evening, and from that day on he became a rare presence in the house on the Galgenberg.

Manfred was affected in a different way. Instead of shutting himself off and presenting a hardened face to the world like his brother, he suffered terribly and was nearly crushed by his need for comfort and emotional warmth. He was under enormous pressure during the funeral. Instead of giving him comfort, the ceremony merely served the purpose of showing off to the people of Gera. The message was clear: Weidmann’s Delicatessen was a thriving business employing and serving only Aryans, its wealth and its success were reflected in the sumptuous decoration in church and around the grave. The mourners were valued customers, business connections and a few distant relatives that Manfred didn’t even know existed. It was obvious they weren’t here for mourning, commiseration or comfort, but for the display of their latest fashions in black clothing and for the marking of their social territory, the affirmation of their social standing as citizens who could afford to shop at Weidmann’s Delicatessen in the Sorge. Not everyone could boast to be a customer of the town’s finest retail business. One had to let the world see who was who.

Manfred felt lost.

Two weeks after the funeral, a Tuesday, Anna approached him after school. She had such a look of compassion that Manfred’s heart went out to her, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Oh dear! Can I walk home with you?” she asked in a gentle voice. “Will you let me be with you? We don’t have to talk. Just walk together. Will this be any good for you?”

Manfred was too overwhelmed to utter a word. He just nodded. Her voice was so good for him, so clear and honest, so free of pretence and melodrama, quite the opposite of those hypocritical mourners at the funeral.

“It’s a sad business. You must be lost.” This statement was such a comfort. It was just a statement, but it was the truth.

“It will take time,” she added.

They walked along the banks of the Elster. When they were alone they stopped, and Anna hugged him tenderly. She laid her head on his shoulder, which for once did not twitch. There was no need for words, the rippling sound of the Elster was enough. They remained like this for several minutes. Manfred didn’t even hear the loud croaking of the crows as they were flying past, he just wanted to be like this, to be held by Anna for the rest of his life. His tears dried off while he felt her heartbeat against his own chest. The softness of her body against his, the sweet smell of her hair near his nostrils, her warmth, her proximity, the mere fact of her being here: all this was so good. He didn’t want it to end. Ever.

After a while, Anna loosened her hold and gently drew back. For a split second, he was disappointed, but then he spotted some people approaching them on the footpath. It was an elderly couple.

“Good afternoon,” Anna said in a clear voice. Manfred merely muttered some undefined greeting. He didn’t want these people to see his tears. But the elderly couple just mumbled their greetings and walked past them. When they were about five metres away the woman looked back and gave them a strange nod.

“Let’s walk on,” Anna suggested. “That is, if you are ready.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, and their eye contact gave him courage. So, they began to walk on along the river bank.

Soon, their mood changed, and Manfred spoke his first words. “She was such a good mother. But she was never a happy woman.”

This was the beginning of an unhurried and unrestrained conversation between them as they were walking along the bank and then up towards the Galgenberg. Anna didn’t press him, she just responded to his statements, went along with his opinions and musings, and like this she gave him the very support that he needed most in this hour. When they reached the grey house in Ypernstrasse it was the most natural thing in the world for Anna to come into the house with him. In the hallway, she hesitated and looked around. It was her first time in this house.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he managed to ask.

“That would be perfect,” Anna smiled back. He felt that this was a special occasion. To him, it seemed that even though she smiled at him it was a very serious situation. There was a strong earnestness behind her smile, and he felt he could connect to her through this earnestness. A genuine connection he had never experienced with anyone before.

When she left him half an hour later, he knew she would come to him again. And so she did. From that day onward, Anna came to his home every two or three days, but only through the week, never on weekends, because it was clear to both of them that the presence of other persons - Father or Thomas - would disturb the wonderful thing that they had now been building up between them. They didn’t know what this thing was, but it was good.

He saw her as his best friend. Whenever she arrived at his home and before she left, they embraced and re-lived that first embrace on the banks of the Elster. Sometimes they went for a walk, but they preferred to stay indoors in the grey house, where they were undisturbed, with his father being at the shop and his brother mostly away. Their embraces were a haven of tranquillity and well-being for both of them. They didn’t dare to exchange such intimacies on their walks, being wary of other people’s reactions, also feeling uncomfortable when others saw them, not only because they saw it as a violation of their intimacy but also because they wouldn’t have wanted anyone to tell their parents. Gera was a small town; many people knew their parents. Another reason for their preference of the indoors was the autumnal weather, which rendered their walks less comfortable.

This state of things continued for two months. They would usually meet at his home on two or three days of the week. They would embrace, they would look at each other, and they would talk. They talked about his mother, what she had meant to him, the meals she used to cook, the things she used to say, her sad moods, her failing health and about what a lovely person she was. They also talked about Anna’s family, about their sports activities, their plans for the future and their immediate duties in their respective youth organisations, Manfred in the Hitlerjugend and Anna in the Bund deutscher Mädel. Sometimes they discussed common friends, especially Wolfgang Löffel, and sometimes Thomas was briefly mentioned. Only very rarely would they discuss what was happening in public life, and both of them really hated politics, for which, however, they had to feign an interest at school and in their youth organisations. During this time, Manfred had mixed feelings about international politics. He had his particular problems understanding Germany’s relationship with England. During the past few months he had begun to like the English language, and he was fond of several British heroes, such as Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin or Lord Baden-Powell, different figures though they were. From his teachers, his mentors and his leaders, however, he had learnt a great deal about British treachery, about the atrocities committed in the English colonies, especially in the Caribbean and in India, and about the poor standard of living in Britain due to the Jews, who exploited the country and corrupted its people. When the news came about the Führer’s meeting with Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister, in late September, Manfred and Anna discussed this development and agreed that now things would go well, there wouldn’t be a war - as some of their friends were saying - but Germany and England would agree on most things in international affairs, especially about the Fatherland’s rightful claims to the annexation of the Sudetenland, which they understood were the Czech border areas. So, after all, Manfred would be allowed to admire his British heroes and wouldn’t have to hate a country and its people that he really liked. That was a comforting thing.

One afternoon in October, as Anna was taking off her brown corduroy jacket, Manfred became aware of her fine womanly figure. And as they embraced he felt a new sensation creeping up within his whole being, a sensation he could hardly identify or control. Without realising what he was doing he began to move his hands up and down, along her figure, down her back to her buttocks and up again to the nape of her neck, all very gently. This caused her to move her body in a way that electrified him. She pressed herself to his body more than ever before, and because they were wearing their uniforms he could feel the soft but firm mounds of her breasts against his chest. A strong force was pulling his mouth towards hers. She turned her face to his and put up her lips in such a way as to invite him to kiss them. The moment his lips touched hers was absolutely magic. He realised he could feel her breath coming from her nostrils and caressing his cheeks while the touch of their lips remained unbelievably exquisite. Slowly she opened her lips, which made him open his, too, and so he carefully and very tenderly entered her mouth with his tongue. The softness and the wetness inside her mouth surprised and overwhelmed him. First slowly, then more eagerly, their tongues moved around and explored each other’s mouths, both treading on new territory for the first time in their young lives.

He pulled her down onto the sofa in the living-room, and she let herself be pulled down ever so gladly.

Sitting comfortably on the sofa, they could really lose themselves in their kissing, which lasted for centuries, they felt, but was still not enough when they gently pulled away from each other after a while. Manfred had the impression that his lips were feeling a bit numb after the long contact with hers, but he also felt a strange and hitherto unknown intoxication. They relaxed for a few minutes, their faces only millimetres from each other, each feeling the other’s warm breath very close. They couldn’t explain what was happening to them, but they wanted more of it.

When they took up their kissing again, he found it was even better than the first time. He felt more confident, and he could feel that she, too, was obviously more willing to continue for as long as he liked. After several minutes of kissing and imaginative exploration with their tongues, Manfred cradling Anna’s body in his right arm against the soft back of the sofa, he had a sudden urge to move his left hand down her front, and when his hand reached her right breast and felt its softness through the thin fabric of her blouse he thought he was the happiest man in the world. He cupped her breast and moved his hand around it, and all the while they kept up their kissing. Quite unexpectedly, he felt something harden at the tip of her breast, even though there had to be at least two layers of material between his hand and her skin, and at the same time a deep moan escaped her throat and she slightly widened the opening of her mouth without giving up their kissing.

He moved his hand up the front of her white blouse and slowly loosened her black neckerchief - he knew the girls called it their Fahrtentuch - and pulled it out of its brown leather knot, which wasn’t so easy with only one hand. Once the neckerchief was open, he could begin to unbutton her blouse, which he did with relish. For him this was an utterly new experience, which had an air of forbidden adventure and a very joyful element of revelation. He had never seen a girl or a woman take off her clothes, and up to this very moment he had never really wondered what girls looked like underneath their clothes - except in their silly fantasies as young boys, which had no connection with reality. But now, right now, he suddenly wanted to know, to see, to experience. He was too young to know the difference between sexual desire and mere curiosity, and he would probably never be fully capable of such a distinction. While he was so completely occupied with his own urge he was still slightly surprised that she allowed him to do all this. She even appeared to want it, too.

Once her blouse was open, a new world presented itself to him, and his hand stroked over the cotton fabric of her singlet or undershirt, he didn’t care what it was called, he only knew that now he could feel the softness of her breasts more directly. What absolute joy! With a bold move, he shifted his hand beneath this last layer and at last touched the velvet skin of her naked breasts, where he felt he could keep his hand forever and ever. He cupped the full roundness and could hardly believe that Anna had such unimaginable treasures hidden beneath her clothes. Now he also realised what the hardness at the tip meant, he had a very strange feeling when he felt the hardness of her nipples, at the same time aware of the heaving movement of her entire upper body, the movement of her breathing, as well as her heartbeat.

They continued like this for a long time, until suddenly the mood changed. He felt that Anna wanted to put an end to their caresses even before she made the first move. Slowly they disentangled themselves from each other. She pulled down her singlet and began to button up her blouse, while he tried to recover from the overwhelming experience he had just gone through.

“I think we should stop here,” she breathed.

He wondered if he’d done anything wrong, but she smiled at him in such a blissful way that he was relieved. While she was busy buttoning up her blouse, she felt she had to give him some form of explanation to make things right. Not to leave him disappointed.

“You know, we should give it more time. It is really lovely with you, but I just feel we shouldn’t go any further.”

He nodded. However, at this point, probably neither of them knew what “further” there was for them, because it was all new territory, and neither of them had been told the facts of life by their parents. These things were never mentioned in those days in German society of the 1930s. All they could feel was that there had to be a “further” because they could feel it so strongly and almost overpoweringly in their bodies.

After another long kiss, fully dressed and ready for the outside world, they parted, and Anna left for her home. He offered to walk her home, but she declined.

“You should be at home when your father comes home, and I think I need to be alone after what we just had. I need to think.” After a pause she added: “And I want to live through it again in my mind. It was so beautiful.”

He closed the door behind her. The house was very quiet. He put his left hand to his face and tried to catch Anna’s scent on his palm. Nothing could be better.

Three

During the two days following his earth-rocking experience with Anna, Manfred walked on clouds. His whole being was so immersed in his memory of her, her being, her presence, the intimacy with her and the common experience of their bodies. He thought he could still feel her warm breath on his face and his hands could still be in close contact with the soft skin of her lovely body. In his mouth, he could still feel the touch of her tongue and his whole person shivered with the memory of everything that was her.

The nights were almost unbearable. The intensity of her presence in his mind was so overwhelming.

Why couldn’t they be together all the time? What was she doing or thinking at this very moment? Was she thinking of him, too? Were her feelings the same?

He came to admit to himself that this was probably what was generally understood when people talked about falling in love. If this assumption was right, Manfred could totally agree with the notion of “falling”, because he knew now that it was no use resisting what was happening, one was just drawn into it and it was indeed like falling into a new world. He couldn’t quite decide whether this new world was paradise or hell, because he was constantly drawn between the two extremes of either rejoicing in complete bliss over this newly-discovered love or sinking into utter despair over his dependence on her when she was not with him to give him the assurance of her love. He found he could hardly concentrate on his school work because his mind was not free. She occupied it completely and exclusively. Struggling with the enormity of his emotions, he suddenly remembered a poem that promised to give him some confidence now. It was a poem by Catullus, which he remembered from his Latin classes mainly for its brevity, but whose beauty and real meaning he was only now beginning to comprehend:

Odi et amo.

Quare id faciam fortasse requiris?

Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

At this moment, he couldn’t care less for the poem’s chiastic structure or any other theoretical facts that they had to study at school, but it was its meaning that caught him and made him remember it at all. How perfectly accurate this observation was! For Manfred, it caught the very essence of his present state. In the middle of the second night he got up from a troubled half-sleep and sat down at his small desk. He took a large sheet of paper and wrote the poem on it in beautiful large letters. It took him nearly an hour because he wanted it to look really good. Then he stood up and nailed the sheet on the wall above his bed. Back in bed, he looked up at it and wondered if it might not be even better if he had a good photograph of Anna that he could put up next to the Catullus poem. But then, Father and Thomas would discover his secret. They certainly had no idea of how far advanced he was in the love department. He decided to postpone this question and tried to go back to sleep.

It was hard to sit at his school desk and listen to what the teachers were telling them. He had to steal a glance over to where she was sitting. To his amazement and disappointment, she never looked back at him. This made him very uneasy after two days. So, on the third day he decided to seek her out after school and ask her about her feelings. But there was no need to seek her out, since she was already waiting for him just outside the schoolyard, behind the holly where they couldn’t be seen by everyone.

“Hello, Manfred,” she said, looking him in the eyes, “have you stopped liking me? Did I do anything wrong?”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“But you never called me after... you know what.”

“Oh, Anna! I’ve been thinking of you all the time, of you and of us. It was so wonderful with you. I was hoping to be with you again every day.”

“Were you?” She began to smile in a teasing way. She looked absolutely ravishing.

“Yes, of course. What were you thinking?”

“So, you really like me?”

“Oh, much more than like you.” He was looking for words. The magic word “love” would still require more courage than he could muster at this stage. It was on his tongue, but he decided to keep it for later. If and when they could be together again like they were the other day, then he might bring it up. He felt he had to hold her in his arms when he told her.

“Would you like me to come to your home again?” she slowly asked.

This was good news indeed. “Yes, of course, let’s go right now.”

As they were walking up the Galgenberg, she took his hand. The renewed touch of their skin was phenomenal, it gave him all the happiness and reassurance that he needed at this moment. Soon they were in the house again. This time he didn’t offer her a cup of tea, he couldn’t wait. Hardly had they taken off their jackets when he took her in his arms. Obviously, she was equally anxious to renew their intimacies, because he could feel how hard she pressed her whole body against his, and this time it was her tongue that eagerly entered his mouth first. His mouth received her gladly, and from this moment on it was clear to them that they were both willing and their love was mutual.

Their embraces, their kisses and their caresses became more passionate.

“Can’t we go to your room this time?” she whispered in his ear.

He was surprised and extremely excited over her initiative. But because he remembered her restraint of last time he asked her, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I want to be in a place where nobody can detect or disturb us. Here, in the living-room, you never know... Your father or your brother might walk in any time. I would feel a lot safer in your room.”

He looked at her beautiful face for a few moments before he took her by her hand and led her up the creaking stairs to his room. They closed the door behind them, which immediately gave them a sense of never-before experienced intimacy. They sat down on his bed. She looked up at the wall.

“Oh, what made you put that up there?”

“Don’t you remember this poem? We had it in Latin, I think it was in February.”

“I was ill with my bronchitis for most of February.”

“Oh yes, of course. Well, you couldn’t be expected to catch up with everything that you’d missed. This is the short love poem that the Latin poet Gaius Valerius Catullus wrote for his mistress Lesbia.”

She read it out carefully, first stumbling over the elision in the second line, but she managed to get its meaning. Then they both remained silent for a few moments.

“It’s beautiful. And so full of a deep truth. Can’t we light a candle?” she suggested. “It would be so romantic, wouldn’t it?”

He stood up and found a thick red candle at the bottom of his desk drawer. It was already burned halfway down, but it still had many hours in it. When he’d lit it, the flame stood up to a nice size and gave the lovers the atmosphere that they required to make things perfect. When he sat down at her side again, she took his head between her hands, leant back and pulled him down with her until she was lying on his bedcover and he was halfway on top of her. Like this, they could kiss in a relaxed position for a very long time.

Naturally, his left hand began to explore her again. This time, she didn’t wear her BDM uniform but a dark red jumper with a thick grey skirt. It was easy to shift his hand underneath her jumper, then under her shirt. Her skin was soft and warm. While he was enjoying what his hand found, her kisses became more and more passionate. And when his hand finally reached her naked breasts and felt her hard nipples again she emitted a deep and long sigh.

“Oh, Manfred! I do love you so.”

So, she’d had the courage to utter the magic word first. He was so happy he could hardly believe this was really happening. But after her declaration, it was easy for him to respond in kind and tell her he loved her too.

Their mutual declaration had given him encouragement, so he began to lift up her jumper and her shirt and eventually he pulled them over her head, which she readily allowed. She even helped him by lifting her head slightly. Then she took the discarded articles from him and threw them away on the carpet.

In the dimming afternoon light, with the flame of the candle tinting the room in an orange hue, Manfred now admired her upper part in its natural state. He had never seen a woman’s breasts naked, and what he saw now made him gasp with pleasure. He began to kiss her belly, then slowly moved his lips upward until they reached her breasts, kissing first one nipple then the other. What absolute bliss! Anna enjoyed this. He could feel her shivering with pleasure. When she shivered her breasts wobbled slightly, which he considered particularly captivating. He spent a very long time just kissing her in a relaxed way and stroking the soft white velvet which her breasts represented for him. He was convinced that he could spend the rest of his life just caressing her lovely breasts.

It was natural for her to take off his upper clothes, so they continued their kisses and caresses with the pleasure of having this exciting and reassuringly beautiful skin contact. Like this, they lost themselves in their loving activities for the following three hours, forgetting everything else in the world during this time. It was what they had both been wanting for quite some time. Now, at last, they were together.

* * *

On a Tuesday morning, about four weeks later, Anna came up to him before their first lesson at school. She took him aside and whispered in his ear.

“Have you heard the news?”

He didn’t know what to answer. Ever since they had begun their intimate phase he had hardly ever listened to the news on the radio. He knew their teachers and the Hitlerjugend leaders would tell them everything anyway, so he could shut himself off in order to concentrate on his more academic schoolwork and dream of Anna and their kisses.

“What happened?”

“There has been a Jewish attack. In Paris. Against Germany.”

“How can there have been an attack on Germany in Paris? That’s in France.”

“I don’t remember the details,” Anna shrugged her shoulders, “but I’m sure the teachers will tell us everything. I just wanted to tell you. I hope there won’t be a war now. It would be terrible if we couldn’t be together, wouldn’t it?”

She looked him in the eyes with such an expression of worry that his heart went out to her. Looking round to make sure nobody could see them, he quickly hugged her to comfort her. Then they entered the school-building together without touching. But they both knew that they belonged together.

“Yesterday, our country was attacked by a treacherous Jewish conspiracy,” Herr Mollenhauer, their young Latin teacher, announced at the beginning of their first lesson of the morning. “They sent one of their agents, a seventeen-year-old Jew called Herschel Grynszpan to kill one of our diplomats in Paris. The Jew was as filthy as his name suggests: Grünspan, verdigris. May he rust and rot away in hell!”

“Herr Lehrer! What’s going to happen now?” one of the boys in the first row asked.

“Well, naturally, our government is in uproar. And justifiably so. Some act of retribution is now called for, I am sure.”

Manfred felt a twitch in his left shoulder. He was extremely uneasy. But there was nothing he could say or do to feel any better.

After school, he sought out Anna, and they went for a walk along the Elster to discuss the political situation, something they had hardly ever done. Normally they discussed things that concerned their personal lives, their families, their common interests, or they talked about things that helped them to get to know each other better. But today, the tense atmosphere that seemed to lie on the town like a dark blanket affected them like most other people. When he held her close, he could feel her nervousness.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he sighed, and they realized their own smallness within the order of things. Within this world, they were so tiny and probably so insignificant. But for each other, they mattered enormously. Again, Manfred was reminded of his old question: Why were people doing what they were doing? Why were the Jews trying to destroy their Fatherland?

He reached home alone, because Anna had to go to her own home to do some schoolwork and to help her mother with some household chores. They didn’t have a charwoman like the Weidmanns, so Anna had to help sometimes.

He was surprised to find his elder brother at home.

“Oh, it’s only you, Freddy,” Thomas mumbled as he looked up from the kitchen table where he had his leather things spread out for cleaning and polishing. He held up his waist-belt to check its shine in the light of the lamp over the table. Then he spat on it and started polishing it again.

“Are you here for longer?” Manfred asked.

“Don’t know. Just getting ready for things tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. It’s nothing for little boys. But if you have to know, well, you must be aware of the necessity to act against the filthy Jews now.”

“Oh,” Manfred was surprised. “Are there any concrete plans already? Is there going to be a war?”

“Of course there won’t be a war, silly. But we were ordered to be ready for a big action tomorrow night.”

“What big action?”

“As I said, nothing for little boys.” And with this curt comment he stood up and put on his belt. He put his feet in his polished boots and arranged his uniform. The swastika on his sleeves looked brilliant. Manfred did not know whether to be afraid or proud of his brother in his resplendent brown uniform. He looked so fierce, but then he was only doing his duty for their beloved Fatherland, wasn’t he?

Hardly had Thomas left the house when Manfred turned on the radio. There was music. Wagner, he recognised that at once. When the music finished there was a programme to commemorate Ernst vom Rath, the diplomat who had been shot in Paris. His life and career were highlighted in a detailed report. It was clear that the death of this brilliant man, who would have achieved great things, had he lived, was a very sad loss for his family and for Germany. Manfred listened to the whole programme, before he switched off and began to prepare something to eat. His father would probably be home later, so he heated up a pork stew and some potatoes from the day before, sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy it and made sure he left enough for his father.

On the following day, a Wednesday, everything appeared to be normal, at school, in the streets, all around, but Manfred’s sensitivity registered a strange atmosphere of impending doom. He couldn’t put his finger to it, but he was convinced something was going to happen soon, something that would concern them all. It was a sort of end-of-the-world mood which lay in the air.

After school, Anna came home with him. From her general attitude as well as from her relative silence during their walk home, he registered that she shared his assessment of the general mood.

When they were in his room, lying together, the upper parts of their bodies bared, their caresses began very tenderly and slowly, both of them savouring every moment, but after a while they both became more excited, more passionate, more desperate. It was as if the general mood had affected them in such a way that they felt they might as well give up all their restraints because the world was coming to an end anyway.

Manfred lay on top of Anna, grasping her breasts with both hands and nuzzling his face between her now flat mounds, fully enjoying their softness on both his cheeks, when he realised he wanted to know more of her. Slowly he shifted to her side, slid his right arm under her back and with his left hand began to stroke her legs, first over her thick skirt, then down below her knees, from where he moved upwards along the inside of her thighs. He gently unfastened her suspenders and rolled down her woollen stockings, discovering areas of her naked skin he’d never believed would be so soft. She helped his movements by lifting her bottom, and when her stockings were completely removed she began to pull down her skirt. He took it from her and threw it on the floor beside the bed, where the other clothes already lay in a heap. As he saw she was now only wearing her knickers he realised it was unfair that he was still wearing his trousers. So he took them off, too, and they caressed each other for a while like this. Eventually, his hand moved down from her bellybutton and slid under her knickers, where he was surprised to find such a thick bush of hair. When his hand moved further into this most intimate region of her body and he discovered her wetness he felt himself go crazy with desire, and his own underpants could hardly hold his stiffness. He withdrew his hand and moved it up to her breasts again, kissing her deeply, both of them beginning to moan softly. He pulled his mouth from hers very gently and whispered into her ear.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, it’s so wonderful. Don’t stop. I’m so happy!”

She sat up and took off her knickers. Then she grabbed his underpants and pulled them down, too. He could tell she was surprised, perhaps a little shocked, but also very happy to see his enormous erection. They took a moment to enjoy looking at each other’s beauty completely naked, an experience they would never forget for their whole lives. Then they lay down and embraced, kissed and caressed each other.

She emitted a light squeak, with pain and pleasure combined, when he at last entered her slowly and carefully. Then the world enveloped them both in a whirlwind of passion.

Outside, daylight was fading away, and the November evening began to sink into ever deeper darkness. The lovers were utterly unaware of what was going on in the outside world. It was only when the noises of breaking glass, the shouts and the cries became louder and more desperate by the minute that the outside world entered their awareness again.

At first, Manfred thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes while he was reluctantly loosening his body from Anna’s. His mind was still a bit dizzy, even though he was fully aware of what they had just done. He didn’t regret anything, and when he saw the blissful smile on her face in the dim candlelight he knew that she didn’t have any regrets either.

“Listen! What’s that? What’s going on?” he demanded.

“It sounds like some drunks smashing windows in the street.”

“Yes, but it’s not in our street, it must be down near Berliner Strasse. There must be lots of drunks if they can cause such clamour.”

“Let’s get up and see,” she suggested. “I have a bad feeling something terrible is about to take place.”

While they were getting dressed, all the lovely feelings of a short while ago gone, he remembered what Thomas had insinuated. Was this the beginning of a war? No, it couldn’t be, but it sounded pretty awful. Especially the loud cries, which indicated that people were in terrible agony.

As they reached Berliner Strasse, they realized that the main noise was coming from the town centre, so they turned left and walked along the tramlines towards the centre, marching quickly and holding hands.

What awaited them was mayhem. The streets were full of running people. There were lots of uniformed men with sticks, clubs and guns. They smashed shop-windows, they yelled commands and they caught hold of some of the terrified men and women running from their houses and shops. Lorries drew up, and many of the civilians were manhandled brutally and thrown onto those lorries. Only very few of them fought back, but to no avail. The uniformed men were stronger. It looked as if all these people were being arrested. What for? Manfred wondered. Anna turned white and nearly fainted. She held onto her lover, and they withdrew into an empty doorway. On the left, down a narrow alley, they could detect a fire.

“What’s that?” he asked, well aware that she wouldn’t be able to answer him.

They spent more than two hours in dark corners and doorways, looking with open mouths, Anna no longer able to hold back her tears, Manfred so shocked he couldn’t make any comments on what they were witnessing. They saw shops being ravaged and looted, windows broken, houses set on fire, and they saw the local synagogue going up in flames. All the time they heard the barking voices of the brown uniforms and the terrible cries and desperate wails of the people trying to escape this hell.

Later, they couldn’t remember how they ever got home, but it was late at night.

* * *

When Manfred woke up, it was still dark outside. He looked at his alarm clock on the bedside table and saw that it was half-past five in the morning. As his mind was crossing the bridge between sleep and wakefulness, the events of the previous day and the night slowly began to sink in. He began to realize that within the past twenty-four hours - even less, the past fifteen hours or so - he had experienced the greatest happiness in his young life and witnessed the most shocking scenes in public life. What a terrible contrast! How could he cope with such extremes? Again, he returned to his repetitive question: What made people do what they were doing? This enigma could be applied to both extremes, the intimacy of their love-making as well as the horror of the brutal scenes they had seen in the streets of their home town.

What made Anna give herself so completely to him, what made her offer her body and mind to him in such a wonderful way? Yes, it was love. But still, it was such a complete surrender in a way. Was that what women always did when they really and truly loved a man? If this was the climax of pleasure that his life as a man had to offer him, indeed, he could face anything in the future. The mere knowledge of such bliss and the satisfaction of such an experience would always give him strength and confidence. He could do anything, achieve any high goals he could ever aim for, put his stamp on the world, render his life meaningful.

And what made men destroy other people’s houses, their shops, their livelihoods, even their lives? There had to be very powerful forces behind such naked hatred. Manfred felt divided between pity for the families whose lives were destroyed so brutally and critical empathy for the perpetrators. If men could be driven to such extremes they must have very good reasons. Their fury might appear blind, but it could have sprung from frustration and then been channelled by their leaders into such action as he had witnessed. If the Jews hadn’t pushed so many good citizens to the brink of poverty, and if Jewish arrogance hadn’t robbed so many hard-working men of their self-respect, surely such outrages could never have taken place. It had to be a case of the underprivileged people reaching their breaking-point.

Through his ruminations and evaluations of the recent events, Manfred’s subconscious ego told him that he could personally gain insight from what was going on. Really, what he had experienced - at both extremes of the scale of human experience - was educational. This was how one learned about the world. What had happened must have some larger meaning. He never thought of himself as a religious person, but he suspected that the recent events - his private erotic experience as well as the public escalation of civil conflict - had an element of holiness about them. Some higher force had directed them. It wasn’t a divine creature or such humbug, but it was some higher force.

The important question that presented itself to him now was how to cope with this. How to behave in the near future? How to ensure that the wonderful state of things he had reached with Anna could be maintained into eternity? On the other hand, how to react to what was happening to his home town, his country, his beloved Fatherland? In both spheres, he became convinced, it would be best to be patient, to wait and see. In Anna’s case, he would first get to the bottom of her feelings. He wouldn’t take such liberties with her again until he was totally and completely convinced of her own free willingness, her ardent desire to repeat what they had done and to continue doing it into the foreseeable future. In the case of the current state of things in his country, he would wait and do nothing, say nothing, make no comments to any of the other boys, give no sign of his own position. Only when things became clearer, would he decide on his own course of action. Lie low and keep one’s mouth shut, that was the watchword of the day, he was now convinced. When he reached this conclusion at last, he felt he was ready to get out of bed and face the world.

As he was getting up, stretching his body in its upright position, he wondered at the twitching of his left shoulder.

* * *

Of course, when Manfred walked to school he could still see a lot of evidence of last night’s destructions. Some of the buildings had broken windows, some had black marks on their façades. He could see a few people standing around in small groups, probably discussing last night’s events. He wondered on whose side they were. But he couldn’t understand what they were saying, and he didn’t dare to approach them. He had to find his own place within the general chaos of emotions and attitudes. Every individual was now thrown back on his or her own resources.

At school, naturally, everyone had something to say about the situation. Some boys were very loud and voiced their satisfaction over what had at last been set right, while others discussed things more quietly and with serious faces. Manfred realized that not a single word or a single argument that was uttered by his peers could influence his own opinion. He had come to his conclusion in the early morning. He wouldn’t let anyone else shake him out of his own solution.

The teachers dealt with the events in their different ways, but the general tenor was one of satisfaction. What had happened had at last put the Jews in their proper place. It was the right of good citizens to take things in their own hands and teach a long-overdue lesson to those Untermenschen who still lived in the town.

The media were full of praise, too. After a while, Manfred caught the name that was given to the events by the authorities. They called it Reichskristallnacht, the Imperial Night of Broken Crystal Glass. For a brief moment, he thought that it was quite a beautiful name, too beautiful for such horrible things that had been done, but he dismissed the thought immediately. After all, important events had to be remembered in the history books by the vehicle of memorable names, while the sordid details were buried. Otherwise, no historian would be able to study the events of the past without being blinded by those details - which could be a lot more horrible than the recent events if one came to think of all those wars of the past, the Greeks fighting the Persians, the Romans fighting the Goths, and many other big historical conflicts - and the historians would be led astray from the true interpretation of those events. That was surely what it was.

The great disappointment of the day for him, however, was Anna’s absence from school. He wondered if she might have changed her mind, she might be angry at him. He had gone too far with her last night. How could he know?

After school, he walked to her house and rang the bell. It was the first time that he had the courage to do that, the first time he mustered the courage to face her mother, who might open the door. He had prepared a suitable pretext for his visit. Since Anna appeared to be ill, he was bringing her their homework from school. But when the door was opened, it was by Anna herself. Her face looked pale and her hair was in disorder. She looked sleepy. But when she saw him, her face lit up with a very happy smile. Her eyes lost their dullness and began to shine, and her whole body stood more upright. She cleared her throat.

“Oh, Manfred!” she croaked in a hoarse voice.

“Hey, are you all right? I’ve been so worried. When you weren’t at school, you know, after last night...”

“I’ve been feeling ill. My head spins, and I feel weak in my knees,” she said, touching her forehead as if to prove her condition with this gesture. “But now you’re here I feel a lot better. Do come in.” She opened the door wider.

He stepped in and asked, “Are you on your own?”

“Yes, but not for much longer. Mother should be home within the next half-hour or so. You’ll have to leave soon.”

Once the door was closed behind them they fell into each other’s arms and kissed with all their passion. But after a minute or two, she disengaged herself from him. It was an effort for both of them.

She assured him that she had no regrets, that everything was good between them and that she would be back at school after another day or two. He gave her the homework from school, they had a quick peep in their English book and he explained which exercises they had to do in writing for the next English lesson. Then, after another very tender embrace, he left her house and walked home along the banks of the Elster and then up to the Galgenberg. As he was walking up the hill, it suddenly dawned upon him that the name Galgenberg was the opposite of what he had found out about the naming of historical events. It reminded you of the most terrible punishment that humans could inflict on others. Then he dismissed the thought and accelerated his steps up the hill. It was a cold day.

Four

In the hot summer of the following year - Manfred had only just turned seventeen - he was walking along one of the faceless streets in Untermhaus when he came across Wolfgang Löffel, who was wearing a very stylish new grey pin-striped, double-breasted suit, which gave him a much more adult look.

“Wow, you do look something!” Manfred smiled. “You look like a really grown-up man in this suit.”

“I am a grown-up man,” Wolfgang answered.

Manfred remembered that Wolfgang was a year older because he had been ill for a long time when he was a small boy, and that was why his education was delayed by one year. Since they had spent most of their school years in the same class, Manfred had forgotten their age difference.

Wolfgang straightened his back and adopted a proud attitude. “Da staunst du, was?” he chuckled and snorted.

Manfred had to admit he was impressed. “Indeed, I am surprised. You even look taller. But what are you wearing such a gorgeous outfit for? Are you leaving school? That would be unwise, only a year before our Abitur exam.”

“Of course not. But I have to plan my career.” Wolfgang hesitated, then after a pause continued, “Can you keep a secret?”

“It depends.”

“Oh, you are a deep one. Always evasive, the true Zauderer, like Hamlet.”

“Don’t say that. It’s only... I mean, how can I promise to keep a secret before I know what the secret is? That’s a childish attitude, asking people to make promises they don’t know they can keep.”

“Keep your hair on, man! I only meant to find out if you can be told things in confidence–”

“–and you wanted to make yourself more important. You’ve always been fond of putting on a great show about yourself.”

“Well, my friend, you seem to know me better than I know myself. But let that be and listen to what I’ve got to tell you.”

“Ok, but let’s go to that café over there. If we have to discuss such important secrets I feel more comfortable sitting down and having a cup of coffee to help me digest it all.”

The two young men sauntered over to the small café on the street corner. It was a place they both knew well. When they entered, the young waitress greeted them as regulars. She was quite good-looking, with a slender figure and fine legs, as most boys were quick to detect. She wore the usual black dress with a frilly white apron.

They sat down by the window and ordered their coffees. As the waitress walked away from their table they both followed her with their eager eyes.

“A real head-turner, that one! I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that bottom of hers. I wonder if she’d let me get a taste of her,” Wolfgang remarked.

Although Manfred had also looked at the backside of the young woman for a brief moment, he felt uneasy about his friend’s vulgar comments. Ever since he’d got together with Anna and enjoyed the real pleasures of a truly fulfilling love-life, he felt a little disgusted about the way some of the other boys spoke about girls. He decided to let it pass this time, but he made a mental note of Wolfgang’s low opinion of women.

“Well, what’s that secret of yours?” he asked.

“Nothing’s certain, as yet. But I’m seeing good old Finkenschmidt later this afternoon.”

“You mean, the Finkenschmidt who used to be our physical education teacher until last year? Herbert von Finkenschmidt?”

“That’s the man. Good old Herbert has built up his connections since he left teaching, and he’s going to help me.”

Manfred noted the familiar use of the first name but didn’t comment on it. “How is he going to help you?”

“You see, Herbert has joined the Wehrmacht, the Army, and he indicated he might put in a good word with his superior officer. The thing is, I am so desperate to join up. I can’t stand this hanging around, waiting, waiting, for what? For a war that’s never going to happen? I’m so sick of waiting. I want to do something for our country.”

“Can’t you wait until after our Abitur exam?”

“That’s too far off. I have to act now.”

“Well, as for myself, I can’t say I’m so desperate. The longer we can keep peace the better, if you ask me.”

“And let the English and the bloody Russians taunt us and exploit us into eternity? The German people have to stand up now!” Wolfgang’s voice had reached a high pitch, which made an elderly couple stare at them from another table.

Silence followed. Manfred didn’t know how to react to this outburst. The waitress appeared with their coffees. When she walked away, Wolfgang’s eager eyes followed her again. Manfred didn’t look at her.

“To come back to more immediate desires,” Wolfgang smirked, “I really think I ought to do something about that fine piece of female attraction.”

“Haven’t you got a girlfriend?” Manfred asked, hoping to get his friend onto a more civilised level.

“Pah! You don’t have to go in for a girlfriend, you know all that mumbo-jumbo about holding hands, saying you love each other and swearing everlasting faithfulness. Bullshit, that is! All a man needs is good sex. And believe me, women are the same. All they’re after is a man who can give it to them.”

“I find that vulgar and disgusting.”

“Oho! You’ve become a softie, a sissy. You’re not saying you go in for all that soft talk, are you?”

“I admit I am. But in that department, we probably have to agree to disagree. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Ok, man. But I can tell you, there’re a number of girls at our school that are only waiting for it. They’re hot.”

“Oh, come off it!” Manfred tried to steer their conversation in a different direction. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“No, wait. Let me just finish this. There are at least two hot girls that spring to my mind when I think of our school.”

“Now, who would that be?” Manfred asked just to humour him.

“Charlotte Landmeyer and Anna Kleinschmidt.”

Manfred felt a stab in his chest. Not Anna! How could Wolfgang see her in such a light? And how could he speak of her in such vulgar terms? He knew that Thomas was still with Charlotte, although he’d never seen them together recently, but he felt he had to defend his wonderful Anna, his love. It was expected of him by common decency. But he was so shocked he couldn’t utter a word.

“Hey, man! Do you agree? Aren’t they hot? I might try to grab one of them for myself one of these days.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Manfred said and emptied his cup in one gulp. Then he stood up, placed the money for his coffee on the table and turned to leave.

“You can’t just go like that!” Wolfgang protested.

Manfred didn’t care for Wolfgang’s awful designs on girls. He left the café and walked to the riverbank, where he sat down on a wooden bench. The backside of the bench carried a brass plaque, “Sponsored by the NSDAP Section of Untermhaus”. Manfred registered the plaque and saw his own impression confirmed that the Party had now really infiltrated and drenched every aspect of their lives. How could it be wrong then? He remembered that only a year or two ago he had had his doubts, but now he’d come to the conclusion that the Party - despite some of its negative slogans and its flaws in some other aspects - was in truth the instrument his country needed to set things right again. The Party had the willingness and the means. He knew from his brother that the most effective sub-organisations of the Party, especially the Schutz Staffel and the Gestapo, by now had control over who was getting into high positions in the armed forces and in the administration. So, it was probably only a matter of time until they would start something that would rock the whole country and put their enemies in their places. A war? They were probably only waiting for a provocation from either of their political opponents or their neighbours. Would it be initiated by the English, the Russians or even the Poles? Somehow, Germany’s eastern neighbours seemed more likely to start a war.

Then his thoughts turned to Wolfgang. He was really someone who could get what he wanted, but Manfred was sure he wouldn’t get his dirty hands on his beloved Anna. In a way, Wolfgang’s attitude reflected the whole nation’s present state. Manfred suddenly stumbled over this parallel. The vulgarity, the frustration, the ambitions. Probably, individuals as well as nations sometimes needed such attitudes: the vulgar elements to do the dirty work, the frustrated minds to see the stark reality of their own position, and the ambitions to act and do something to change this.

Over the next few weeks, the weather turned even hotter, and in August it was extremely hot, hotter than Manfred could remember. On some days, the thermometer would climb up to 37 or even 38 degrees in the afternoon. He wiped the sweat from his face when he entered Frau Helmbrecht’s shop on his way back from school one Monday afternoon. He had to get some groceries for his father and himself, not a great deal these days since his brother was away.

“Oh, these are bad times,” Frau Helmbrecht sighed as she was handing him the small bag of groceries. “Everything still all right at home?”

“Well, Thomas has been away in the Wehrmacht for nearly two months now.”

“Has he? I was wondering, I haven’t seen him for a while. Do you know how he is? Is he stationed far away?”

“We don’t know. In his letters he tells us it’s a good life in the Army, but he isn’t allowed to let us know where he’s stationed. It’s all secret.”

“Of course. It’s the same with our Christian. In April, we knew he was stationed in Danzig, but after that we weren’t allowed to know. Well, let’s hope it’s all for the best.”

On leaving the shop, Manfred came across Frau Müller, who still helped the Weidmann men sometimes. She never appeared without a sad phrase about their poor mother and always managed to be of use in the household. Sometimes she brought a cake, sometimes she did a few chores in the kitchen or in the garden. She was a good angel for the Weidmanns.

“Oh, Manfred dear, how are you?” she beamed. Despite her sadness over the loss of poor Elfriede Weidmann, even after all these years, she was generally a cheerful and optimistic person.

“Thank you, Frau Müller, we’re fine. And how are you?”

“I know I shouldn’t complain, I mean I didn’t have to suffer such a loss as you poor boys, losing your dear mother and having to cope on your own now. But it is a sad thing to have both my boys in the Wehrmacht. I only hope they’re getting enough to eat where they are.”

“I’m sure the Wehrmacht is feeding them well, Frau Müller.”

“Are you? Well then, I won’t complain. But it is so sad to come home to an empty house. It was bad enough when my Reinhold had to join in January, but now my Horst, my baby, my little Hottie, had to go, too. And I don’t even know where they are.”

Manfred couldn’t help smiling in his mind when Frau Müller called her youngest son Hottie. He was called Horst, a good old German name, but whenever her emotions overwhelmed her she would call him Hottie.

“Haven’t you heard from him, then?”

“Oh yes, I had a letter from him. He’s all right. In fact, he has fallen in love with a girl, he writes. He doesn’t write much about her, but I think she’s got a Polish name. Now, what good German boy would fall in love with a dirty little Polish girl? That really gets me worried.”

“Many German families give their children exotic names. I wouldn’t worry too much. The good thing is that he has fallen in love, isn’t it?”

“You think so?” She didn’t sound convinced.

They said good-bye. Manfred walked up the garden path to the front door and let himself into the house. He put away his meagre shopping and sat down to his homework for school. But he found it hard to concentrate. So many of his friends and acquaintances were in the Wehrmacht! When would his Stellungsbefehl come? When would they call him up? Suddenly, he came to a conclusion. He would take the initiative himself, like Wolfgang. But he wouldn’t just join the Wehrmacht and let them make him crawl around in the mud in awful infantry training. He would aim for some higher task, something where he could do his service in a comfortable office.

He remembered that Father had told him about one of his customers who had been in high places for over three years. What was his name?

When Father came home in the evening Manfred asked him. “Who was that customer of yours, you know, the one who made his career in the Party and works for some important government office?”

“You mean Adolf Keppler?”

“That’s him. Yes. Do you think he could do something for me if I approached him?”

“What have you got in mind?” Father asked, looking him straight in the eyes. “You know, you can’t get a decent position unless you join the Party, and I wouldn’t allow that.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Manfred lied. “I can look after myself. But will you give me his address and phone number, please?”

“If you promise to stay away from that Lumpenpack, the Party. And mind you, you’ll get your Abitur exam before you join the Army or any other organisation involved in politics or government. It’s bad enough to have one son in the Wehrmacht. I want you to stay at home for at least another year. Is that understood?”

“That’s all right, Father. Don’t worry.”

“Will you promise?”

“Yes, Father,” he lied again.

When Manfred lay in bed later that night, he thought about the discussion with his father. It was fine. Father had given him Adolf Keppler’s address and phone number. This was good. He could contact him now. Nevertheless, he had a strange feeling about the promise he’d given his father. He knew he wouldn’t keep it. Of course, he would join the Party, there was no other way. He realised this was the first time ever that he had lied to his father. These were hard times, he told himself. One had to take hard decisions. And after all, these were only white lies. Small lies that were necessary for some greater cause.

He still couldn’t go to sleep. After about two hours, he had to get up to go to the toilet. As he was sitting on the toilet, listening to the silence in the house, he felt a twitch in his left shoulder.

After that, it took him a long time to go to sleep. And when he finally dropped off it was into a very troubled sleep.

* * *

Adolf Keppler received him personally in an office in the town centre. On the telephone, they had only briefly discussed possible opportunities for Manfred if he wanted to be of use to the cause of his Fatherland, to the Party and to the Führer, without having to join the dirty low business of infantry training in the Army. Keppler had told him to come to his office on the following day. Now, Keppler’s secretary, a strikingly beautiful woman in her thirties, led him to Keppler’s inner office.

“So, what do you have in mind?” Keppler asked after their initial greetings and customary polite phrases. He was a very tall man with an impressive figure, very short-cut hair, a long scar on his left cheek - probably from a cut by rapier in some initiation-ritual in his old students’ brotherhood, his Burschenschaft, Manfred speculated - and a ruddy complexion. His eyes were a steely blue, and his clean-shaven face ended in a square jaw. He smiled.

Manfred explained his dislike of dirty Army work and his aim of some higher task, preferably in a dry office, and possibly with some important decisions to take. He was ready for a challenge.

“Well, young man, I must say I like your attitude. Are you a member?”

“I want to apply today,” Manfred answered, the memory of his promise to his father stowed away in the deepest recesses of his conscience.

“Good. That’s a beginning. But I’m afraid it won’t be so easy. Can you come for a more detailed interview on Friday?”

“Of course, Herr Keppler.”

“I’m warning you. The interview won’t be so easy. The interviewers will want to know a lot of things about you. But if you pass the interview, I will investigate what we can find for you. It’s for your father’s sake. Mind you! Do not disappoint us.” With these words he stood up, came round his big desk and led him to the door.

Back in the street, Manfred felt proud. He had taken the first step in his own career. Even though his father had given him his first entry ticket, he would now take his life and his career in his own hands. He thought it was strange to find Keppler such a hardliner of the Party even though he was friendly with Father, who was opposed to the Party. It was probably because Father kept his opinion well-hidden. Most of his customers knew he wasn’t a member but they tolerated it because of his good business and his excellent service.

At school two days later, Herr Mollenhauer winked at him in the corridor. “Well done, young Weidmann!”

Manfred was going to ask him what he meant, but the young teacher had already turned round the corner to the staffroom. Could it be that the Party officials were making enquiries about him at school? Did they already collect information about him to have some reliable background knowledge about him for the interview on Friday? Well, he wouldn’t have to worry on that score. His school work was brilliant. He was nearly at the top of his class, especially in English and Maths.

When, after school, he told Anna about it she was full of enthusiasm. “It could be the making of you. Of course, the Party leaders have to make sure of a candidate’s loyalty before they entrust him with any task of importance. You’re lucky your father has this connection. It’s obvious you need connections to get anywhere these days.”

“But won’t you mind if I have to leave Gera? I’ve heard most of the opportunities in a Party career are not to be found here in the province. I may have to go to Leipzig or even Berlin.”

“Of course, I want to have you here with me, that’s obvious,” she said and kissed him. “But if the greater cause for our country takes you to another place, you have to go, and I’ll wait for you. You know I’d always wait for you.”

He thought he was a lucky man to have such an understanding girlfriend. It was comforting to know she wouldn’t oppose his plans. The only problem would be his father. It was better not to tell him too much. When, in the evening after the visit to Keppler’s office, Father had asked him about it, he had been unspecific and only gave him some general answers. Keppler had been friendly and sent him his best regards, Keppler had said he might help him into a career when the time came - he didn’t say it could be soon, long before his Abitur exam - and Keppler hadn’t made any promises. Manfred didn’t know how much of this his father believed him. He suspected him to understand more than he let on. It was quite possible his father knew exactly what his younger son had in mind, and it was equally possible that he fled into his own romantic notions ignoring the hard realities of the times and believing his son would first follow his education before any other plans. Whatever his father’s insight, Manfred would have to be careful not to let him know too much. He wasn’t going to let anyone thwart his noble plans.

At the interview on Friday, which took place at the same address as his first meeting with Keppler, only in a different room, Manfred was surprised to learn how much the three interviewers already knew about him. They asked him lots of tricky questions about his political views, about his past, about his family, and about his ambitions for the future. They even knew about Anna. One of the interviewers smirked when they mentioned her, just as if a relationship with a girl was a special asset, but of a nature that Manfred didn’t like. He was reminded of Wolfgang’s vulgar behaviour and realised he hadn’t had a private word with him since that day at the café. He wondered if Wolfgang had reached his desired posting in the Wehrmacht by now. He was just speculating on running across him again one of these days when the first interviewer pulled him out of his thoughts with another unexpected question.

“And how do you think you could make your amorous relationship with Fräulein Kleinschmidt useful for the Party?”

He was shocked. Why and how was he to make use of his love? It wasn’t something to make use of. He abhorred the expression. But he had to give these men something. He had to throw a bone to these dogs.

“I believe she could become very useful when I need to procure sensitive information for the Party.” It was a phrase he remembered from a cheap spy novel he had read on his last holidays on the beach of the Baltic Sea, a book his father had brought along, and he only picked up because he’d run out of his own reading material.

There was a pause. The three interviewers exchanged meaningful glances, then continued with less sensitive questions about his school work. The dogs had obviously accepted his cheap bone.

They were highly impressed by his excellent school work. One of the interviewers tried to show off his own knowledge, asked him a tricky calculus question and went on to elaborate on a lecture about a graph of which he only had superficial knowledge. It wasn’t really a question but rather a discourse to display his love of his own importance. The other interviewers didn’t seem to be very happy about it, but when Manfred explained the mathematical problems associated with the graph that was under discussion, they smiled. He knew he had impressed them, and he hoped this would get him the desired success.

At the end of the interview, they told him he would hear from them in due course. They dismissed him in a friendly manner and shook hands with him.

A week later the results came. Manfred took the letter from the letter-box with a twitch in his left shoulder. His father was not at home, so he could devote himself to his career at his leisure. He opened the letter and read it through several times. It explained that he fulfilled the requirements for recruitment as an elite Jungmann, which meant he wasn’t admitted into the Wehrmacht or any other combat organisation yet, but he was ordered to complete his secondary education first, and this had to take place at Pirna, an elite educational institution at Sonnenstein Castle near Dresden in Saxony. It said he was to report at Pirna immediately upon receipt of this letter.

Manfred sat down. His feelings were divided between disappointment and excitement. He was disappointed that they didn’t accept him immediately into one of their organisations and thus ensure that he wouldn’t have to join the Wehrmacht. But he was excited over the new prospect. Of course, he had heard about so-called Napola Schools. They were really called Nationalpolitische Erziehungsanstalten, National Political Institutes of Education, officially abbreviated NPEA, but everybody called them Napola, short for Nationalpolitische Lehranstalt, National Political Institute of Teaching. The location, Sonnenstein Castle in Pirna, promised to be a very pleasant place, so there was something to look forward to. When he came to think of it, he realised that he was probably very lucky. Naturally they wanted him to get his Abitur first, he was still only seventeen, but from Pirna his brilliant career would be waiting for him. He was a truly privileged young man.

He rang Anna at once. She took the news without emotion, it seemed to him. He thought she might have shown more disappointment over their impending separation.

When Father came home in the evening, Manfred had his suitcase packed and ready to leave for Pirna. Father accepted the news with a stony face. Manfred saw he wasn’t pleased. Nevertheless, he said, “I’m proud of you, my boy. But be careful and critical about what you’re letting yourself in for.” That was all.

Manfred spent his last evening with Anna. She came to his home, and because Father had to go out again, they were alone, which was wonderful. But it was a sad evening. Even though they made love, the atmosphere between them remained strained. Neither of them could throw off their nervousness. After all, their separation for several months was imminent.

The next morning, Manfred got up early. His train would leave around lunchtime. To pass the time, he switched on the radio. The news at ten o’clock announced a speech by the Führer. He barked into the microphone:

“Seit 5 Uhr 45 wird zurückgeschossen...”

The Poles had attacked Germany, and this was a Declaration of War!

Five

It was the barking of the dogs that made the place so daunting. They were huge and black. Two of them were Labradors, one appeared to be a Rottweiler. At the slightest noise or movement, they went berserk. The smallest disturbance would set them off on a barking rampage. They certainly guarded the place like no other animal, and any intruder would have to cope with them. There was no way around them.

When he climbed over the fence near the edge of the forest in the dim twilight of the early-morning dawn, he believed the place might give him some shelter for the day. But hardly had he stepped away from the fence towards the barn when the barking began.

The barn loomed dark but inviting against the grey sky. It wasn’t raining, but it was a bit cold, even though this was July. He wished the summer would come at last. He rubbed his hands.

The barking didn’t stop. On the contrary, it seemed to grow in volume. He decided to wait a few moments without movement, hoping the barking might stop eventually. He froze into a statue and kept his breathing low.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been surprised by fierce dogs, but he usually managed to get them used to his presence. It was only a matter of patience. His experience had taught him that you could just outstay the dogs’ patience, and they would normally give up after a while. Some took two or three minutes, others kept barking for nearly ten minutes, but in the end, they would all get used to his presence and accept the situation.

But not these dogs.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but the barking wouldn’t abate. The dogs just refused to calm down. What tenacity! He couldn’t help admiring these animals, even though they were making life a lot more difficult for him.

He began to think of alternatives. How far could he make it under cover of the dark? How far was it to the nearest farm on the other side of the forest?

He decided to give them another five minutes. His wrist-watch was still in working order, which was important for him in his present predicament. The minutes crawled along while the dogs kept up their frenzy. He knew that the way we experience the passage of time was relative. The same five minutes would appear like a quick flash if he was in a different situation. For example, if he was active doing something exciting, or if he was in the middle of a joyful intimacy with a lovely woman. He nearly grew angry with himself for having such thoughts, for even imagining or remembering beautiful moments in his life. To be honest, he had to admit that he hadn’t really experienced unaffected, pure happiness for more than five years. He considered the possibility that he might never have any beautiful moments again. Who could tell?

It was no use ruminating on philosophical questions like the passage of time or the likelihood of renewed happiness in his life. The here and now needed his full attention.

When, after those five minutes, the dogs were still barking, he turned round and walked back to the fence. Reluctantly, he climbed back over the fence, leaving the alluring barn behind his back and making his way into the darkness of the forest.

Fortunately, it was a dry day. After walking through the dense undergrowth for another half hour he found a suitable spot, secluded and protected by thick bushes all round and with a soft, mossy ground. He sank to the ground, folded up the small bundle he was carrying and covered himself with his worn army-greatcoat. He was so tired that he soon drifted off into a troubled sleep. His uncomfortable physical position couldn’t keep him awake. It wasn’t the first time that he had to spend the day in similar circumstances. He had been lucky most of the time, finding a dry spot in some barn or hayloft, but when such luxuries were inaccessible he had to make do with a snug corner in the woods, which wasn’t really so bad when the weather wasn’t wet.

His sleep was troubled because he couldn’t shake off some of the recurring images and dreams. Were these mere fantasies or genuine memories? He didn’t know for certain. No longer. The past few months had been so earth-rocking and traumatic that he had begun to doubt his own memory. He couldn’t dismiss all the images of dying men from his mind. He saw them again and again. There was one man in particular, not very old, with a narrow face and dark curly hair. It was shocking and utterly unbelievable how a man could face his own death with such equanimity. He knew they were going to shoot him. When they’d pulled out his fingernails, he’d confessed he’d been working as a spy. After such a confession he must have known his fate. His life was worth absolutely nothing. They let him watch some of the other executions to give him a foretaste of what he had coming to him. One never knew, he might even tell them more. But the man remained completely calm. How could he eventually walk up to the trench full of dead bodies, knowing he would be one of them in just a few moments, and keep up his calm dignity? He’d looked him in the eyes. Not a flicker, not a tear, no sign of panic! This image came to him almost every night. The man’s calm dignity. His eyes. His firm step up to the trench. His silent acceptance of his imminent death. No begging for mercy, no crying, and worst of all, no accusations.

Then there was that woman. A Jewish whore. She had been caught in the cellar of a grocery store during a raid in Wolgast. They’d taken her to the brothel they’d set up for their own entertainment in Greifswald, and they’d drawn lots over who could enjoy her first. She was so beautiful, they all wanted her. His turn came third. But when he walked into her room at the brothel - a bare room with a bed and a chair - he found her dead on the bed, her throat cut, blood everywhere. He couldn’t remember the results of their short enquiry into her suicide, whether they could find out how she’d got hold of the knife, all he could remember was the sight of her on the bed and his mixed feelings. Disappointment over a missed opportunity to enjoy her merged into something like respect for the woman. He knew she was nothing but a worthless Jewish whore. But he just couldn’t forget her, her fine features, her bold eyes and her personal dignity in spite of her humiliating situation.

Today was no exception. His bad dreams and visions came to him like almost every day in his sleep. There were other images, besides the spy about to be executed and besides the beautiful Jewess who committed suicide. There were those groups of Russian prisoners of war that they’d picked up somewhere north of Minsk. As they were being paraded in the dirty snow on the edge of that forest, to be shot presently, they began to sing. He remembered the silencing of their fine bass voices by the rattling of the machine-gun that mowed them to the ground. He had the impression that the sound of their singing voices was buried in the snow and would re-emerge in the spring when the snow melted.

Faces, eyes, voices, shaking bodies, calm postures, terrible fears, unexpected surprises of human behaviour; men, women and children in extremis: They all haunted him in his sleep.

His back ached with stiffness when he woke up. It was late afternoon. He stood up and stretched his worn back. He would walk to the other end of the forest hoping to find another farm where he might be able to steal some food. If the farmer or his wife looked trustworthy he might beg for food, but he had to be careful. He hoped it would be easier to find a farm, now that he’d reached the other side of the hills in Thuringia Forest. The area ahead would be slightly more densely populated, which was a danger and an opportunity. There was a higher danger of being betrayed and caught, but there was a higher probability of finding food and shelter. He still had to be careful. He still didn’t dare to show his face during the day. There were too many military patrols. Russians, Americans? He wasn’t sure. He walked all night. He had crossed the main road between Suhl and Schleusingen yesterday. He hoped to reach the border to what promised to remain of the American zone in another two or three nights. It was over a month ago when they’d announced on the radio that the Americans were going to hand over Thuringia to the Russians. So this part of Germany was becoming too dangerous for him. However, things had gone well so far. Apart from that farmer near Königsee who had tricked him into a shed with a promise of a piece of bread and a bowl of hot soup while he had sent his wife to telephone the military administration in Ilmenau. That had been a close shave. He’d only just got away when he saw an army jeep approaching round the bend on the narrow road from Dörnfeld. It was a tricky business. You never knew who you could trust.

Meanwhile, he had developed a certain radar awareness of a farmer’s political allegiance. Those who were still proud Germans and couldn’t accept the foreign occupation usually had softer features. They seemed somehow familiar. Whereas those who welcomed the occupation had sly faces. They were dreamers who were hoping for a better future. They were wrong, of course. The future wouldn’t be better, but a lot worse.

This morning he was lucky. As he was approaching the farm, he heard the farmer grumbling and complaining to his wife, as it seemed. He was complaining about the shortage of seeds and about the arrogance of the new Russian regional administrator who had sent him home with empty hands.

“How am I supposed to grow crops if the bloody Russians won’t let me get any seeds?” he shouted at the fat woman who stood near him, her furrowed face under a colourful headscarf and her large front behind a dirty apron, her arms akimbo. She just shrugged her shoulders. His face was livid with rage. He dropped down his pitchfork and threw his hands in the air.

“Wasn’t it a lot better when we had good German law and order? Deutsche Zucht und Ordnung! I don’t believe the Führer is dead. He’ll come back one day and show those barbarians. We’ll have him back!”

This was a farmer one could safely approach. So he walked up to the fence and begged for something to eat. The farmer calmed down when he saw his dirty appearance, his emaciated figure and his military greatcoat. He looked the poor visitor up and down.

“Escaping from the bloody Russians, heh?” he asked.

“Yes, and I fear I might be in danger because I am a good German. I fought at Stalingrad, and I really did my bit for our Fatherland.”

“Well,” the farmer stroked his stubbly chin, “you’re a lucky bugger.”

His wife remained silent.

“I’m honoured,” the farmer added, “to meet a man like you, a true German. Do come in, you must be hungry.”

So this was a lucky day indeed. They invited him in and gave him a hearty breakfast of dark bread, butter, eggs, cheese and cold sausage. They didn’t have any coffee, but they gave him a hot drink of some sorts and fresh milk.

“You see,” he explained to them while he was chewing the bread, “I have to be careful. So, I only travel during the night. Otherwise, the Russian patrols might find me. Because I was a German soldier, they would imprison me or kill me or send me to a camp in Siberia, those awful barbarians.”

“But you’re not a deserter?” the farmer asked with a sly face.

“No, my unit was mostly slaughtered by the Russians, and only very few of us remained, so we had no alternative than this. We decided to split up and walk west, hoping to reach the American zone. The Americans might help us build up a new Germany again, a solid and proud Germany, as we used to have.” He added the last sentence hoping to avoid any further questions from the farmer, who looked as if he could bring up the illusion of a duty to fight any forms of Wehrkraftzersetzung.

They were interrupted by the appearance of a young woman dressed very much like the farmer’s wife.

“Good morning, Liesel,” the farmer beamed. “Come and meet a good German soldier!”

After exchanging their polite greetings, the young woman, who was the only daughter of the house, was instructed to take him to the bathroom at the back of the farmhouse. He was offered a bathtub, a towel, a brick of hard soap and some fresh civilian clothes. His old and worn clothes were half-military, half civilian. Now he would be safer with only civilian clothes. As he was stepping out of the bath and beginning to rub himself down with the green towel, the young woman opened the door and peeped in. She smiled. He realized what she was after, and he quickly dressed to avoid any misunderstanding.

“Won’t you stay with us for a while?” she asked in a cooing voice, with a heavy local accent.

He knew what that would mean, and he explained to her that he was in great danger if he was found out by the Russians. He made his situation very dramatic to impress her. She was disappointed and tried to convince him of his safety as long as he stayed in the farmhouse, with her. She stepped up to him.

“Won’t you give me a kiss?”

“All right, Liesel,” he smiled. “I’ll kiss you, but I’m leaving you. I can’t stay. Please, understand this.” And with these words he kissed her on the lips. Then he disengaged himself from her attempted embrace and left the bathroom.

Liesel’s mother showed him his room. He suspected she knew what her daughter was after, but neither of them said anything. Once in the bedroom, he locked the door with the big black key. He wanted to be safe from any intrusion, and he didn’t trust Liesel’s acceptance of his refusal.

It was late afternoon when he woke up. He dressed in his new outfit, brown baggy trousers which were a bit too short, a blue farmer’s shirt, an old black waistcoat and a grey jacket with holes in the elbows and a greasy stain on one of the lapels. There was even an olive-green pullover, which he decided to take along as an alternative to the waistcoat or the jacket. These were rather shabby clothes, but it was a good and warm civilian outfit. He saw it as an advantage to look poor and shabby. Like this, he would melt into the civilian crowds more easily. He didn’t want to look too conspicuous. He walked to the kitchen, where there was some food on the table, but not a person in sight. They were out in the fields, so he could fill his stomach plus a small bag for provisions and an old rucksack that they had left on a chair for him. There was a dirty slip of paper attached to one of the straps of the rucksack: “For you, good German.”

As he was walking away from the farm in the descending dusk, he looked back and wondered what would have become of him if he had accepted Liesel’s invitation. Quite apart from the danger threatening his life from the Russian occupation forces, he couldn’t imagine a life with a girl like Liesel. He had lost the ability to love and respect a woman. He could never again be natural with a woman, and he could never trust a woman again because no woman could ever trust him again.

He walked through the whole night. Towards the early dawn showing on the eastern horizon he crossed the main road between Themar and Henfstädt. The country was a lot more open here, with undulating green fields and great distances between the farmhouses. He would have to be extra careful in this new environment. After a while he came to a farm near a village whose name he couldn’t find out. They had removed a lot of village signs when they had to withdraw from their positions in view of the advancing invasion of the Allied Forces. He remembered the same procedure from the eastern front. You didn’t want the enemy to find out where things were, you hoped to confuse them, thereby gaining some valuable time for your own retreat. To the south of the village, which had a narrow road running through its middle, he discovered a small lake or pond whose shore was overgrown with reeds and small hazel bushes. This gave him excellent cover from which he could observe the shed on the pond’s southern shore. It looked unoccupied.

He sat down among the bushes and ordered his thoughts. The experience of his last encounter with a farmer and his family had taught him the necessity of a new biography. Naturally, he had to give people a name and a story. To Liesel and her parents, he’d been Hans Meyer, a name he’d just invented. But he would have to be more careful. He would have to invent a more convincing name, not too common and not too special. And he would have to invent a better story than the one he’d told that farmer. Fought at Stalingrad, and now his unit disbanded, that was rubbish, altogether too general. He decided to take a rest once he was in the American zone and take time to think of a convincing new biography. It would have to be a lot more detailed, and he would have to season it with a sprinkling of exciting anecdotes that would catch any listener’s attention and steer things away from suspicion.

Carefully, he walked up to the small shed. The door was open, and it was empty. No wonder it wasn’t occupied, he realized, when he saw the few gaping holes in the roof. There was no threat of rain, so he decided to spend the day in this shed.

After eating the last piece of bread he had and drinking some water he’d scooped from the pond, he was tired from his long walk through the night and lay down on his bed of grass and straw and covering himself with his greatcoat. It was the only piece of military clothing he had allowed himself to keep, because as he had seen in many places, people wore such greatcoats even though they had no connection with the army. Coats were rare, and the nights could still be cool.

As he was slowly falling asleep his thoughts returned to Liesel. She was the only young woman he had been close to for several months. She was not beautiful, but she was young and radiated a healthy constitution. He remembered her well-developed breasts which he couldn’t miss when she stood in front of him in the bathroom. However, in spite of Liesel’s possible female attractions, his own sexuality was not aroused. It was rather the naive trust which she seemed to offer him that touched his heart in a strange way. He knew he would have disappointed this innocent farmer’s daughter. It had been the right decision to say no.

He jumped up when he felt a hand on his shoulders. Someone had awoken him. It was about noon. The sun shone through one of the holes in the roof and it was a lot warmer. He looked up. A man’s face with a stubbly beard stared at him.

He wanted to stand up and either defend himself or run out of the shed, but the other man held up his hands and smiled.

“No fear, my friend. I’m not going to harm you or betray you.”

“Who are you?”

His question reminded him of his own need. The situation in which he needed a name had come right now, earlier than he had expected. He cleared his throat and decided to go first, and before the other man had time to answer his question he uttered the first name that came to mind. “I’m Dieter Wolff.”

“My name’s Karl Huber,” the other man replied.

After this introduction there was silence. Karl Huber sat down, and they remained seated on the floor of the shed, facing each other.

“So, Dieter, we seem to be in similar circumstances.” There was no need either to deny or confirm this. It was so obvious.

“Got any food about you?” Karl asked, inclining his head in the direction of his new companion’s bag.

“Not much left. You hungry?”

“I wouldn’t refuse a good dinner now,” Karl smiled.

Dieter - as he now decided to call himself until he could think of a better name - took an apple out of his bag. “I’ve got two of these. You can have one if you’re desperate.”

It was a small gesture, but in these hard times it was a very generous offer, and it immediately sealed a sort of companionship between the two men. They both relaxed and began to chat of things in general, first about food and drink, then about life in the Army, and about the War, which they both agreed was now definitely over. After a while, their talk turned to their families. They didn’t tell each other any details, numbers of their units, military ranks or where they came from, they just talked about their parents and siblings. Karl also had a lot to tell about an uncle of his who had disappeared during the War. Dieter mentioned his father and his brother. Then it was girls, women. Both men had lost touch with the female half of the world, as Karl was putting it, and they both gained some degree of consolation from the stories they told each other about their intimate experiences with women, some true, some not so true. Dieter thought he might as well invent some good stories about women. These were small lies that made Karl happy. White lies.

They never touched upon any awful aspects of the War. Dieter was sure Karl must have seen some horrible things, too, but it was better to let those things be. They would have to forget a lot of terrible experiences during the rest of their lives anyway. They might as well begin to forget them here and now.

It was afternoon, but they were both still tired. So their stories gradually petered out, and they fell asleep again.

* * *

It was pitch-dark when he woke up. He heard Karl, who was still snoring. He got up and opened the door. There were stars in the sky. Without disturbing the other man, he managed to get away from the shed and from the small lake. He headed west. He made slow progress and lost a lot of time when he had to wait for a group of middle-aged men walking home from a drinking spree to disappear towards the village to the north of the pond. He didn’t want to take any risks with them. From what they were shouting into the night he gathered they were Germans, but their celebrating mood indicated a certain sympathy with the occupying forces. In the dim moonlight, he could see that his way lay through a valley between two small hills. After another hour, he found that the village to his left was called Bibra because a broken sign with this name lay in the grass beside the country lane.

The first signs of dawn appeared in the east when he reached another village. He thought he had to be quite close to the border. Better be extra careful.

On the edge of the village he observed a farmer entering his cowshed. The cows mooed with the prospect of being milked. Dieter peeped through the stall door and tried to assess the farmer. Could he be approached safely?

It was getting light, there weren’t many alternatives, he had to take the risk. If the farmer was opposed to giving him shelter or if he was in league with people who could be dangerous for him, he would just have to run. Run back to the nearest woods. He looked back to where he’d come from and took a mental note of a wooded area which might give him enough shelter if the need arose.

He knocked on the upper half of the door, which was left open. At first, the farmer didn’t hear him because he was too busy with a cow’s udder, but when the knock was repeated he looked up.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

“My name’s Dieter Wolff. I’m on my way west. I’d be very grateful if you could give me some food and if you allowed me to take a rest in your hayloft.”

“Can you milk a cow?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“A city-boy, then, heh?” the farmer chuckled.

“But I can help you in other ways, perhaps.”

The farmer was silent. He continued with his milking. Dieter saw pail after pail being filled with fresh warm milk that made his mouth water. After a while the farmer reached for a small metal container. “Go on then, help yourself, city-boy.”

Dieter helped himself to fresh milk. When the sweet warm frothy liquid touched the tongue in his mouth he nearly choked with shock. It was so unexpected and so absolutely wonderful to taste this fresh milk. He gulped down a fair amount before he handed the container back.

“Thank you very much. This is very kind of you.”

The farmer completed his milking task and loaded the milk cans onto a bicycle trailer.

“Wait here. I’m taking the milk to the village dairy. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t go and frighten my wife. She’s very frail. Wait for me.” Then he disappeared round the corner of the cowshed, riding his bicycle and pulling the trailer with two cans of milk.

Dieter waited at the back of the cowshed. Soon, the farmer was back. He took him to the farmhouse which they entered through the back door. They stepped through a sort of utility room before they reached the kitchen.

“Why must you invite every tramp to our kitchen?” the farmer’s wife pleaded when they entered.

“Don’t mind her,” the farmer said to Dieter, ignoring his wife’s protest. “She’s afraid the Russians might come and rape her. You can’t blame her. I mean, from what you hear about the Russians. But I always say: No need to worry. If you treat them with decency they’ll be decent with you.” While he was offering this piece of advice he began to fry himself an egg on the old stove. His guest sat down at the kitchen table. The woman remained standing at the back of the kitchen, observing the two men and keeping a watchful but frightened eye on the newcomer’s appearance.

“So they’re here for good now?” Dieter wanted to make sure.

“Yes, so they are,” the farmer explained. “They’ve now taken over the whole of Thuringia. The Americans have left.”

“How far is it to the American zone from here?”

The farmer handed him a cup of hot milk, a cold pork sausage and a chunk of fresh brown bread, and he sat down to his own breakfast, which consisted of the same items as Dieter’s, with the additional delicacy of the freshly fried egg. For a few moments, not a word was spoken, and only the chewing and slurping noises of the men filled the kitchen. Dieter wondered if the farmer hadn’t heard his question or if he didn’t want to answer.

“It’s just over there,” he replied at last. He underlined his vague statement with a gesture in the direction of the kitchen window and a loud burp. His plate was empty. “You see, Olga dear,” he remarked, turning to his wife, “this city-boy wants to go west. He doesn’t like the Russians, just like you. Why don’t you go with him?”

She did not reply but lowered her face in shame.

“Ha, I was only joking,” the farmer chuckled. He was the only one who laughed. “But listen, city-boy,” he continued, “you can just walk over there. That’s Henneberg, that village over there. That’s where you can join the main road from Eisenach to Würzburg, and that’s where you’ll be certain to walk into Ivan’s arms.”

“Do you know a better way, then?”

“If you can get round Henneberg alive, you can find a forest area to the west of Hermannsfeld. That’s where it’s quite easy to get across without running into a military patrol. But the problem, as I say, is getting past Henneberg. The village is full of Russian soldiers, and the border is heavily guarded. You better walk south. Just before you get to Schwickershausen, you turn right. That’ll get you to an easier crossing. Mind you, it’s guarded, too, but you can wade across in the dark. Just don’t go too near the bridge. And there’s another problem. The country round there won’t give you a lot of cover. It’s mostly open fields. But if you ask me, I’d go for it rather than meeting up with Ivan in Henneberg.”

“Thank you. You’re very well-informed.”

“Do you think you’re the first fellow who’s looking for a way to get across?”

“No, probably not. You must have seen a few people like me, living in this place. Haven’t you thought of crossing over yourself?”

“Why should I leave my farm? The Russians will need bread and potatoes, too. They’ll have to treat the farmers with respect. Otherwise they’re going to starve to death.”

The two men continued to talk about general gossip for a while. Eventually, the farmer told him where to hide in the barn and told his wife to get an extra blanket as a mattress. “You won’t need it to cover up, it’s going to be a warm day, but the floor is quite hard, so use it to sleep on.”

The farmer was right. The day turned out to mark the end of the cool weather, and it became quite hot in the afternoon, which made it difficult for Dieter to sleep.

He began to think of his situation. It was a good thing the farmer had warned him about the village to the northwest. He would try his luck where the farmer had suggested, further south. This farmer must have met quite a lot of people who were on their way west, people like himself who were hoping to find better conditions in the American zone now that the Russians had taken over Thuringia, probably not only ex-soldiers, but also refugees, some even from the east, from East Prussia and Poland.

He realised that once he was across and safe he would still have to go a long way. If he wanted to start a new life in the west, he would have to walk as far as Frankfurt or Wiesbaden, where he was hoping to find a new start if his old great-aunt and his distant cousin were ready to take him in.

The Frankfurt area was full of Americans, he knew. He might try to get a job doing some translation work for them. His English was quite good. They might be happy to employ him. At least it would be a beginning. At least he could try.

When dusk had fallen, the farmer’s wife appeared with a bottle of beer and a small pack of cold food for him to take on his journey west. He thanked her, but there was no reply from her. He felt uneasy with her. He wondered if she could see through him. She had such a witch-like manner. Could she guess what he had been? Could she sense what he had seen, what he had done?

He set off in the dark. It was so dark he found it difficult to follow the narrow road. After a long bend to the left he suddenly saw a military patrol vehicle, hardly more than fifty metres ahead. Without hesitation, he jumped into the undergrowth on the slope to his right and tried to suppress his breathing. If they found him, it would be the end of him.

The vehicle stopped. Some of the men got out to continue their patrol on foot. One remained in the car. He revved up the engine, made some awful crunching noises with the gearbox and turned the vehicle round. Those on foot began to walk in the direction of the undergrowth.

They approached slowly. There were four men. They were carrying rifles, chatting in Russian and smoking. He could see the red glow when they drew smoke from their cigarettes.

What would they do if they caught him? Would they shoot him point-blank? Would they take him prisoner and send him to one of their death camps in Siberia? What if they found his tattoo?

Dieter Wolff thought of positive things to fight his mounting fear, of his first kiss, of beautiful Latin poetry, of his mother’s warmth... but he didn’t manage to avoid a violent twitching in his left shoulder.

They were only a few metres from him when they burst out laughing.