The combination.
One, three, two. Double four. As in 13 February 1944.
In 1944, Wegener was twelve and not yet Herr Wegener. No man in his right mind would have called that skinny little brat “Herr.”
Actually, his surname did not even have a second “e.” Back then, Wegener was Robert Wegner, like his father, Paul Wegner.
Paul Wegner (without an “e”) had joined the Wehrmacht as a volunteer. He had not even had time to write his wife and son a letter before the war swallowed him up. A grenade had fallen in the German lines, and Paul had instinctively thrown himself on it, saving the lives of his platoon.
It was the Standartenführer of the barracks at St. Leonhard in Passeier who broke the news to the skinny boy and his grief-stricken mother. He was a good-looking man, that Standartenführer. A smooth face, intelligent blue eyes. An elegant black uniform that instilled fear and respect, with the two silver lightning flashes of the S.S. Beautiful, glossy, knee-high boots.
While the guard of honour stood to attention, the Standartenführer gave Robert’s mother a letter and a freshly ironed flag and Robert a little box engraved with an eagle and a swastika.
The boy was not wearing shoes, only rags tied with string. He felt ashamed, but he was used to it. They were poor, there was nothing you could do about that. Inside the box was an Iron Cross.
The boy read out the letter because his mother was illiterate. In it, his father’s name had been misspelled, with an extra “e.” The boy checked the back of the Iron Cross. It was the same there, too: Weg-e-ner instead of Wegner.
Neither he nor his mother pointed out the mistake: the mother because she had too many tears to shed, and the boy because he recalled the last words his father had spoken as he had boarded the train that would carry him away to die like an idiot. “If you do the right thing nine times, it’ll bring you nothing but sorrow. The tenth time, you’ll understand why you did it. And you’ll be glad.”
He hated him for those words, and hate, he had discovered, was a powerful form of self-control.
That was why the barefoot little boy’s voice did not shake as he read the letter of commendation in front of those strangers, and it was thanks to that hate that he did not cry when the Standartenführer shook his hand.
You’re the son of a hero, the officer said, you must be proud of him.
No, his father wasn’t a hero, just an idiot. A dead idiot. What could be more stupid than that?
He did not say that. He nodded, thanked the officer and squeezed the Iron Cross so hard that the metal cut into his skin and drew blood. Only his mother noticed, but she said nothing.
His mother never said anything. All she knew was how to cry and pray. Cry and pray. Nothing else. And what about him? He was clutching the Iron Cross. And staring at the Standartenführer’s boots.
They must be really warm.
It was thanks to the Iron Cross that early on the afternoon of 13 February 1944 the sentries let him through, and it was only because of that Iron Cross that the Standartenführer motioned him to an armchair and held out a small piece of chocolate.
“It’s Belgian,” he said. “The best in the world.”
He spoke a beautiful, melodious German. Not the guttural dialekt Robert used with his friends and relatives. It was as sweet as honey to his ears. He wished the Standartenführer would never stop talking. Instead, there was only that offer and a wary reaction to his silence.
The chocolate was there, between them, suspended over the desk.
“No, thank you.”
The Standartenführer was taken aback. “Don’t you like chocolate, liebes Kind?”
Child.
He wasn’t a child. Not anymore.
Hate was added to hate.
And it was hate that gave him the strength to reply, looking the officer straight in the eye, as men do. “Of course I like it, but I have enough already.”
And he showed him a dark, heavy bar, twice – no, three times – the size of the one the Standartenführer had offered him. “The Bogeyman gave it to me,” he said after a brief pause.
“The Bogeyman?” The Standartenführer laughed. “There’s no such thing.”
“Yes, there is. I saw him. He’s big and black.”
The boy showed the officer the words in block capitals on the back of the chocolate bar: U.S. ARMY FIELD RATION D.
The Standartenführer opened his eyes wide.
The Standartenführer blinked.
The Standartenführer smiled.
“You’re a good boy.”