"It was not the intellectuals who gave to me the courage to begin this huge task. It came from two classes alone- the German farmer and the German worker”
Adolf Hitler, 1932 campaign speech
Collecting for the Fuhrer
We Jugends were expected to greet everyone with “Heil Hitler.” I loved doing it, shooting my arm into the air in salute whenever I could at school or on the street. My parents did not join in my enthusiasm.
Mutter had her hair styled once a month at the same salon for years. One morning as she entered, she forgot to hail the Fuhrer. Instead she addressed the clerk with, “Good morning, Niklas.” Niklas stiffened, replying in a cold voice, “That is not the correct greeting. If you want our services, you will go out to the street. When you return, you will hail our Fuhrer or not return.” Too shocked and frightened to think it over. She obeyed. “It was demeaning,” she told Vater at dinner, “but better than being reported.”
Vater nodded. “It’s a terrible thing we always have to be so careful.”
“I’m not going back. I’m afraid Niklas would report me if I forget again. Besides, we don’t have the money for those luxuries anymore.”
I listened from my place at the table. The more of the story I heard the more confused I became. I loved Mutter and was sure she had truly forgotten to salute. But it annoyed me to hear she could forget. For me it came as natural as opening my eyes in the morning.
My parents didn’t like Eintopfessen Night, either. Before the war, we were ordered to eat a stew meal dish prepared in one pot, on the fourth Sunday of each month. Using leftovers presumably saved money, and cooking one pot saved coal. The money saved was to be donated to the welfare system. Mutter and Vater didn’t mind giving to the poor, but when it was for Hitler and the war effort, their mood turned sour.
“The money goes straight into Hitler’s pockets!" Mutter said one night. “We don’t save a penny from eating leftovers. We eat them once a week anyway. But, of course, we still have to contribute. Ha, Ha! Another big joke.”
I could not understand why Mutter laughed. Our Fuhrer knew what was best for our country. It was our responsibility and privilege to work for him. We Jugends were ordered to collect the money. I was delighted to do it, but I felt timid having to ask my neighbors and strangers for money. The leaders convinced us it was an important task, Else assuring us, “The Fuhrer will surely hear of your loyalty.”
So on the scheduled evenings, I put on my uniform and walked the halls of our apartment house, carrying a tin collection box and knocking on doors with a smile on my face. Our neighbors knew which night I’d be collecting. Some remained quiet behind their doors. I often had to knock several times before there was an answer. When the door opened a crack I’d thrust my right arm into the air to hail the Fuhrer and follow that up with a friendly, “Good evening!” Feeling official, I’d hold out my tin can and announce, “I’m here to collect money to help our Fuhrer with the war effort.” I’d stand still for as long as it took to get the forced donation, after which I'd look my neighbor directly in the eye, thank him, hail the Fuhrer once again and march briskly to the next door.
We were also required to gather money at the railroad station. When I stood in front of passersby, they always donated. I knew later it was not my smile or brisk salute that motivated them. They were afraid of being reported by me or someone else watching if they did not give. Thrilled to be helping Hitler, I stood up straight, hailed them constantly and thanked each contributor. On Monday with a righteous smile, I’d hand my collections to the Hitler youth leaders, who once again reminded me of how lucky I was to be helping the great Fuhrer. I agreed.
As the war went on we were ordered to collect more and more money. But fewer people had money to give. More apartment doors stayed closed against my knocking. When the leaders saw our half empty-tins, they glowered. “You must get more! That is not nearly enough! The Fuhrer will be upset with you. Try harder.” After a few weeks, I began to dread being shamed at Monday Jugend meetings. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting the Fuhrer down.
When I first began collecting, I’d return home feeling pleased with myself. I’d jingle my box in front of my parents and skip to my room. But when I came back with the box nearly empty, I’d run straight to my room. One evening Mutter asked me what was wrong.
“No one will donate anymore. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to the meetings without the money.”
“I don’t want you to worry. Go on to bed now. Your Vater and I will figure out what to do.”
The next morning during breakfast, Mutter nodded to Vater and he said, “Helga, Mutter and I have decided to help you. We will save a little extra out of the budget and put the money in your box.”
“We wouldn’t want you to be punished,” Mutter said. “And... of course, we want to help the war effort.”
“Yes,” I said, pleased she had seen the light, “and the Fuhrer will be proud of you!”
“Yes,” Vater mumbled. “Herr Hitler will be very proud of us.”