“While the older generation could still waver, the younger generation has pledged itself to us and is ours, body and soul.”
Adolf Hitler, 1934 Nuremberg Rally
Happy campers
Our train arrived in the middle of the night at the station in Luhacovice, Czechoslovakia. The leaders came by earlier in the day to tell us we wouldn’t be preparing for bed, but instead we should pack our things.
“We will reach our destination within hours. You must be ready to leave the train.”
After stuffing our suitcases, we stayed by the windows, waiting for the first thrilling peek at Luhacovice. I had a lovely picture in my mind of a village with twinkling lights, music and happy people waiting to greet us. This I shared with my friends. My secret hope, that the Fuhrer would be standing with open arms to embrace each of us, I didn’t share. But the train slowed and stopped in darkness. Instead of a band playing and the Fuhrer waiting, Fraulein Zimmermann and the leaders shouted for us to, “Pick up your suitcases and hurry along.”
Emma, Agatha and I tried to stay close together as we pulled and yanked our bags down the aisles and off the train. Weepy Berta was the last out of our compartment. “Come on, Berta,” I urged, “You don’t want to stay on the train, do you?”
“I guess not,” she pouted.
“Look, Helga, snow! Heaps of it,” Agatha shouted. She put a handful in her mouth. “It even tastes good.”
“It’s the prettiest snow I’ve ever seen,” I shouted back.
“Everything here is beautiful. It’s like a fairyland,” Emma yelled.
Then we heard a voice through the loud speaker.
“Pick up your suitcases and follow your leaders to the hotel.” We trudged happily through the heavy snow for two miles. The only attention I paid to my soaking feet was the thought that Mutter and Vater couldn’t order me, “Don’t get your feet wet.” I was grown up now. I could take care of myself.
When we were close enough to see our objective, we stopped and gasped.
“Helga, look at that!” Emma was out of breath and wheezed as she talked. “Is that our hotel?”
“It must be. It’s so grand,” I answered.
Agatha’s eyes were wide, “Look at the front. Gold and white. It looks like an enchanted castle”
We trooped up the walkway and up the twelve stone steps leading to the heavy iron and glass front door, which was held open by a stern-looking, uniformed, older Jugend. I wondered if I should salute her as I passed by. But she kept her eyes straight ahead and her body stiff as a statue, so I marched on.
We entered the lobby. I had never imagined a room so huge and so beautiful. High chandeliered ceilings and parquet wood floors, covered in part by great and colorful Asian rugs. My energy retuned. I was tempted to skip and slide on the shiny floors, but our teachers had warned us against improper behavior. Then I saw, at one end of the room, a poster of Hitler so big I had to be careful not to fall as I bent backward to see the top of his head. “Thank you, dear Fuhrer,” I murmured. “Thank you for everything.”
Standing at attention, without moving, while the leaders read the numbers of our assigned rooms, was a difficult task. We were exhausted from hauling our luggage, and wet from the snow, but we were still giddy with excitement. Emma, Agatha and I stood together with crossed fingers as Frau Kopp read the list, announcing Emma, Agatha and I would share a room. What luck! How could they have known we were good pals? Oh, thank you, dear, dear Fuhrer!
After hauling our bags up the four flights to the attic room, we inspected our new home. Three beds with two blankets each, three dressers, each with a mirror above, and a closet. There was barely enough space for three beds, and the room was freezing, but we were ecstatic to be together in this beautiful hotel. Emma and Agatha threw their arms around me, “Oh, Helga, we’ll be like sisters.”
“Yes, sisters at camp together,” I said. "Thank you, dear Fuhrer. Thank you, dear Fuhrer!”
Descending the stairs to the lobby, we stopped in front of another poster of Hitler, “Heil Hitler!” We shouted and saluted. And then again, “Heil Hitler.” I wanted to jump up and kiss his face, felt silly at the thought, and scurried down the stairs to line up with the others.
We followed the leaders as they led the tour to the large meeting room and classrooms, all displaying giant photos of Hitler. I had never, even in Mutter’s magazines, seen anything like these rooms. I thought a palace couldn’t be lovelier. At the end of the tour we saw the most wondrous room of all: a dining room so vast it looked larger than our entire apartment at home. It was wood paneled, with splendid chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows draped in purple velvet. The walls were covered with photos of the Fuhrer. Seeing those many images of our leader looking down at us, I thought I could hear him say, “You are my chosen children.”
Before we were sent back to our rooms, Fraulein Zimmermann handed lists of regulations to be obeyed and gave us a stern lecture about holding to them. “Make sure you have clean bodies and teeth before bed. Our Fuhrer is proud only of clean, sweet smelling pure Jugends.”
We all nodded eagerly. I promised myself to show our Fuhrer my appreciation by being a perfect Hitler Jugend. When we were each handed our own picture of the Fuhrer, “To hang in your rooms where you can see him whenever you wish.” My chest ached with joy. “Don’t forget that our Fuhrer gave you this trip to keep you safe. He is proud of you. Heil Hitler.”
Our arms shot up and we hailed our Fuhrer. Then we climbed up to our own private haven, marched to the bathroom, and, remembering Frau Schmidt’s words, we washed and scrubbed our selves until we were sure we were pure.
While we’d washed from ears to feet, I asked Emma where she was going to hang her photo of the Fuhrer.
“I’m not going to hang it. I’m putting him under my pillow,” she said.
“That’s a wonderful idea. Maybe you’ll dream of him,” I said, jealous that I hadn’t thought of it.
“I’m putting mine by my dresser mirror,” Agatha said. “So every time I look in the mirror, I’ll see him beside me.”
“Where are you putting yours, Helga?”
“In my pocket, so I’ll always be near him,” I answered.
“Do you think Hitler owns this hotel?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think the Czechoslovakian people gave it to him to show their love.”
Not long after Emma suggested, “Let’s talk all night.” We slid under the blankets and fell asleep.
Waking the next morning and seeing my best friends in the beds next to me in our own room seemed too good to be true.
“Good morning, Emma and Agatha!”
“Good morning, Emma and Helga.”
“Good morning, Helga and Emma!”
“Good morning, Hitler,” we chorused, and giggled.
We tossed our covers off, leaping from our beds to the frigid wood floor. Emma jumped back onto her bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “It’s too cold! I’m not getting up.”
“Do it for Hitler,” I said.
“Yes. For the Fuhrer,” Agatha said. “He is giving us all this. The least you can do is to get out of bed.”
Emma slowly nodded. She pulled her photo of Hitler from under her pillow. “I’d do anything for him,” she said, kissing his picture.
“The bell will ring any minute,” I warned. “Remember, the Fuhrer expects us to follow the rules, or he won’t be proud of us.”
Before leaving our room we peeked out the attic window to catch a view of the village and the snow-capped mountains beyond. Agatha and I turned to leave, but Emma kept peering at the view. "Come on, Emma! We’ll be late.”
“I’m coming. I was just thinking. Eugene is somewhere beyond those mountains.”
“Yes, and he’s well and doing fine.” Agatha tugged at Emma’s sleeve. “Now let’s go.”
No one was late for breakfast. After three days of sandwiches, we were starving. Then we discovered what was best of all. Loads of food! Twenty round tables with white cloths, each with eight chairs, set with plates and silver, awaited us. Each table had platters of eggs, sausage, toast, milk, oatmeal and fresh fruit. The hot food warmed the dining room. The aromas were delicious. The sight of it all was better than any Christmas or birthday morning. Emma poked me with her elbow. “Look at all this food! I can’t believe it. So much more than our parents let us have at home.”
“Yes,” I whispered back, “But it’s probably just this once, so eat all you can hold.”
We took our places at our assigned table. Our teacher, Fraulein Zimmermann, gave the order to, “SIT,” and added, “Cleanliness and good manners are very important for a young Aryan girl. Eat slowly. No crumbs. Appreciate your food that has been given us by our Fuhrer.” When she picked up the platter of eggs and sausage and invited us to have seconds, I could hardly believe it. I had not had seconds of anything for as long as I could remember. Before passing the platter to us, Fraulein Zimmermann said, “Be grateful to our great Fuhrer for giving us all this wonderful food.” I was.
Since I had urged Emma and Agatha to stuff themselves with food, they blamed me for the stomach aches they suffered that morning. But when, at noon, we were greeted with platters of sandwiches and steaming bowls of soup, we decided we should continue to stuff. No telling when they would run out of food. That evening, as we lined up outside the dining room, the fragrance of roast chicken filled the air. Our dear Hitler had sent us to heaven. It took three days of stuffing ourselves to conclude the food would not disappear and we could slow down.
It was that third evening that I realized I had not thought of home once since leaving. I tried to make myself feel guilty, but I couldn’t. I pictured each member of my family and tried to be lonesome for them. I couldn’t. I decided not to reveal my bad behavior to anyone. I would try again another night.
We ate all our meals in the dining room, six or eight to a table, each with our own classroom teachers. Fraulein Zimmermann kept a close eye on us to be sure we performed the expected behavior at the table. Arrive with clean hands and clothing. Sit still, be polite, no giggling, sit with a straight back. If we did not adhere, we were punished.
Punishment did not come as a tongue-lashing or whipping. It was much worse. It was DISHONOR.
Honor was everything. We worked hard at being perfect Jugends. Our rewards were knots in our uniform scarves. The more knots, the better Jugends we were. Merely wearing them reminded us to hold our shoulders straighter and our chins higher. In Berlin, during our meetings, dishonor took the form of fewer sweets or sitting alone. But it was different at camp.
Dishonor meant humiliation. Humiliation meant reducing the number of knots in our scarves to show everyone we were no longer good Jugends. It took months of hard work to win a knot. We were clean, polite, and respectful. We studied hard, stood in straight lines, cleaned our rooms, washed and ironed our clothes to perfection, and always obeyed orders.
The teachers awarded us in groups or one at a time. The more knots on our scarves, the more we were admired and the prouder we were. To have them untied was a terrible embarrassment. We worried the Fuhrer might be angry if he knew about our shame. So we tried always to behave, to be perfect. Luckily for girls in disgrace, we wore civilian clothes most of the time, our uniforms only once a week and on special occasions.
We all feared being in disgrace when Nazi officers came to inspect the hotel every two weeks, certain they would report our shame to the Fuhrer. The day before the Nazi inspection, teachers and senior Jugends did a thorough check of our rooms and bathrooms. We scrubbed and dusted every free minute we had all day and evening to lights out. Then we’d lie in bed and worry.
“Emma, are you nervous about tomorrow?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I can never eat breakfast when I know they’re coming. Then my stomach growls while they’re here,” I whispered.
“Me, too. It’s awful,” Agatha yawned, and rolled on her side.
I listened to their little snores and wished I could sleep, too. But my brain kept reminding me that I had to be perfect, perfect, perfect.
For the first few weeks our uniforms were immaculate for the reviews. Thanks to Agatha. She was best at ironing and, at first, proud of her skill. But after a few weeks, she announced, “It’s unfair! Why should I do all the work? I’ll teach you to press, and you can do it yourselves.” I never got the hang of it, and the thought of a wrinkle only added to my nervousness.
After we finished cleaning, and ironing, we shined and re-shined our shoes. The morning of each Nazi review, Emma threw up, I felt faint, and Agatha had diarrhea. We tried to choke down small bites of breakfast, but they churned about, causing noisy stomachs. At first we thought it was funny, but the looks we received from our teachers and Jugend leaders let us know they were not amused.
“You will stand erect and not make a sound!”
To present myself at my best to the important Nazis, I spent extra time primping in front of the bathroom mirror. I felt sorry for myself, as I watched Emma comb her golden locks. I wished desperately that I had not been stuck with my ordinary, straight brown hair. Ashamed not to look like a perfect Aryan, I blamed it on my Mutter.
When it was time to line up, we gave each other a good luck smile and stood rigidly straight for the inspection. I prayed my empty stomach would behave as the inspectors passed by.
The officers marched through the hotel, looking everywhere. The teachers and Jugend leaders were jittery and breathing hard. They would have to take the blame if we, or our rooms, were not in order. We knew if they took blame, we’d really be in for it.
But I stopped worrying about tongue lashings or my noisy stomach when I saw the handsome blond Nazi officers in their spiffy uniforms.
The great highlight of that first ten months was the visit of Baldur von Schirach, the commander of all the youth camps. Two weeks before he arrived, we were called together. The leaders lined us up in rows.
“You will begin today to rehearse what to do, what to say and what not to say. Baldur von Schirach is a very important man. He reports directly to the Fuhrer.”
They drilled us over and over again on where to stand, when to salute, and when to speak, which was only when spoken to. We took our training seriously, rehearsing in our rooms every night. Our teachers were austere, and our leaders demanding. But we didn’t think of grumbling. We were honored to have him come to our hotel. He represented our Fuhrer! If he reported good things about us, it was like Adolf Hitler himself had reviewed us.
I felt giddy when I imagined what it would be like to speak to him. The day of his visit, our leaders lined us up in the early morning, carefully checking us from top to bottom. They inspected our fingernails and looked in and behind our ears.
“Your hair is not right. Go comb it. You must look flawless.” Finally we filed on to the street, where we were ordered to stand in line and at attention. The older Jugends led us in rousing, patriotic songs, frequently reminding us not move from our place and to stand up straight. After two hours, I needed to use the bathroom but was afraid to ask. After three hours I badly needed the bathroom and tried not to think about it. One or two girls begging to be excused were allowed to go with a stern reminder to return to the line immediately after. During the fourth hour von Shirach and his staff finally arrived. I forgot about the bathroom. But I had a new worry. My stomach began a low, prolonged rumble.
They arrived in a parade of five black autos. As von Schirach stepped from his car, we raised our arms and shouted, “Heil Hitler.” He responded in kind and stood for a moment viewing us. The waiting had been worthwhile. It was a joyous moment! He walked up and down, slowly, studying us, as we stood at attention. I stood as tall as I could, held my breath so my body would stay stiff as a statue and prayed my stomach would quiet down. When he passed by me, I could have reached out and touched him. The thought put me into a state of bliss. For a second my body trembled. He spent fifteen minutes looking us over. As soon as he finished, he and his entourage returned to their cars and drove off for lunch. I was finally given permission to use the bathroom.
We waited two hours at attention for von Schirach to return. Still filled with excitement, we were on the front stairs ready to hail Hitler again. Von Schirach stood in front of us. He gave such an inspiring speech I thought my chest would burst with pride.
“You are Hitler’s chosen,” he said. “Hitler depends upon you to be pure and healthy. You are the future of Germany!”
The leaders signaled us to salute and to hail Hitler again and again and again. I heard buzzing in my ears. My body felt hot and dizzy. When they finally drove off, it was all I could do to keep myself from running after his car. We continued to shout, “Heil Hitler” and waved until long after they were out of sight.
That evening we all had sore throats, but we talked for hours with raspy whispers after lights out, admitting to having crushes on the broad shouldered officer. We called him, “our handsome Baldur.”
Several years after the war, I read a magazine article about how von Schirach organized the youth gathering in Potsdam. In 1936 he was given control of the Hitler Youth movement. His goal was to enroll the entire population of ten-year olds throughout Germany into the Hitler Youth as a gift for Hitler’s 47th birthday.
At the Nuremberg trials von Schirach said, “I bear the guilt for having trained the young for a man who murdered millions. I believed in that man. That is all I can say in my defense.”