A BAD GERMAN

Opa heated water on the stove, and while I washed my face, he looked for something cold to put on my eye.

‘Best not tell Stefan how this happened,’ he said, handing me a thin slice of pork as I came into the kitchen. ‘And be careful with that, it’s our supper.’

I sat at the table and put the cool, sticky meat against my eye.

‘It might set him off again like last night,’ Opa said, ‘make him more angry. Just say you fell off your bike.’

I thought about how Stefan had shouted at me, and Opa must have seen how bad it made me feel because he sat down and leaned back in the chair. ‘It’s not all your fault. Sometimes people get angry about things that make other people sad. Things affect people in different ways.’

I waited for him to explain.

‘When you think about Papa, how does it make you feel?’

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the tightness in my chest. It was like a pain that wouldn’t go away. It was always there, even when I didn’t notice it. When I was with Lisa, I didn’t think about it, but then I’d see something or hear something that would remind me of Papa and the pain would come rushing forwards.

‘It makes me feel sad,’ I said.

Opa nodded. ‘For your mama, it’s different. It made her ill.’

‘But she’s getting better now.’

‘Yes, she is, and that’s good.’ He gave me a sad smile. ‘But it has made Stefan angry. He wants to blame someone for what happened to Papa.’

‘You mean he wants to blame the Führer?’

Opa raised his eyebrows and thought about it. ‘Well, I don’t think your brother ever liked the Führer very much. Your father was the same, and—’

‘Papa didn’t like the Führer?’ I asked.

Opa sighed. ‘Maybe this isn’t something to talk about now; we’re talking about Stefan, and about why you shouldn’t tell him what happened to you. You see, Karl, it might make him do something stupid. You remember how he used to get into trouble at home? And that time he went away for fighting with the other boys? Well, it’s the same thing, except times have changed and the consequences are much worse now. Stefan was right when he said that sometimes people are taken away and never come back.’

‘Like Lisa’s papa?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Herr Finkel?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Opa shook his head.

‘But how can Kriminalinspektor Wolff be so horrible to people he knows?’ Even as the question came out, though, I remembered some of the horrible things I had done – like hitting Johann Weber to the ground on the day he received his papa’s death notice.

‘As I said, Karl, people change.’ Opa looked right at me. ‘But not always for the better.’

I shifted my gaze and stared at the Nazi party badge pinned to his shirt; the perfect red and white circle with the silver lettering and the swastika in the centre. ‘You weren’t wearing that the day Kriminalinspektor Wolff came. You used to wear it all the time.’

Opa looked down at the badge and shook his head. ‘Yes, I …’

‘You don’t like him,’ I said. ‘Hitler. You don’t like him any more.’

Opa didn’t say anything. He went to the cast iron stove and put a pan over the hotplate.

‘I won’t tell.’

Opa looked over his shoulder at me, then took a wooden spoon from the drawer and used it to stir the contents of the pot.

‘I don’t mean about my eye,’ I said. ‘Though, I won’t tell about that either. I mean about anything.’

Opa stopped stirring and stood with his back to me.

‘About the flower. About Papa not wanting to go to war. About what you really think of the Führer.’

Opa turned around and stared at me.

‘I promise I won’t,’ I said. ‘And … and I don’t think I like the Führer any more, either. He makes everyone scared and that isn’t right. We shouldn’t be scared, should we?’

‘No,’ Opa said, ‘we shouldn’t.’

When lunch was ready, we sat at the table with a bowl of watery broth. It didn’t taste of much, but there was a piece of sausage left so Opa cut it into tiny chunks and dropped it in. The chewy little lumps sank to the bottom and added only a hint of flavour.

We had hardly started eating, when there was a knock at the front door and Opa put down his spoon to answer it. As soon as I heard Stefan’s name mentioned, I went to the window and looked out to see Opa standing on the step talking to two boys. I recognised them straight away as the two I’d seen earlier that morning. The same two who had put something into the petrol tank of the truck.

Opa was shaking his head as he spoke to them but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I went to the kitchen door and looked out just in time to hear Opa say, ‘And don’t come here again,’ before he stepped back inside and closed the door.

‘Stupid idiots,’ he said as he turned around and saw me standing behind him.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

‘No one.’

‘Are they Stefan’s friends?’

‘It doesn’t matter; they won’t come here again. Now come and eat your lunch before it gets cold.’

Back in the kitchen, Opa switched on the ‘people’s receiver’ wireless that sat on the sideboard where Oma kept the plates. We had one at home that looked exactly the same. They were specially made so that everyone could afford to have one and listen to the news and programmes the Reich put on for us.

There was traditional music playing when we sat down for lunch, but when the song was over, something else came on. I wasn’t really listening to it until I heard his voice. It was one of the Führer’s speeches, something I’d heard lots of times before because they made us learn it at school, but they always played this one part that seemed to be more and more important as the war went on.

‘Mr Churchill may be convinced that Great Britain will win. I do not doubt for a single moment that Germany will be victorious. Destiny will decide who is right.’

I knew the words by heart, and I still felt my pride swell when I repeated the words in my head.

Germany will be victorious.

But with the pride, I felt confused. I hated the enemy. The Russians had killed my papa and the British flew over us and dropped bombs and blew up our houses. I wanted Germany to be victorious and I was proud to be German, but at the same time, I didn’t love the Führer any more. I used to think he sounded excited, but now his voice just sounded angry.

‘Let’s see if there’s something else on,’ Opa said, getting up from the table. ‘Music is so much better for the digestion, don’t you think?’