I got lots of presents after my birth. Lots of them.

Firstly, traditional presents, the same ones all my buddies received: a candelabra, made by a prisoner from Dachau, and one mark (a symbolic amount). For each future birthday we will receive another mark and a candle for the candelabra.

And as I was born on the same day as the Führer, I was entitled to a savings passbook, to be topped up regularly.

Isn’t this a great start to life?

Wait, that’s not all. Apparently I’m going to get a fourth present. A surprise. Josefa spoke to Mother about it without telling her what it was. But, given her excitement—she stiffened, went bright red, stood to attention and put her hand to her chest as if she was out of breath—I knew it wouldn’t be something trifling. It must be a special surprise, something important, impressive. Of course, I have an inkling, but I don’t dare think about something so amazing. Well, maybe? After all, why not? I got here first, I passed all the selection tests hands down, so…Oh, just thinking about it gives me cramps in my stomach! Okay, let’s see if my dream comes true.

On the other hand, there’s one thing that annoys me: I still don’t have a name, not even a first name. There’s no hurry, according to the staff, since my friends and I don’t have to be registered in the state records, and because we won’t have our mothers’ names. Besides, no one knows anyone’s name here. The mothers are only called by their first names…No hurry. Easy for them to say! I want it to be decided, because in the meantime Mother is calling me ‘Max’, as if she had the right to choose my name. Worse still, every time she takes me in her arms, three times a day, she carries on with ‘my little Maxie-pie’, or showers me with all sorts of idiotic nonsense names: ‘my baby love’, ‘my darling’, ‘my little one’.

I am not her love. I am not her darling. I am certainly not little! I am big, strong, tough. Has she forgotten how I was conceived? Thank goodness Josefa is keeping an eye on things. ‘Frau Inge, come now!’ she often reprimands Mother. ‘Please speak correctly to this child. He is listening to you, he understands. Do not pollute his mind like that.’

Mother must have made a terrible face, because Josefa added in a sympathetic whisper, ‘All right, if you are so keen to give him a nickname, I will let you have the one we thought of soon after his birth: Klein Kaiser. “Little Emperor”.’

Klein Kaiser. Two Ks. Not bad. Anyway, it’s better than Max, for now.

Mother is worried. She is doing her utmost to find a resemblance between us. I can tell by the particular way she has of staring at me sometimes, frowning, with a questioning, preoccupied expression. Judging by her slightly sour expression, I’d say we don’t look alike. What’s more, the other mothers agree: ‘Oh, don’t worry, this young man must take after his dad.’ And Mother has to rack her brains, gather her recollections: the dad, the dad…What was he like, this dad? She can’t remember. That’s normal. It was at night, it was cold, the sex was quick and Mother was only looking at the portrait of the Führer. Perhaps she just recalls a trace of his scent, or the bitter smell of his sweat, of a wine-fuelled breath, the echo of a voice, of a groan, the glimpse of a tattoo under an armpit—SS officers have their blood group tattooed there. It’s very useful when they need a transfusion.

I get the feeling Mother occasionally has bad thoughts. I can sense it, and I feel it when she does that thing of suddenly going stiff when she’s holding me. Not much, you’d hardly notice it. Nevertheless, I can tell that a whole lot of thoughts are being tossed around in her head: questions, doubts. Regrets?

Doubts are not good. Questions even less so. Never question yourself. Always have blind faith in our Führer.

As for regrets, sorry, it’s too late.

When I feel Mother wavering like that, I start screaming. Her attitude has unpleasant consequences for me. She just stares into space, lets her breast slide backwards, so her nipple slips out of my mouth; I can no longer hit the right spot to latch on, so I can’t feed anymore. Furious, I cry as loudly as I can and without fail I manage to attract the attention of Doctor Ebner, who, up there in his office, on the top floor of the Home, picks up his spyglass to check on the terrace, where we’re sitting with the others. Mother is instantly aware of the spyglass on her, scrutinising her every movement, and pulls herself together. She forces her trembling lips into a smile and starts feeding me again.

I suck and suck, hard; I’m hell-bent on sucking. Every now and then I give a little bite.

I have to admit that, when it comes to feeding, I can’t complain. Mother is a really good breastfeeder. Up until now, about three days after my birth, the nurses have recorded that Mother has produced 17,620 millilitres of milk—a lot more than the other mothers. She’s got to keep up the momentum. If she continues to feed me this much, she’ll earn a bonus and she’ll be allowed to stay longer at the Home. And, as I am teamed up with her, I’ll be able to break a record too, like when I was born.

Which reminds me, I haven’t told you what happened to my challenger, my rival.

Kaput. Tot. Dead.

How about that—he was stillborn, not ‘purified’. (I’ve learned a new code word: ‘purified’, which means ‘to euthanise’.) Actually, my rival purified himself by getting choked on his rappelling cord. The midwife couldn’t undo all the knots he’d tangled himself in. She got the fright of her life when she had to report the loss to Doctor Ebner. She was really in danger of being ‘relocated’. But Ebner didn’t lose his temper at all. On the contrary. After glancing at the little corpse, he congratulated the midwife for having saved the injection that he would have had to administer if the baby had lived. An injection into the skull through the fontanelle. A little tremor, a little hiccup, and, there you go, it’s over! Completely painless. (I was right: the syringe I’d been so frightened of, in the laboratory where I’d had my tests, was indeed used for ‘purification’.)

Are you wondering why it was necessary to ‘purify’ my rival? Because it’s impossible to keep an unharmonisch recruit at the Home. Can you believe it, the baby was brown! I suppose, for lack of anything better, brown hair would be tolerated, but there are different shades of brown. My rival was brown-black, crow-black. And hairy as well, a real little monkey! And olive-skinned to top it off…Ebner did end up losing his temper: at the employees of RuSHA from whom he demanded the complete records of the couple who had produced this defective product. There was definitely a flaw in the system somewhere. Either on the mother’s or the father’s side: one of them must have falsified their certificate of Aryan race. Or else it’s what I told you before my birth: too little is known about the science of genetics. Fortunately we’ll soon master it and avoid failures like this one. Those sorts of errors are especially useful for the future.

In this case, it wasn’t genetics that was at fault. Frau Bertha, the mother of the little monkey, was the one who cheated. She had a Jew in her family tree! Straight after the birth she was transferred to a munitions factory. No more Führer’s babies for her; she had to find another way to be useful.

This regrettable incident worked in my favour. My victory was all the more significant: my rival was my first enemy casualty! Nipped in the bud.

Right, let’s not talk about unpleasant things anymore. Let’s enjoy a bit of sunshine and peace.

At the moment, the rays of a gentle spring sun are shining over the veranda where our bassinets are lined up. There are a good thirty of us. Perhaps more. And everything is calm, because I gave the signal. Earlier, when I burst into tears, all my buddies imitated me. The whole place was screaming! The nurses didn’t know what had hit them. Then I stopped and the others followed suit. I’m a real troop leader.

A bit of quiet after a meal helps me sleep better. Our bassinets, lined up like toy soldiers in a perfectly straight line along the veranda, form a battalion ready to launch an attack. They’re beautiful bassinets: big, comfortable, covered in a loose-fitting white fabric with flounces decorating the hems. We’re protected both from the sun when it is too strong—don’t forget how sensitive our bright eyes are—and from any nosy passers-by. We are in the country and it’s best to be wary of the local farmers. Doctor Ebner himself designed our bassinets and insisted on sturdy construction materials in order to avoid any accidents. The fabric hides the bars. You see, Ebner attends to everything. He’s the one who recruits the nurses and nannies, and works out which vitamins we should take. In the end he’s father to us all. He’s going to control our life, from our nappies now to the SS uniforms we’ll one day have the honour of wearing.

Thanks to him, our whole environment is sparkling clean. The furniture in the Home is magnificent and apparently even more luxurious pieces will soon be delivered. Furniture requisitioned from enemies of our regime. When the war gets started, all the additional Homes being built throughout the country will be furnished thanks to the looting. In the years to come, there’ll be so much more. We’ll take back the riches stolen by the Jews all over Europe!

Ebner is also supervising the extension of the vegetable garden. The steward is growing carrots, spinach, all sorts of vegetables—great sources of vitamins for us when we start taking solids. The grounds surrounding the Home are constantly being extended and more labourers are called in from outside. I told you before how Ebner keeps a close eye on everyone with his spyglass: the behaviour of the mothers with their children, the nannies, the nurses, the delivery men; and he also makes sure no farmers come onto the property. Every now and then you see one trying to have a look around. Out! Ebner sets a dog-handler and his sniffer dog on them. So our peace is guaranteed.

But Ebner should set up another surveillance system as well: for listening. Because, believe me, I hear some crazy stuff. When the mothers all get together like now, boy, can they talk! I’ll tell you about their gossip a bit later. That way I can introduce you to some of my buddies. It’s impossible for the moment.

All hands on deck. The secretaries, the nurses and the steward stop work; Ebner leaves his lookout at the window. Even if they’re still feeding us, the mothers gather—with us—around the radio set Josefa has just brought onto the veranda.

It’s a direct broadcast of a speech by our Führer. Just imagine it! Germans everywhere, in offices, factories or schools, stop what they’re doing to listen. If they’re outside, they’re lucky enough to have loudspeakers installed in town squares. Listening to the radio is a civic duty. Whoever doesn’t will be denounced and punished. It’s indispensible for developing a unified spirit, for creating solidarity in a victorious nation mobilised behind the Führer.

We gather around the Führer’s voice, transfixed. Well, some of my buddies can’t help bawling, but Josefa raises the volume on the radio so the Führer comes through loud and clear. His voice is powerful, vibrant, exultant. It fills the air, drowning out the birdsong and the rustling of the wind in the trees that we could hear earlier.

So be quiet! I’m listening, too.

I take in my mother’s milk.

I take in the words of our Führer.

This speech couldn’t have come at a better time. Just before my nap. I am replete. I’ll get back to you later, because I have to sleep now. Sleep helps me grow, especially my brain. It’s crucial.

Josefa approaches Mother to take me back to the nursery. Mother protests; she wants to keep me with her a bit longer.

‘Come on, Frau Inge,’ Josefa says. ‘You know the rules, don’t you? I don’t need to remind you.’

Mother relents against her will. I know the smile she turns on is not sincere, I can feel it. Because, you see, even though the rappelling cord has been cut, it’s like it’s still working. There’s magic in that cord. Yes, if I had the choice, I’d stay in her arms. She smells nice, her arms are warm, her breasts are soft; it’s a cocoon. On the other hand, the gold badge of the Party, pinned on Josefa’s smock, is so shiny, so tempting! I wonder when I’ll be able to grab it.