Max

They’re completely obsessed with housework here. And everything connected with it: the delivery of new toys, new furniture, back-up cleaning staff (prisoners allowed to enter the Home for work).

Oh, boy! There’s no time to get bored. It’s all happening. Everything’s running smoothly. All the mothers are new: the only ones here now are those who have just given birth.

Josefa is beside herself, running from room to room, racing upstairs and downstairs. Nothing escapes her eagle eye: a portrait of the Führer that hasn’t been dusted, some wilted flowers on the piano, that crooked rug in the entrance, and that baby who’s had a snotty nose all morning. She’s shouting at the nurses, nagging the secretaries, scolding the mothers, hitting the prisoners. (She got stuck into one the other day and hit her so hard, the girl had blood all over her face, and then Josefa reprimanded her for getting blood on the clean floor and hit her even harder.) Josefa is a nervous wreck. Even the sound of crying babies—the sound one associates with the Home, like the whirring of machines in a factory—sets her nerves jangling. The secretaries have been on the job for at least a fortnight. They’ve received a deluge of mail and have to work overtime to deal with it.

In my opinion, all this carry-on—the housework, the new furniture, the high voltage tension in the Home—is also a code. It means we’re about to receive visitors.

I’ve got a hunch: the secretaries are replying to letters that are all applications for adoption.

In other words, after being conceived under the most rigorous scientific conditions, after passing the selection process at birth with flying colours and managing not to be disposed of as ‘bunnies’, we babies of the master Aryan race are now going to be sent off all over Germany.

Our future adoptive parents, SS officers and their wives, have very specific requests: some want a brand-new baby just in, others want a three- or six-month-old who doesn’t need to be breastfed, some want a girl, some a boy. (Lucky we’re all tall, blond and blue-eyed: it narrows the criteria.) Before replying to the various requests, the secretaries have to check the rank of the prospective fathers. The higher the rank, the more attractive the assigned baby. For example, an Oberscharführer, a mere staff sergeant, can’t expect as perfect a baby as an Obersturmbannführer, a lieutenant colonel, who would be less favoured than an Obergruppenführer, a lieutenant general. When it comes to a request from a private, the lowest rank, Sturmmann, the letter is not even opened; it goes either straight in the bin or on the stack of files pending. If there’s ever a surplus of babies, which is not the case now, the private might receive an answer. So the secretaries have a difficult task: under no circumstances can they mix up the ranks, or else there would have to be a returns or exchange policy, which would be extremely difficult to manage. To handle each request properly, they have to study the racial history of the baby, estimate a suitable match, draw charts and graphs, and refer to scientific statistics. I’m pretty sure that’s a lot of work.

Obviously we babies have been well and truly prepared for the occasion. Washed, changed, dressed in new outfits, sprayed with scent. The newbies (my name for the newborns) are in the nursery and the veterans, of whom I am the leader, being all of seven months, are in a separate dormitory. Those who can’t yet hold up their heads are wrapped in pretty embroidered sheets and must be placed on their tummies because Doctor Ebner has observed that, given the malleability of the cranial bones, if there is pressure on the temple region of the baby’s head this would accentuate his dolichocephalic tendencies. Those able to sit on their backsides without too much wobbling are carefully placed in their cots, wedged between pretty little cushions to support them if they tip over. Finally, the babies who can move about more, like me, are strapped into specially fitted little chairs.

Our future parents’ cars are heading up the main driveway. This time there’s no nurse at the window to describe the scene outside, like there was when the Führer visited. Nurses only talk to the mothers, not to the babies, and now, given the circumstances, the mothers have been sequestered in their rooms under strict instructions not to come out. By and large, the nurses remain silent with us: they wash us, change us, dress us, without uttering a word. This gains time, maintains the rhythm, and thus keeps productivity at a maximum. But every now and again, when Josefa’s back is turned, a few of them let rip and express their annoyance. ‘Oh no, come on! You’ve pissed yourself again, have you! What the hell are you screaming for? Shut it, will you!’ Personally, I’m not overly bothered by this inappropriate language. I’m tough, as you know, and these sorts of comments, although pretty unpleasant, don’t upset me. Especially as I always find a way of getting back at anyone who mistreats me: a well-aimed vertical squirt of urine onto a clean white blouse, a stool straight onto a nappy that has just been changed, a mighty burp right in the face, and, as a last resort, screams that could burst your eardrums and turn you into a bundle of nerves, the kind of howling that seems interminable, that makes you want to tie the culprit up in his nappy and chuck him out the window—a crime no nurse has yet committed.

I wish I’d been filled in on the cars of the prospective parents. If I have to be adopted, I’d prefer to leave in a Mercedes.

To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no desire to be adopted. If I’m chosen today, I’ll obey orders and follow due process, since adoption is an essential component of the Lebensborn program. We must populate Germany, ensure its families grow ever larger and, when the war begins and is successful, populate the annexed countries, give them a fresh start. That goes without saying. But I cherish the hope…my secret wish…Anyway I’ve just managed to break loose from one mother, and erase the word ‘Mummy’ from my vocabulary. You’ve witnessed how I suffered through this ordeal: I was sick, I lost weight, I lost faith, I was frightened, I almost got taken away in the delivery van, so I can’t see much point in having an adoptive mother. I have no idea what will be expected of me: will I have to pretend I love this mother? How will I do that? That wasn’t part of the plan.

My secret wish is to join the German Youth Movement as soon as possible. Unfortunately I can’t jump the gun: I’ve got to wait five years—too long. When I’m six, I’ll be one of the Pimpfe, the youngest members of the Hitler Youth, and I’ll be able to begin my education: there’ll be orientation classes in sport, combat techniques, and Nazi history. When I’m ten, after passing another physical selection test (I’m okay for now, pure Aryan, but it’ll have to be checked again because you never know), I’ll be one of the thousands of children who, every year on the 20th of April, are presented as birthday presents to our Führer and enter the Napolas, the National Political Institutes of Education, the Reich’s elite schools. That will be such a hugely important moment in my life. I’ll have to take an oath and, guess what? I know it by heart already:

Under the blood banner, which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energy and strength to our country’s saviour, Adolf Hitler. I am ready to give my life for him.

At the Napola there’s no more nonsense. I’ll undergo intensive training until the age of eighteen, and I’ll finally be able to join the army—to fight. That’s the future of the new German youth as envisioned by our Führer. He announced—I heard his speech on the radio the other day, just before nap time—that henceforth every German child will be taken in hand at every stage of his or her youth. He said…just wait till I remember his words exactly…that’s it:

The young people we raise will terrify the rest of the world. I want them to be a commanding, fearless and cruel generation. They will know how to endure pain, and will have no weakness or tenderness. I want them to incarnate the strength and beauty of young wild animals. I’ll have them trained in all manner of physical exercise. Above all, they will be athletic: this is more important than anything. It’s how I will return them to the innocence and nobility of nature. There will be no intellectual education. Knowledge only corrupts my young people.

Soon, he added, children aged zero to six will also be part of an organisation. Unfortunately, due to lack of personnel, it’s not yet set up. That’s why I have to be adopted, to fill in this waiting period.

I have to gain some time. If I can delay my adoption, that’ll be something. In the meantime, I’m in training by myself. I’ve already overcome my fear, and, with the business of my illness after I was separated from my mother, I’ve endured pain, just as our Führer requires. I’m also trying to do some physical training: when a nurse changes my nappy, I wait until she’s not looking and, after she steps away to get some clean linen, I seize the moment and try to scoot forward and slide off the table she’s propped me on. I’ve managed to fall once already and didn’t even feel a thing! As often as I can, I haul myself up in my cot and hang on to the bars; in order to check out my fear of heights, I stand on my tiptoes, stick my bum in the air and my head between my legs. Anxious about my energetic behaviour, which they considered excessive and dangerous, the nurses told Josefa, who then alerted Doctor Ebner.

After serious consideration, the doctor announced: ‘Konrad is endowed with Draufgängertum. That’s wonderful. Wonderful! A fundamental quality of our Hitler Youth.’

Draufgängertum means ‘go-getter, daredevil’, minimal self-preservation instinct. It’s one of the first precepts taught in the Napolas. In other words, I am gifted.

Nevertheless, on Doctor Ebner’s orders, Josefa asked the nurses to stay vigilant and not to let me out of their sight. So what! I’m pretending I’m a prisoner of war trying to escape my shackles.

After anxious glances to check that everything is in order, Josefa is all smiles as she brings in the first group. She leaves the couples to potter around, before directing them towards the babies that have already been picked out as corresponding best to the couples’ profiles. The women are perfectly at ease. The officers less so: they’d clearly prefer to be outside smoking a cigarette while their wives make their choices. They’re only there to be polite, gallant even, but they don’t really give a damn, do they? Any one of us would do the job for them. They’ve got other, more important things to think about. Preparation for war, no less.

‘I’m going for a girl,’ announces one woman. ‘I’ve already got three boys and, believe me, it’s non-stop at my place. A quiet girl would be perfect.’

‘Well, it’s the opposite for me. I’ve produced nothing but girls and now I’d really like a sturdy little boy.’

The gender wasn’t an issue for others. They were out to adopt a new child in the hope of gaining the bronze, silver or gold cross. (Crosses are given out to the most worthy German mothers during an annual ceremony every 12th of August, the day Hitler’s mother was born. Women with four children get the bronze cross, those with six, the silver cross, and the most heroic of all, those with eight or more, the gold cross. When you have a cross, you get discounts, allowances, and the right to a household maid, who is one of the prisoners from the camps.)

My neighbours, Baldur and Bruno, have attracted the attention of a couple of women.

Oh, sweetie, you’ve got your eyes on me, yes! Your little handy-pandies are reaching out! You want Mummy to hold you, don’t you? Can you smile yet? Come on, give me a cute little smile. And what about a kiss?

Looks like it’s a done deal for Baldur. That was quick. Whereas the woman keen on Bruno is requesting more information before she decides. How’s his general health? His appetite? Does he sleep through the night? It’s probably too soon to tell, but do you have an inkling about what his character traits will be? If there were a problem, what would the Home administration do to help? Josefa replies politely but firmly that, because Bruno is from the elite group of babies, he won’t be a problem. An exchange might be possible, however, on a one-off basis. Now it’s on to Trudel and Erna, the girls opposite me…

I am so bored, just like the officers, most of whom have left the room, telling their wives to chose whichever baby they like. But there is one who has had enough patience to stay and who is following his wife as she comes over to me.

Josefa is on his heels and quick to sing my praises. ‘He is among the very best of our brood,’ she announces proudly. Then she reads out the details of my racial profile, insisting on the characteristics that make me a magnificent specimen of the Aryan race.

The woman kneels down so she is level with me. She fondles my hands, pinches my cheek, tickles my feet and under my chin. Just like her husband, I try to be patient. There’s no way round it. While I stare at her with my big blue eyes—you know that classic look babies have: you can’t avert your gaze and you end up unsettled unless you smile back—the woman launches into a long speech. She tells me there’ll be two big brothers for me at home, eight and ten years old, Friedrich and Rudolf, as well as two sisters, six and four years old, Katharina and Cora, who can’t wait to see me and to look after me. They’ve already been in training with their dolls so they can change and dress me, and they’ve learned lullabies for the evening. I’ll be sharing the boys’ bedroom. I’ll be able to have fun in the big garden where the dog, named Rex by the children, won’t be allowed until I can walk. But later on I’ll be able to play ball with him there. She carries on with a wealth of information about my future life…which sounds deadly boring!

My ears are ringing, the woman’s voice fades into an indistinct droning and I can no longer bear to listen. She lifts me up and my eyes are drawn to her mouth: she is wearing a lurid red-orange lipstick. I touch it. It feels sticky and I let my finger slide onto her cheek and draw some red marks there. She pretends to find my clumsy gestures amusing, while Josefa, with a strained saintly smile, hands her a handkerchief to wipe away the unsightly marks.

‘They’re so funny at this age, aren’t they? I wonder what on earth goes on in their little heads!’

I’m already bored by the lipstick, so I try to find something else interesting about this woman’s face. Nothing…I have to turn away while she tries to kiss me. (Yuk! That’s the last thing I need.) I’d rather be in the arms of her husband and listen to him, not her. Is he high up in the ranks of the Waffen-SS? Does he ever get to cross paths with our Führer? Does he get to hang out with him? Is he one of his advisors? Once our Führer has invaded the countries he set out to conquer, will this officer be sent to France, for example, with his whole family? He remains silent and only glances at me distractedly when his wife latches on to him, like he’d do in a shop if she were asking his advice about a new dress. I’ll just have to find the answers to my queries myself. If I count the stars embroidered on his beautiful black uniform, I’ll work out his rank. And it’ll give me something to do…

So, if I’m not mistaken, if I’ve counted properly—which is not easy, given that this wretched woman hasn’t stopped jiggling me around while she continues to spout twaddle—he has three stars and two stripes, which means he’s either Obersturmführer or Haupsturmführer. I’m not sure which. Unless he’s Obersturmbannführer? No, that’s rubbish, I’m getting confused. And I thought I knew by heart the lists of decorations and their corresponding ranks…All of a sudden I’ve drawn a blank. Oh well, I mustn’t panic. It’s just the incessant gabbling of this woman that’s messing with my concentration. I’ll run through a quick revision and recite the list from the beginning to the middle, as if it were the first verse of a nursery rhyme. If I don’t have to stop, I’ll keep going with the second half. Here we go:

Hurray! I made it to the middle of the list without stopping or making a mistake. Now for the rest. ‘4 stars for the …’

What happened? The couple disappeared. I’m back strapped in my chair. Frau Josefa and a nurse are standing in front of me, looking at me anxiously.

‘I really don’t know what’s wrong with him, Frau Josefa,’ says the nurse softly. ‘He does look strange right now. But this morning, I promise you, he was absolutely fine. Perhaps he’s coming down with something?’

‘And I thought he would be the first to go, that they’d be fighting over him.’ Josefa is clearly disappointed. Without another word, she heads off to join the couple at the other end of the room.

I think I know what happened. I was concentrating so hard on my mental recitation that it must have made me look like a real idiot. I won’t be leaving the Home today. Great!

I hope Josefa isn’t too cross and that this little incident doesn’t reach Doctor Ebner’s attention. My dumb look mustn’t get me taken for a ‘rabbit’. I took a big risk. But isn’t that exactly the type of intrepid youth our Führer wants?

Anyway, I’m happy because I avoided getting adopted today, which is a win in terms of my secret wish. I might be a baby, but I’m certainly not made for family life.