There’s a face leaning over me. A woman’s face. Short brown hair, blue-grey eyes. Not young, but not old. She’s wearing a white uniform: a skirt and shirt, with a sort of brown, quilted, sleeveless vest over the top. Some sort of bonnet, also white, is stuck on her head. She reminds me of a Brown Sister. Probably because of the brown and white of the uniform. With the slight difference that their horrible brown potato-sack dresses only had a ruff and short sleeves. On the contrary, this woman’s uniform is more white than brown. And she’s much less ugly than a Brown Sister. She’s not grimacing and her smile isn’t forced.
‘Hey, hello! Welcome aboard!’
She’s speaking English. I understood what she said. We had English classes at the Napola. In the beginning, only a few hours, and then none at all. But then she keeps going and I lose the thread. So she starts up in German, without batting an eyelid, as if she just had to press a button to switch languages. She’s got a heavy accent, but her German is fluent.
‘Are you hungry?’
Am I hungry? I can understand that question in any language. Of course I’m hungry! Just listen to the universal language of my growling stomach. I sit up and the woman feeds me soup. Slowly, spoonful by spoonful. She tells me that I can’t have any solid food for the moment, that I couldn’t digest it, because I’ve been undernourished for too long. The soup is good, hot, but not scalding. It’s made from real vegetables. I can list them precisely: carrots, turnips, leeks, zucchinis, green beans. American vegetables, I bet. Vegetables this tasty couldn’t grow in soil that is so full of ash, like ours after the bombings. Does that mean I’m in America? Did I manage to travel that far?
Eating has got me thinking straight, and got my memory working again. I remember my long treks, the silent apartment, the dead family. The clean sheets I fell asleep in, for a long, long time…until I heard noises in the silent house. Footsteps, voices. I’m pulled out of bed and laid on a stretcher. Swaying above me are shadows, people in uniform, soldiers. Not Ruskis, not Germans. I don’t recognise the embroidered insignias on their sleeves and neckbands. Then there’s a train trip, with other children. Lots of others.
The kidnapping from the house. The soldiers. A train jam-packed with children. And now this woman in a brown-and-white uniform…I’ve been captured by the American version of the Brown Sisters. The Brown Sisters? Is that their code name? There are a few of them in the room now, all wearing the same outfit, all busy with children lying in bed like me. Some of the kids look like they’re in a bad way. Worse than me.
‘Poor little thing! When we found you, you were almost dead. It was a close call.’ The American Sister stops to wipe my mouth—I’ve been gulping the soup and it’s trickling down my chin. ‘Your last name is Glaser, is that correct? What is your first name?’
Glaser? Where did she get that name?…Oh, I get it! That was the name of the family in the apartment. The American Sister thinks the dead people were my parents and siblings. I shake my head vigorously to show her she’s wrong. I feel okay—a bit limp and lifeless, but I’m not in pain; the only thing I don’t understand is that I can’t talk, it’s as if my voice had been damaged. As if the pieces were at the bottom of my throat but I can’t put them together right now.
The American Sister doesn’t take offence at my silence. On the contrary, her smile broadens. She really doesn’t look mean like the Brown Sisters were. A Brown Sister would have already slapped me for not replying to her questions. She gives me a few more spoonfuls of soup before trying again.
‘My first name is Abigail, but people call me Abi; it’s easier. Do you have a nickname?’
She’s not mean, but she’s sneaky. She’s setting me a trap. If I tell her my nickname, I’ll end up spilling the beans about my first name, and my last name—the real one. Not a word. I just eat.
‘There’s no reason at all for you to be frightened of saying the Glasers were your parents,’ she persists. ‘No one will hurt you. Even if your father was a Nazi officer, you have nothing to fear. Children won’t be made to suffer for the sins of their parents.’
She’s speaking about ‘deNazification’. I heard about it on my travels. The Allied occupation forces are arresting Nazis everywhere in Germany. They are checking the political activities of every German over eighteen.
Abi is mistaken about my silence. I’m not frightened to say that my parents were Nazis (and such Nazis!). Nevertheless, they were not the Glasers.
‘Me not Glaser. Me Konrad von Kebnersol. Two nicknames: Skullface or Max.’
There we go, my voice is back in action. The words popped out without me thinking. And in English what’s more. Pidgin English. Now I’m speaking like the Polish kids did at Kalish. Which makes me think that, after being kidnapped by Brown Sisters, I must be in an American Kalish.
Shocked, Abi steps back. With the bowl of soup. I grab it out of her hands. I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself. She stares at me, a slight frown on her face; she looks like she’s wondering if perhaps I’m not quite right in the head.
‘Konrad von Kebnersol? That’s your last name?’
I nod.
‘And your nickname…What was it again?’
I repeat it.
‘Odd, especially the first nickname. Why did they call you that?’
I don’t reply. I’d have to explain that Lukas invented the nickname. I’d have to talk about Lukas. I don’t want to. Lukas is dead. Kaput. Buried in Berlin. In a garden, like a dog.
‘So, the Glasers are not your parents? But what were you doing in their house?’
To prove to Abi that I’m perfectly fine in the head, that I’m in fact very intelligent, I have to abandon Pidgin English in favour of German.
‘If the Glasers had been my parents, they would have poisoned me, like the little boy and the little girl in the bedroom. I just went to their apartment by chance. To sleep.’
‘Okay, Max, okay.’
She’s chosen to call me Max, not Konrad. Perhaps it sounds more American than Konrad?
‘The reason I kept asking,’ she says, ‘is that we know where the older Glaser boy is. He’s alive, and if he was your brother we could have reunited the two of you.’
She pauses for a second, thinking I’m going to react, give myself away, jump for joy at the news of this big brother. Not a chance. My big brother is dead.
‘Right, well, let’s forget about the Glasers.’ She finally cuts off that avenue of discussion.
About time too.
She removes the soup bowl—that I’d conscientiously, greedily, licked clean—and places it on the bedside table. I want her to give me something else to eat. I’m still hungry.
‘You are at the Kloster Indersdorf convent. My colleagues and I (she points to the other American Sisters in the room) are nurses and we work for an organisation called the UNRRA, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. That means we look after all the orphans or unaccompanied children. We help them to find their families. Do you understand?’
Yes, I understand. But neither she nor her colleagues will be able to do anything for me. I don’t have any family at all. I’ve never had any and that’s something she’ll never understand. I should explain it all to her, but I’m too tired. I shut my eyes without answering. That’s an answer: ‘Leave me alone!’
She gets the message. ‘I’m going to let you rest now,’ says Abi, a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘I’ll come and see you later.’
She stands, moves away and—I half-open my eyes to check—leaves the room.
Unlike the kids around me, I don’t want to sleep. I’ve already slept enough in the Glaser apartment, in the train, here.
It’s too much like a dormitory here. I’m not used to dormitories anymore. I can’t stand them.
I try to decipher what Abi said. I’m in the Kloster Indersdorf convent, so I’m in Germany, in Bavaria, to be precise. That is the American sector. They look after orphans in this convent. Kalish was also a disused monastery. They looked after orphans at Kalish, too. ‘Look after orphans’ was code for Germanisation, before an adoptive family was found. Abi spoke to me in code language so as not to frighten me. She omitted to point out that they’re going to Americanise me. They already use my American first name.
Abi seems kind, but in the end I wonder if she’s not a bitch, too, like the Brown Sisters. I also wonder if Americanisation is going to be as tough as Germanisation was at Kalish.
I have absolutely no desire to be Americanised. I’ve got to get out of here. I glance over at the door. No wardens. I get out of bed.
Before escaping, I decide to have a look around. I’m in no hurry, and anyway, where would I go? At least there’s food here—I should eat up before leaving.
I enter a room that is a dormitory, not a hospital ward. There are more children here—not sick, just shockingly thin. Like me. Some are sitting on beds, playing cards, talking. Others are by themselves, on chairs or lying down, staring at the ceiling, or else standing up, staring at the floor. They’re all dressed in the same grey clothes with white aprons that they must have been given here. I’m still wearing my own clothes, which makes me think I haven’t been here long.
Still no wardens. Clearly the children have not received an order to stay silent. On the contrary, they’re making a lot of noise. As I move through the room, I can hear lots of languages, and among them I recognise Polish, German, Russian and French, I think.
The next room is a huge dining hall, benches and tables lined up. As I pass, I nick a bar of chocolate and a carton of milk that I gulp down while hiding, crouched in a corner. It’s so good, delicious. I’ll come back here before I leave.
I go up to the next floor. On the landing there’s a window through which I can see the courtyard of the convent. Two trucks are arriving; when the doors open, children get out.
‘The country will be teeming with orphans,’ Lukas told me. He was right. He also told me I had to find the Americans. I’m not sure he was right about that.
I stop stock-still on the threshold of the next room, where children are lining up. One by one they stand in front of a soldier who takes their picture. The soldier is…black.
I’ve never seen a black man in the flesh. Only in the films they showed us at the Napola, blacks fighting in the French army. They looked like they were in fancy dress, wearing filthy, oversized uniforms. We watched them doing target practice; they were terrible. The presenter said that, even though blacks didn’t know how to use any sort of weapons, the French put them on the front line, to protect themselves. That was one of the reasons why we defeated France so quickly, he explained. Our famous Blitzkrieg.
Except that the war was not at all a lightning operation. Six years. Not six months.
Except that the French are now victorious. And the blacks, too.
Mesmerised, I stand watching the black soldier. He doesn’t look like he’s in fancy dress. He looks good in his uniform. He’s tall and muscular, with a confident, feline bearing. When he smiles, you can see his big, straight, white teeth, and the way his smile is reflected in his eyes. He reminds me of Jesse Owens, the black athlete who won four gold medals at the 1936 Olympic Games. I wonder if he can run as fast as Jesse. If so, I’d better clear out before he sees me. No way I’d beat him in a race.
When I finally take my eyes off him, I notice three nurses busy in the room. The first is helping the children to follow the soldier’s instructions and sit directly in front of the camera. Raise your chin, don’t lower your eyes, sit still during the flash. She adjusts their nametags, which hang around each of their necks on a piece of string. The second nurse is checking a register, and the third is writing in a notebook.
They’re both black, too, like the photographer.
Something weird is happening in this room. Despite the wave of terror flooding through me, I try to think. Quick, quick! Because I’ll have Jesse Owens on my heels once I get going.
This is the conclusion I come to: Abi lied to me. She omitted to tell me that, before ‘looking after orphans’, they made them endure a selection process. Just like at Kalish. And, judging by the ones in charge of the selecting, in order to get through, you have to be black. Or at least have dark skin and dark eyes.
I AM SCREWED.
‘You managed to get out of bed?’
I almost jump out of my skin; Abi is right behind me.
‘Are you okay? You don’t feel dizzy?’
‘Why are you taking photos of the children?’ I ask, ignoring her question. ‘Is it a selection process? What do you do with the rejects? Knock them off? Send them to a concentration camp? Are you going to kill me?’
She looks at me in astonishment, as if she’s thinking, ‘This poor kid is completely crazy.’
But I am not at all crazy. In fact I have never been more sane. Abi has to understand that I am no ordinary child. You can’t fool me!
‘A selection process?’ she says finally, articulating each syllable with a shocked expression. ‘What on earth are you on about? Listen, Max: children are not put through a selection process here. No one is killed here. And there are no more concentration camps.’
She stops for a second to let her words sink in. But they don’t sink in. I’m not convinced. Not yet.
‘We’re taking photos of the children so we can use them to help us find their parents,’ she adds. ‘Do you believe me?’
I don’t answer, I’m lost. Either Abi is telling the truth or she’s an excellent actress. I take another very hard look around the room. There are no measuring devices. No wardens. No soldiers hitting children. Just the tall black guy, laughing at every opportunity. And the children don’t look frightened. I’m the only one who is a bundle of nerves and that’s not like me. I must pull myself together.
‘Yes, I believe you.’
It was only a murmur, but Abi heard.
‘Good, that’s great. Hey, since you’re here, let’s take your photo now. Hop in line, it won’t take long.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘NO.’
Abi rolls her eyes and sighs, exasperated. I’m annoying her. I don’t give a damn. She annoys me with her obsessions. The Glasers before, and now the carry-on about the photo.
‘Why don’t you want us to take your photo? Don’t you want to see your parents again?’
‘My parents are both dead.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. My mother was killed by a Russian and my father committed suicide.’
‘But perhaps you’ve got a brother or a…’
‘My brother died, too. Killed by a Russian.’
‘Well, there must be an uncle or an aunt or a cousin who’d like to receive news about you.’
I shake my head.
‘Okay, listen, the photo will still be useful for us, you never know. Wait in line and just do it, it won’t take long.’
As she walks off, I call out, ‘I’ve got a photo of my parents.’
She comes back. ‘That’s excellent! Show it to me.’
I reach into my pocket for the photo of the blonde woman posing with the Führer. The photo that Lukas kept, the one that killed him. I got it back and I haven’t let it out of my sight. It’s the only souvenir I have of Lukas. I’m pretty sure he was intending to show it to the Americans. But I hesitate about giving it to Abi. I’ve got a feeling that she won’t like it.
‘So what are you waiting for? Show it to me,’ she insists, kneeling down next to me.
Well, it’s her choice. I take the photo out of my pocket.
Abi reaches for it, looks at it and suddenly recoils, losing her balance. I put my hand out to stop her falling, but she flinches and pulls free, as if she can’t bear the touch of my hand.
I knew she’d hate the photo. I should never have shown it to her. I should have destroyed it. This damn photo will end up killing me, just like it killed Lukas.
But I’m going to stand up for myself. Abi is only a woman, after all. She doesn’t even have a machine gun like the Russian who killed Lukas. And the war’s over, right?
‘You told me before that children shouldn’t have to suffer for the sins of their parents.’
That worked. She regains her composure; her eyes aren’t flashing with anger anymore. She tries to smile. It’s a pathetic effort but she’ll get there. ‘Come in here.’
She drags me into an adjoining room, shuts the door behind me, sits at a little desk piled up with files, and gestures for me to sit on a chair opposite her. She places the photo on the desk, looks at it again—more calmly, not lingering on the Führer this time—and asks me, ‘Why do you say they’re your parents?’
‘Because it’s true.’
She doesn’t seem happy with my answer.
‘She’—I point to the blonde woman—‘is the woman who had sex with an SS officer to produce me’—I point to the baby—‘and give me as a present to him.’ I point to the Führer.
Abi stares at me. Then she rolls her eyes and drums her fingers on the desk, before opening her mouth to speak. But she stops, doesn’t say whatever it is.
‘Max,’ she starts again finally, as if it’s an effort to stay calm. ‘You don’t give babies away as presents. What are you trying to tell me? What does this photo mean? That your mother managed to meet Hitler one day? Then she told you that he was your father? It was no doubt just in a manner of speaking…’
I put my hand up to interrupt her. It’s my turn to roll my eyes and sigh. All right, I’ll have to tell her my life story to make her understand. This is going to take a while. I don’t know where to begin…At the beginning? I take the photo, turn it over and point at the inscription: Steinhöring.
‘That’s where I was born. Steinhöring. It’s a children’s home, near Munich.’
There and then, before I can properly begin my story, Abi cuts me off. ‘Did you say Steinhöring?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait a minute!’
She rummages in the dossiers on the desk, pulls one out, opens it and removes a sheet of paper that she scans after putting on some glasses.
Those glasses make her look ugly, like a goggle-eyed fly.
‘Our soldiers were in Steinhöring in April,’ she says, without really focusing on me. It’s more like she’s thinking out loud as she keeps reading. ‘They found three hundred babies there. Three hundred! Left by themselves in the bombed-out premises. The poor little things were in a terrible state. Our soldiers did not find a single document to identify them, nothing…’
I grab the piece of paper out of her hands. If only she’d stop jabbering on and let me speak.
‘I know who those babies are. I know how they were produced. I know who produced them, who ordered them to be produced, who ran the selection process so that only the best were kept. I know where your soldiers can find more of them. I know everything. I was the first one of those babies.’
Abi doesn’t try to retrieve the piece of paper I took from her. She takes off her glasses. She doesn’t look like a goggle-eyed fly anymore, but her whole face is rigid with tension. I can tell that now she really is ready to listen to me. I take a big breath.
And off I go. I was born on 20th of April, 1936. The birthday of our Führer…