“Oh.” Tomas had never met a violin-playing doctor before. His eyes were stumped and caught hold of the frozen dog. “Can I pat him?”
“Yes.”
Something about the way his hands hung limply over his knees caused a black mist to settle upon Tomas’ shoulders, and no matter how bright the day was, he felt no sun. Secretly, when the man was bent over on the steps, Tomas placed his Pfennig into the violin case. Maybe now he can go back to being a doctor, he thought.
“Was zum Teufel machst du da?” A strangely familiar voice called out to Tomas. She stood there like the bogyman. “What the hell is going on here?”
Something became knotted up in his chest when he saw a woman standing in front of him with a box of half-rotten apples in her arms.
The old man, too, was frozen. The voice belonged to Frau Walther, the woman Mother had been talking with.
“Everyone has been looking for you.”
Tomas exhaled. “I was being Robin Hood,” he answered happily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a boy to be doing. There was even something implicit in his tone that suggested something along the lines of “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“He’s a Jew, you stupid boy,” Frau Walther said. “A filthy Jew – look at him!” She stuck Tomas’ head in the Jew’s face the same way a dog owner holds their pet’s head in its filth.
Tomas looked back at the man and tried to find what made him “Jew-like.” He saw nothing. Tomas had no eyes.
Mrs Walther was an amiable woman, providing that her rules were followed, and everything was normal. Giving money to needy people was not considered normal. She obviously hadn’t read Howard Pyles’ book.
“We told you before; you can’t play music here. Go! Shoo!” she said like she was scolding a stray animal.
The man was beginning to speak before agreeing and moving on. He waved to Tomas.
She smacked Tomas over the head with her clammy hands, wrapped her whole hand around Tomas’ forearm, and dragged him through the crowd of people, who were staring at the pair of clowns and the hectic scene on the street.
“You want to stay in the party, teach your son!” she said, as she delivered Tomas back to Mother.
Mother didn’t really want to be in any party. She did so as a front, thinking that it would be better for her family. It was for a while before Hitler wrapped the entirety of Germany around his little finger. The only thing that kept my father with the family was their marriage.
“We don’t teach the children about politics.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, because they’re children. They shouldn’t be learning about politics and war.”
Walther’s face turned every shade of disgust there was. “I can see the problem now.” She sniffed.
Mother didn’t say very much. She simply watched as the shades became like shadows over her face. Her thoughts, also, were murky. She took Tomas by the hand, but Frau Walther wasn’t finished with her yet.
“Your blood has been poisoned, Lissette.”
Then Mother turned. The small boy’s knitted cardigan turned with her.
“Haven’t you ever sat down and thought for yourself?” Mother didn’t regret what she said, but she did fear the listeners – the people who are somehow always present. People like the suit men and the monsters. “You might learn a great deal.”
“You’re not welcome here anymore, Lissette. Your father would be ashamed of you.”
“Good. Your fruit is off anyway.”
On the way home, Mother gave Tomas a good talking-to.
“You can’t do things like that, Tomas.”
Tomas was interested and confused. The sun was undone, and free to move and drip down on his face, making his face shadowed, like his thoughts.
“Why not, Mama?”
“Because they’ll take you away.”
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be giving money to people who are… not like us.”
“Why?”
“Because… people around here don’t like Jews very much, Tomas.”
“But Papa is Jewish.”
“Yes, but see, Tomas,” – she searched for the sense in her words – “Papa is good. A good man.”
“Oh. And that man was a bad Jew? Why? He was a doctor and a violin player.” Thinking. “Why are Jews so bad?”
Antisemitism, Tomas: an age-old phenomenon.
Contrary to popular belief, Hitler did not invent the hatred of the Jews. The true inventor can be traced back to the Middle Ages. Many Christians, for instance, saw the Jewish faith as something of an oddity that had to be terminated. Hitler just came along and fed into the fears of the people. Fed the madness.
“I don’t know, Tomas.” Mother was carrying the shopping with one hand and steering Tomas with her other hand.
She was having trouble steering the conversation in her favour.
“It’s because Hitler said that some Jews aren’t so good for Germany.”
Then why did you marry one? “Ohhh. Is Robin Hood a Jew? A bad one?”
“What? I don’t know!”
She was losing patience now.
The bottom of the cheap bags fell out. The fruit went everywhere.
“Jesus Christ,” Mama sighed.
“Sorry, Mama.”
Tomas ran after some of the loose fruit and returned a few seconds later.
They walked in silence for a while, until Tomas broke it.
“He was a bit strange though, the man. And a liar.” Tomas talked to the ground as he walked. “He told me that he was a doctor. But he couldn’t be, because he was playing a violin for money.” He tried connecting more dots. “Is Papa a liar, too?”
This time, Mother placed her hands on Tomas’ head and explained.
“Tomas, listen to me. Your Papa and this family are Germans through and through.”
She looked briefly at her purse.
“They can decorate our cards with as many J’s as they want to. They can give your Papa a ridiculous fake name.” She held tight to my brother’s hand and her pride. It came dripping from her lips with a smile.
“But we are Germans. Never forget that. You hear me?”
“Ja, Mama.”
She kissed Tomas’ hand.
But Tomas heard nothing. He understood nothing.
Two years later, the violin would be pried from shaking hands, reduced to broken wood, and the man would be thrown into the back of a van of his own. Only, the man wasn’t taken to Inland or any school for that matter.
Also, I can tell you now because I know. When the old man discovered the money my brother had left, he cursed the boy and later thanked him. It was because of Tomas that he was able to get his granddaughter a book for her birthday.
Of course, like many things in childhood, phases often go as quickly as they come. The Robin Hood book sat under my brother’s bed for years after that day, gathering dust and cobwebs. The Robin Hood story was one that my father liked to bring up at dinner parties with his friends, much to the apprehension of my mother. My brother smiled with awkward slouching that was usually unique to me. I suppose we were more alike than I remembered. Tomas’ benevolent nature never changed, though.
That night, Tomas and I sat outside on the steps of our house, and he related the whole saga to me, even the smallest of details.
The clouds were being wrung out like the washing, and a few stray bits of rain fell on our faces.
“… And she even hit me.” Tomas said.
“She hit you?” I laughed.
“Right across the snout.” He nodded.
There was some laughter about the whole incident for a few minutes, but I could not shift some thoughts from my head for days after.
First: the Js. Try as I might, I was unable to see their importance or purpose. I tried asking questions, but as always, I was met with silence.
Second: a nice thought.
My little brother, the money
giver.
I painted the thought.
My brother on the stitched clouds throwing down Pfennigs from the sky and surrounding him, the Js floating. My ten-year-old hand controlled by the brush.
It made me smile.
He was the boy who gave money to Jews, and I was the boy without words – two outcasts together. It was the perfect grounds for a great friendship.
20
Oskar’s Tobacco Heart
*Office-Green*Old-Rose*
School continued and remained a disaster. When we were homeschooled, the curriculum was home to many fantastic subjects, like art, German literature, and science. In Inland, we were taught only the basics that any flourishing Nazi boy in training needed to know, with a heavy emphasis on physical activity and history. Most of the boys in Inland lacked the most basic maths, science and social skills. Their minds were too full of the Führer.
When Miss Simons waddled into the class, the students would stand and raise their right arms. “For the Führer, a triple victory,” answered by a chorus of “Heil.”
Mornings woke with a song, with the almighty man keeping watch from the wall. The uplifting melodies, brilliantly written and composed, transported us into a state of enthusiastic glee. Rouvon would quieten for parts of the songs, before roaring the rest. Hues of pinks bounced off his dimpled cheeks, blurring the boundaries between sight and sound. I caught Simons smiling a few times, and even laughing in a way that looked like she was coughing, like the idea of humour was a foreign idea.
Simons drilled a daily dose of Nazi instruction into our heads, which we swallowed as naturally as our mother’s milk. We were defenceless receptacles for whatever they crammed into our young minds.
Mein Kampf was used as a study guide, and staff and students in Inland were expected to memorise it. Tomas began to read it during our evening trips. It wasn’t the kind of reading material I enjoyed. Hitler, whom we suspect of being an envious, traumatised loser, presents himself as, well, an embittered, envious, traumatised loser. So much pent-up rage was stored away for his father, and even though my own had committed the ultimate betrayal and died, I still held no resentment towards him or my mother. It was more demoralising than inspiring. I doodled in the margins of the book and wished with my hands that it would end. Simons hit me with her weapon of mass destruction – a ruler.
Humans were divided into categories based on physical appearance, establishing higher and lower orders. At the top, according to Hitler, is the Germanic man with his pearl skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. He asserts that the Aryan is the supreme form of human, or master race.
And so it follows in Hitler’s thinking, if there is a supreme form of a human, then there must be others less so, the Untermenschen, or racially inferior. Hitler assigns this position to Jews and the Slavic peoples, notably the Czechs, Poles, and Russians.
Jews are devious and cunning overachievers, especially in their aim of polluting our pure Aryan race – whatever that meant. Aryans were brave, blond, tall, and slim, with eyes of the bluest ocean.
I often studied my own brown eyes and short stature in the mirror in the washroom and wondered how I could be Aryan. I unintentionally touched my nose and wished that I was different.
Every other boy listened with such pride. I was never really sure what to make of it, but it transpired so magically that it would be difficult for any twelve-year-old boy not to find it fascinating. Most notable to me was the Führer’s failed painting career and his opaque father, who forbade the idea altogether. My twelve-year-old self felt a sense of pity for the man.
Still, I had questions: I often wondered what the difference was between them and us. Who woke one day and decided that they were inferior, and we were superior? I didn’t understand it. My curiosity would make me a victim of Simons’ frustration, but it was worth it. The truth was always worth a good Watsche.
It’s not like anyone in Germany woke up one day and decided that they hated Jews. In fact, before the Nazis took power, Mother used to take Tomas and me to a sweet shop that was run by a kind Jewish man and his wife. The wife would always slip us an extra helping of sweets without Mother knowing. Father took us to a Jewish barber to have our hair cut, which I hated, but the man was sympathetic and calmed me into obedience, sharing stories of his childhood in Poland. Most prominent, however, was that I didn’t know they were Jews; I just knew they were kind people.
One day, we arrived at a wounded building, windows all over the ground, and I, too, felt bruised. I tasted its pain. The kind Jewish man and his wife had their shop taken over by Germans, and I don’t even know what happened to the calming man. I suspected he went back to Poland.
I thought there was something wrong with me for not understanding what was so apparent to others.
I suppose you could say that Germany went mad together.
Sometimes, I wished I was pale enough, so I would blend into the grey walls of the classroom and disappear altogether.
Simons wrote a phrase on the board which had to be copied and memorised.
Manfret raised a hand, dipped in apologies, but Simons could not see it. He bravely spoke anyway.
“Do we have to write that?” Manfret was full of stupid questions.
“Nein, Dummkopf! She’s just writing it up there for shits and giggles.” Derrick’s voice, too, dripped in sarcasm.
The chalk on the board sounded like a morse code. If I knew morse code, I would send a simple message:
.-- .... .- - / - .... . / ..-. ..- -.-. -.- / .. ... / .... .- .--. .--. . -. .. -. --. ..--..
Translation: what the fuck is happening?
“Our Führer is named Adolf Hitler. He was born on the 20th of April 1889 in Braunau, Austria.”
I was shocked to learn that our Führer wasn’t from Germany. I studied the words for a second.
“Our Führer is a great soldier and tireless worker. He delivered Germans from misery. Now everyone has work, bread, and joy. Our Führer loves children and animals.”
Of course, when the memorising part came, the words fooled me, and I could never get past the first sentence without having to look at my copybook. It often resulted in me getting a Watsche in the corridor, or even sometimes in front of the whole class, which was, as you can imagine, humiliating.
Homework was usually simple: I had to draw the swastika flag, and as I was a recruit, I copied out an oath of loyalty to the Führer that I had to memorise and recite back to the class in a few weeks.
“Adolf Hitler, you are our great Führer.
Thy name makes the enemy tremble.
Thy name alone is law upon the earth.
Let us hear daily thy voice; order us by thy leadership.
For we will obey to the end and even with our lives.
We promise thee! Heil Hitler!
Führer, my Führer, given me by God.
Protect and preserve my life for long.
You saved Germany in times of need.
I thank you for my daily bread.
Be with me for a long time; do not leave me, Führer.
My Führer, my faith, my light, Hail to my Führer.”
It took me a long time to be able to say it without looking at the sheet. It felt like I was running backwards, unable to turn around, and run the way I know how. The words held me back.
I wanted nothing more than to pick up my paintbrush and let the brush speak for me.
Back in the cabins at night, Oskar would do his best to give me guidance. But even then, it didn’t help much. Oskar was a good teacher, but I was a slow learner.
Some evenings, I learned myself to complete exhaustion, and even then, I understood nothing. I figured some people are just born to do one thing, and for me, that was not memorising words, but painting them.
Looking back, however, I realised this thought process is fundamentally wrong. A person who cannot do a thing could learn to if he believes enough in the art of persistence. My brother was able to master this beautifully.
I
really did try to do well, though.
As Oskar gazed down at the bastardised form of the Lord’s prayer, he could surely feel my eyes upon him. They reached over and gripped him, waiting for something, anything to slip from his lips. I was worried he would have given me a hiding because of all the drawings in the notebook.
“Here.” He said as he shifted the book back.
“How much of this to do you know?”
I gripped my pencil and lied.
“Most of it,” I said.
“Alright. Write it down.” Oskar covered the prayer with a sheet of paper.
“Well,” I faked confidence, and Oskar smiled because he knew.
“Adolf Hitler, you are our great Führer.”
I stopped and looked up at Oskar for validation.
He nodded. “Hmm. Good.”
I continued to deliver three more lines of the oath, and finally, my pencil stopped with a sigh. The lead broke from me leaning on it too hard. Oskar sharpened it.
“Very good, little man.” He gave me one of his signature, smiles.
“What else do you know?”
“He… he…”
I couldn’t write much more.
“Come on. You should know this, little man.”
I shrugged. For two years, Mother and Father had managed to stop us from going to the Hitler Youth. Being mixed-blood, they didn’t require us to join. It wasn’t until later when the suited men spotted our talent and somewhat Aryan looks, did they start applying pressure.
This might be harder than I thought. I caught Oskar thinking it – just for a moment.
He lifted himself forward, rose to his feet, and walked out.
This time, when he came back, he said, “I have an idea.” In his hand, there were a few coloured chalks.
“Let’s start from scratch.”
I saw no reason to argue.
On the hard wooden floor, he began to draw a distorted stick figure with a squiggly line moustache.
“Bitler.” He grinned.
From across the room came a voice attached to Stefan.
“You mean Hitler.”
The Boy Who Saw in Colours Page 13