"Duties to the poor?”
"Ja, strange thought," said the boy next to Franz. "They had this thing called 'gleaning'. It required every land owner to leave a section of his fields for the poor to harvest--and keep."
"Frederick here," said Franz, nodding to the boy who spoke, "thinks it’s literal; that the Jews actually got rid of starvation altogether. Karl thinks it’s just some kind of fable."
"What do you think?" asked Adolf.
"I think if we tried it in the Ukraine, we might prevent a few food riots."
"Any governor who tried something like that would be shot," said Karl.
"Yes, but it would mean dying for an original thought," said Adolf. "That almost makes it worth it."
The others laughed. "You're Adolf Goebbels?" said Franz.
"That's right."
"What brings you here?"
Adolf shrugged. "I just…stumbled upon it one day. The place seemed interesting so I came back. How about you?"
"About the same. And, as you can see, we're not the only ones. Lately, we've been coming here on weekends, reading and discussing..."
"And painting!" called the woman in the corner. She rose and walked to where the men were sitting.
"Krista, here, is an artist," said Karl.
"But the Party thinks I'm here to become a Domestic Engineer. So that is what I must be. I guess I should be grateful to be here at all."
"I know how you feel," said Adolf, trying not to stare at the eyeglasses she wore or her unusually short stature.
"Go ahead and say it," she said quietly. "I don't look like the future mother of Aryan supermen. But I am pure Aryan. That's why I got this scholarship. I think the government finally realized that when you knock everyone out of higher education but one small ethnic group, you better use everyone you have."
"And once the thrill of this great honor wore off, you realized you had interests and talents that the Party doesn't encourage?"
"I don't think anyone in this room is studying what we want," said Franz. "We're here to fulfill our father's dreams."
"And studying the Jews is supposed to help?" said Adolf.
"It takes our minds off the rest of it, at least, and gives us something new to talk about. I think all of us are drawn here by an interest in forgotten ways of life."
"And a strong disgust for our current way of life!" said Frederick.
"I’m sure we can agree that the glorious life our grandparents were promised hasn't materialized,” said Franz. "We might as well look to the past."
"And you expect to find answers among inferior races?" asked Adolf.
"We haven't had much luck with the innately superior," said Franz.
Adolf smiled. "Touché."
"There's something about this place," said Krista. "It's like stepping into another world. There's an entire history here; one you'll never find in the campus library."
"Has there ever been any trouble?" Adolf asked Ilsa.
She shook her head. "Officially, nothing's happening here. There are no formal meetings or scheduled discussions. The Gestapo has better things to do."
"Government paranoia has its advantages," said Frederick. "As long as they're busy hunting conspirators behind every American curtain, and partisans in every Russian forest, they don't tend to worry about what dissatisfied college kids are doing between classes."
"And if this sort of thing isn't to your liking," said Franz. "You could try the Communists down the street, or the Environmentalists--I think they meet in the park--or..."
"Yes," said Karl bitterly. "The young of today would truly make Hitler proud. When he was our age, he vowed to redeem Germany from the ashes; then he built an empire from its rubble. Look at us. A bunch of spoiled brats, playing at being radicals.”
"Considering what we have to work with," said Krista. "We're not doing so bad."
"Come on," said Franz. "Let's go to Rolf's Beer Garden."
Adolf was about to make a polite departure--then realized from the others’ expectant faces that the invitation included him. Feeling good for the first time since arriving in school, he followed.
CHAPTER 3
The Friday night meeting at the Judenmuseum had not yet started. About a dozen people sat in groups, casually conversing. Adolf brushed the snow from his coat and closed the door behind him.
"Shabbat Shalom," he called to the group at large.
"Shabbat Shalom," returned several voices.
He nodded to various friends, then immediately noticed the new face in the crowd. The newcomer looked young; probably a freshman like himself.
“Adolf, meet Peter,” said Klaus, a handsome blonde sophomore, majoring in Physical Education.
Peter smiled shyly, glancing around nervously, as if expecting the Gestapo to come barging in at any moment.
Adolf shook the smaller boy’s hand. “So, Peter, what brings you here?”
“Klaus thought I might like it. He’s my roommate; he says I don’t get out enough.”
“Actually,” said Klaus. “I’m tired of him reading in the middle of the night, with all the lights on.”
“It’s the only way I can get back to sleep,” Peter said apologetically.
“Sounds like one of us,” said Adolf.
“What you told me so far is interesting,” said Peter, “But how can you speak so freely here?
Ilsa appeared beside him, silently as always. “Listen. Do you hear the music?”
Everyone nodded. A scratchy recording of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony played on the museum’s speaker system. “The phonograph is located directly below the only working listening device left in the building.”
Adolf smiled. From what he had learned about Ilsa so far, there was no cause for doubt.
“I hope you change the music occasionally,” said Franz. “I’d hate to think how bored our friendly local agents must be, hearing the same recording day after day.”
Klaus nodded. “Those moments in my dorm when I stop and wonder if there’s a listening device planted, I have to feel sorry for the poor guy who’s assigned to listen to my boring life. So to relieve the tedium, I sing Wagner’s entire Ring Cycle, at least once a week.”
“He does,” Peter confirmed through shut teeth.
“I just go through life assuming everything I say is being recorded somewhere,” said Karl. “That way, I never have to worry about it.”
“I’ve heard that some enterprising soul in the Engineering Department is selling jamming devices,” said Adolf. “He guarantees up to three hours of privacy.”
All the upperclassmen in the room laughed. “There’s one every semester,” said Franz. “I tend to judge the quality of their work by how long it takes them—and their customers—to disappear. Usually, it’s a matter of weeks.”
Peter gulped audibly.
Frederic shook his head. “Everyone knows, the only place for real privacy is the showers. Running water is the only effective jamming device we have left.”
“I certainly hope that’s true,” Krista muttered as she examined a stack of photographs. Adolf glanced her way, curious about what kind of conversations she’d had there recently—and with whom.
“Is it true you’re learning to read Hebrew?” asked Klaus.
Adolf felt embarrassed. “I’m just dabbling. It gives me something to do during Professor Schultz’ lectures.”
“Other than sleeping, you mean?”
Adolf smiled, wondering if they guessed that it began as an excuse to spend more time with Ilsa, who was nearly fluent in the ancient language. But since then, he had discovered a genuine interest--and talent--for it.
“Hey, look!” said Krista, holding up an old picture. “Recognize this place?”
Adolf took the photo carefully. “That’s the Mengele mansion. I was there last year with my family. What’s it doing here?”
“Oh, many of Germany’s finest houses once belonged to Jews,” said Ilsa.
“Yet another benefit reaped for us by our grandparents
’ ideas of ethnic cleansing,” said Frederic.
“Let me see those,” said Klaus, scooping up the stack of photos. “I want to see if my house is here!”
"We might as well get started," said Franz. “Adolf, why don’t you share your translations?”
Adolf grunted with surprise. “I don’t have much translated, and I’m not sure if any of it’s accurate. Isn’t Heinrik supposed to read something tonight?”
“He won’t be coming,” said Krista. “He had an accident at weapons practice this morning.”
“Anything serious?” asked Adolf.
“No permanent damage.”
“Good.” Adolf shrugged, and took a battered notebook and an even more battered book from his knapsack. He went to the lopsided lectern that occupied the only clear space in the tiny museum, and spread out his materials.
Adolf glanced nervously at the people gathered before him. Eight men and two women sat on folding chairs, while Ilsa leaned against her desk across the room, watching with interest. They were his friends, but public speaking was not one of his strengths. Then Krista winked at him, and Heidi, the stunning women next to her, gave him a smile that could have sent any man into combat without a second thought. Adolf smiled back.
“I guess it’s appropriate that I’ve been working with writings on the subject of Shabbat, or Sabbath,” he began. “I still haven’t found out why the Hebrews began their day at sundown, but I did find quite a lot about the importance they placed on the idea of a day of rest.”
“I wish some of our professors would place some importance on it, too!” said Karl.
“I wish my parents would,” said Heidi.
“Actually,” said Adolf, “our professors have the right idea, according to the scriptures. Shabbat was meant to be a time of study and contemplation. Back when most people spent all their time just trying to stay alive, the idea of setting aside one whole day out of every seven to do nothing physical--just to read or think or pray-- must have been pretty radical.”
“Sounds pretty boring to me,” said Klaus.
“That’s because you have no one to pray to,” said Franz.
“I think the problem is just the opposite,” said Frederick. “We have a whole pantheon: Odin, Thor, Loki--plus our Beloved First Führer.”
“And a new one added each time a Führer dies,” said Heidi.
“I should have said no one worth praying to.”
“Now you’re getting picky!” said Karl.
“Give them time,” said Klaus. “Those gods have been out of work for over a thousand years. They’re probably just a little rusty.”
Adolf watched his friends, enjoying their banter as he always did. Yet underneath he felt a prickle of irritation. Was it because they weren’t listening to his brilliant oration?
No, he decided. It was like so much of what he felt in this building: something entirely new.
“Let’s try it,” he said suddenly.
“What?” asked Franz.
“Prayer. The Jewish way.”
Several people exchanged nervous glances. Then Krista said, “Okay. Ilsa, how many prayer books do we have in German?”
Instead of answering, Ilsa glanced up at Adolf. Is it possible she understands what I’m trying to say? he wondered.
“I don’t mean from books. The Jews believed in just one god, and that each person had to find their own path to Him. Part of the Shabbat was spent in groups, but even there, time was set aside for silent, individual prayer. And what you said to God during that time, was just between you and Him.”
“What, you mean they didn’t have a priesthood?” asked Heidi.
“I’m not sure.”
“They did have a priesthood,” said Ilsa. “But Adolf’s right about the individual relationship with God. It was one of the cornerstones of this religion.”
“Don’t tell the SS,” laughed Klaus. “They make little enough money from church attendance as it is. An idea like this could put them out of business!”
“I’d still like to try it,” said Adolf. “Here, now, on a Friday night. Like they used to.”
Karl and Frederick looked a little embarrassed, but Krista, Franz and Klaus all said “okay”.
“What do we do?” asked Heidi.
You’re asking me? Adolf wanted to say. But it was his idea, so he improvised. “Close your eyes, and think about whatever is most important to you right now. Try to imagine a person--no--a presence out there that cares as much about that thing as you do.” If they needed more direction, or were still waiting expectantly, Adolf didn’t know, because he, too, had closed his eyes.
For a moment, he felt stupid, standing in front of a group of people with his eyes closed. Then, frightened, because when he tried to focus on something that was important to him, all he found was a huge black void.
Then something seemed to flicker behind his eyes as if he had shut them too tightly. Adolf felt a sense of expectation, as if lightening had struck nearby, and he was waiting for the sound of the thunder.
Then the moment passed, and he was once again a university student; a poor little rich boy with nothing better to do on a Friday night then play occult games in a moldering museum.
But when he opened his eyes, about to offer a joke as an apology to his friends, Adolf saw eleven people with their eyes closed--some with very intense expressions.
One by one they opened their eyes.
“What was that?” asked Krista, looking around.
“What do you mean?” said Karl. “Nothing happened.”
“Well, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Ilsa said quickly.
“Let’s go to Rolf’s,” said Frederick.
Everyone began to put on their coats.
“Ilsa, won’t you come with us, this time?” asked Krista.
Ilsa rubbed the long sleeve that covered her tattoo and seemed about to say no.
“Please,” said Adolf. Then, to his pleasure, the others in the room took up the cause.
“Come on!” said Franz. “Just keep your coat on.”
Ilsa seemed surprised. “All right,” she said. “Just for one drink. I’ll have to lock up first.”
Adolf sensed her pleasure, and wished he had thought of inviting her long before now.
CHAPTER 4
The bookstore was crowded. Adolf fought a wave of claustrophobia and pushed his way in.
Classes had already ended, but Adolf would not be leaving for home until tomorrow, allowing him one day to buy gifts for nearly a dozen family members. And, of course, one more evening in the Judenmuseum.
He found a book on the history of film for his father. As Adolf expected, his grandfather’s work was prominently displayed. He smiled at the subtle revenge of giving a book to one of the most anti-intellectual men in the Reich. For his youngest sister, he bought a Children’s Illustrated Mein Kampf, and a history of space exploration for his uncle.
He would have liked to have gotten all his shopping done here, but knew that this was as far as he could push books. No one else in his family was even remotely interested in reading, and to buy more would have been asking for trouble with Helmut.
“I should have gotten my shopping done weeks ago,” Adolf muttered as he stepped into the purchase line that stretched across the store.
“You and everyone else here.”
Adolf turned and saw a short, gray haired man smiling at him. He recognized the man from the university; one of the senior professors.
“Including you, Herr Professor...?”
“Hoffman. History Department.”
“Ah, yes. I hope I shall be one of the privileged few to attend your senior seminar,” Adolf said politely.
Professor Hoffman waved the flattery away with one hand, balancing an impressive load of books with the other. He glanced at the books Adolf held. “Holiday gifts, I see?”
Adolf nodded.
“Buy what you can now. Fewer and fewer books are being printed these days,” said Hoffman.
>
Adolf glanced around at the crowded shelves. Not wishing to contradict an honored teacher he said only, “Oh.”
Hoffman followed his gaze and laughed. “I should have said new books. Most of what you see here are old standards, ‘appropriate for loyal Party members.’ Which is not a complaint. I shall always love the classics. And even among the older books, one can still find delightful surprises. For example...”
The professor reached over to a nearby display of colorful volumes bound in imitation leather and chose one. “I find it a sign of great confidence among our leaders that this one is back in circulation.”
Adolf read the title: “Sorrows of Young Werther.” The author was Johann von Goethe. “I’ve never heard of it,” he told the professor.
“Not surprising. It was written over two hundred years ago. Brilliantly written, I might add. It tells the story of an angst ridden young man, who eventually commits suicide.”
“That sounds like a subject that would always have an audience. At least for a short time.”
“A shorter time than you might think,” said Hoffman. “You see, each time this book has been available to the general public, it has attracted a cult following of gloomy young men. They adopt the protagonist’s dress and mannerisms--then there are enough Werther inspired suicides to result in the banning of the book. Then, a while later, it comes back.”
Adolf laughed. “Sounds absurd.”
A sudden commotion in the front of the store cut short any comment professor Hoffman might have made.
The owner was ejecting an old man, with the strong and eager help of several customers. The man, dressed in neatly pressed, if shabby clothes of the middle class seemed to be trying to explain himself, but his words soon turned to pleas for mercy.
Adolf turned to glance at the professor, only to find him moving purposefully through the crowd.
“What has he done?” inquired Hoffman.
“He said he wanted to buy a ‘Christmas’ gift,” said a woman, disgust in her voice, but glee in her face as she watched the beating.
“So for that they beat him?” Adolf demanded. He had not intended to raise his voice, but it carried throughout the store. As people turned to look at him, he added lamely, “That’s simply one of the older names for the Yule.”
From the Ashes Page 2