by Rick Jones
“Why?” he asked Albrecht, his voice cracking. Franz leaned over Karl’s body and began to weep. Then with far more anger in his voice, he cried, “WHY?”
Albrecht remained silent as he walked back to Gunter and returned the weapon, which Gunter holstered.
“We cannot afford to cater to the ill or infirm. The Aryan race has always been about survival of the fittest. And those who are too weak to carry on must be culled from the race.” Gunter stepped behind Franz and Karl and stood idly by as his body cast a long, dark shadow over them. “The Jungvolk boys are dying by the inches,” he whispered softly to Franz. “They’re weak and unimpressive. There isn’t one among you who’s worth developing. So keep that in mind as you try to prove yourselves worthy.” With that he turned and walked away.
With no time to mourn, with Albrecht calling Franz to his feet and to follow, Franz did so because he had no choice.
As they drew distance, Franz took periodic glances behind him to see Karl in a kneeling position. By nightfall, he knew things would come out of the darkness to feed and that Karl’s bones would be scattered across the landscape.
“Eyes forward!” yelled Hermann Braun. “Maintain discipline!”
Franz turned with his eyes forward. And for the first time in his life and as much as he tried to see the goodness in everything and everyone, he was finally eclipsed with an all-consuming hatred, a blackness that closed over his heart like a tight-squeezing fist.
Gunter had gone too far, as did Albrecht Krause, Hermann Braun and Fredric Austerlitz, all living incarnates of evil that was complete and absolute. If the situation remained the same, if they continued on this path, then perhaps none of the Jungvolk would be alive by the time they reached Italy, which was still a long walk through hostile terrain.
He could only hope that they would be intercepted by the Americans sweeping in from the west or the British from the southeast. But he knew that Gunter was so twisted and corrupt, he would simply remove his Luger and shoot everyone dead rather than to see them captive.
That left him with one option.
He needed to get that weapon.
And he needed to get it soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“We will make men of you yet!” Gunter cried over his shoulder to the remaining Jungvolk boys. “You’re all candidates for a brighter future unless you prove me wrong! I’d advise all of you to keep that in mind since you’re still part of the Nazi order!”
No one offered a word since they were driven by fear.
Small legs began to tire and stomachs became hungry, the meat from the dogs providing enough energy to carry them for so long. Now that energy was becoming depleted.
As hours passed the clouds had grown thicker and darker, promising more rain.
The members of the Youth spoke to each other in earnest of a bright future.
But the Jungvolk boys remained quiet, fearing that a single word spoken could bring upon them Gunter’s wrath as a means of teaching discipline—that of obedient silence—by brutality.
Just as the sky opened and sheets of rain began to pour down, they spotted an old farmhouse in the distance beyond the silvery veil. It was obviously old and had seen better times since the residence appeared to be somewhat war-torn with one side having collapsed, and the other side undamaged. At least there was a partial roof to provide shelter from the constant rain.
The house was large, with half of it lying in waste in rubble. Oddly enough, the standing portion appeared untouched with furniture and looking-glasses completely intact and in excellent condition. It was a place of two worlds.
The living room had a floor-to-ceiling hearth with cords of wood sitting and waiting to be burned. A French-styled sofa and loveseat with paisley designs on expensive fabrics adorned the area as the room’s focal point. Elaborate paintings that were quite exclusive with big-ticket prices by known and unknown artists decorated the walls. And in the corner of the room sat a grand piano, its massive hood supported by a stem in the up position. Unfortunately, the kitchen was the part of the house that had been leveled. Though a search commenced in the rubble, they were only able to come up with three cans of beans between them, with the grander portions going to Gunter and his lieutenants. The scraps went to the Jungvolk boys.
Lying on the mantel was a box of long matches specifically designed to light fireplaces. The wood was stacked within the log-cradle, papers from old newspapers were crumpled and applied as a fuel, the matches were lit, and soon a fire burned hot and bright. At least for the moment and out of the rain, where the room was as warm as a summer day along the banks of the Rhine, this was paradise.
Upstairs were the bedrooms where Gunter staked his claim to the master room. The bed was over-sized, the mattress hard and firm. In the corner was a high-end French armoire that was classy and elegant. Whoever owned the house was partial to French motifs and decorated it as such, spending a lot of German Reichsmarks to create comfort with French styles.
Inside the armoire were clothes, lots of them—dresses, skirts and blouses—woman’s clothing, which indicated to Gunter that whomever lived in the house had vacated in haste, leaving all possessions behind.
At the bottom of the dresser was a box that was relatively flat and perfectly squared. After removing the box and placing it on the bed, Gunter lifted the cover. When he saw what was inside tears welled in his eyes. The colors were vibrant and rich. The red was stark, the white pristine, and the black of the swastika remained as black as obsidian glass. He removed the flag from the box and laid it across the bed like a spread. It was new and fresh, and the only thing that was German in a household filled with French accessories.
Then he picked it up and brought the fabric to his face. It was coarse to the touch, almost abrasive. But it felt good against his flesh as he caressed first one cheek, and then the other. He draped it over his shoulder, like a shawl or a superhero’s cape, which empowered him and gave him hope. This was a sign, he considered. With the swastika a symbol of his faith, the crooked cross serving as the emblem of a future regime for which he would sit upon its throne.
He was ecstatic and oblivious of where he was. He danced in what appeared to be a drunken tango rather than designed choreography. And once more Gunter Wilhelm had become a child who again romanced fantastical dreams—dark dreams.
After he had exhausted himself he took to the edge of the bed and listened to his surroundings. Rain continued to pelt the roof in a symphony of soft sounds, a melody that would provide a lullaby that would guide him to a comfortable sleep as he lay down upon the bed and closed his eyes. Dreams would be had, but he would not remember them come morning.
Gunter slept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Everyone was fast asleep until a knot of wood inside a log exploded within the hearth, waking Franz and two other boys of the Jungvolk. The lieutenants remained undisturbed, their chests rising and falling in even rhythms as they slept.
One of the boys motioned to Franz that they should run, that this was their opportunity to put distance between them and the Youth. But Franz nixed this immediately by shaking his head. It was dark and the terrain was unfamiliar. The ground was wet and footprints would be easily traced in the mud. People like Gunter could never stand such a violation against his ego. He would surely hunt them down and kill them out of spite.
Franz raised his eyes toward the ceiling, wondering how deep a sleep Gunter was in.
When he got to his feet a boy from the Jungvolk lashed out and grabbed Franz’s wrist, shaking his head vehemently. Don’t go.
Franz appeased him by patting the air, the gesture telling him that it would be all right. So the boy released him.
Franz turned from one lieutenant to the next. They were all asleep, perhaps their first good sleep in a long time, he thought.
Franz stepped quietly across the floor on his toes, making sure not to wake Gunter’s lieutenants, and made his way to the stairway. Slowly—so slowly, in fact—it wa
s painful for the others to watch as Franz took the steps at a pace much slower than cold molasses. The longer it took Franz to make the climb, the chance of a lieutenant waking up heightened.
Then it happened.
A board protested and creaked under foot, causing Franz to clench his teeth and freeze.
The lieutenants didn’t even stir.
So Franz continued on, slowly and quietly, until he reached the top.
The hallway was feebly lit by the fire burning in the hearth below. But the deeper he ventured down the corridor the darker it got, since the light was incapable of reaching this far.
The bedroom.
The door was open, but slightly. So he pushed on it, praying that the hinges didn’t squeal and compromise his position. As he stepped into the room he could feel his heart throbbing against his chest and the flow of blood coursing through his ears. His head began to hurt, the beginnings of a tension headache. And his breathing became ragged with underlying wheezing as his lungs seemed to clench and seize.
But Gunter remained asleep, his body unmoving as he lay on his side with a cover draped over him. In the shadows Franz could see the starkness of the blanket’s white color and the way it contrasted against the darkness with a glow. And in that center of that glow was a swastika. Then he came to realize that it wasn’t a blanket at all, but a flag. A Nazi flag.
After he got his light wheezing under control, he approached the bed.
Slowly, and with the tips of his finger, he lifted the edge of the flag and peeled it back, revealing the holstered Luger. With equal prudence he used his fingertips to settle on the weapon’s stock, set a finger inside the trigger guard, and slowly began to extract the firearm by sliding it out of its holster. It moved smoothly against the sheath. And then he had his hand firmly wrapped around the scepter, thereby disempowering the king and usurping his role as ruler.
Slowly, he backpedaled from the room and into the hallway.
And with the same measure of caution he descended the stairway and into the living area.
Under hushed conditions the rest of the Jungvolk boys were awakened. When they saw Franz exhibiting the Luger, they knew that Gunter’s reign was over.
They were all going home.
Then from behind Franz a voice that was harsh and caustic said: “What are you doing?”
Franz wheeled around to see Gunter Wilhelm standing at the base of the stairway with the flag draped over his shoulders.
And Franz could see the flames from the fire reflect off Gunter’s eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Gunter’s tone also served as a wake-up call to his lieutenants, who suddenly found themselves galvanized to their feet with their eyes at half-mast.
Gunter took a step forward and addressed Franz with his eyes fixed on the Luger. “I said, what are you doing?”
Franz directed the weapon at Gunter. His hand was wobbling terribly.
“You can’t even steady the weapon,” Gunter told him. Then Gunter took another step forward.
In response Franz pulled the trigger, the bullet going wide and hitting a statuette, the pieces shattering into myriad pieces of porcelain that skated across the floor.
Gunter scoffed. “You weren’t even close,” he told him.
“I wasn’t trying to hit you,” Franz returned. “I guarantee you, Gunter, I won’t miss again.” He directed the Luger to Gunter’s center mass, stopping the youth in his tracks.
Gunter’s eyes shifted in their sockets, darting from one lieutenant to another. “Are you just going to stand there?” he said evenly. “Three against one.”
It didn’t matter what the odds were, thought Franz. He had the weapon.
The lieutenants didn’t move, knowing that with a simple redirection of Franz’s hand they would all be in the line of fire.
The Jungvolk boys quickly gathered and took position behind Franz, then they began to make their way toward the door.
“Seriously, Franz, do you think you can shoot me?” Gunter asked. “You refuse to point a weapon at the Red Army, but you can point it at me.”
“Gunter, it’s over. It’s been over for a long time,” Franz remarked. “We just want to go.”
Gunter looked at the boys of the Jungvolk. Then with a halfhearted shrug said: “Then go.” Then he held out his hand. “If you no longer believe, Franz, if none of you believe, then perhaps you should go. Just give me back the gun since it belongs to me.”
Gunter’s lieutenants were gathering behind him, a clear divide between the groups who definitively chose their sides. The boys of the Jungvolk against the boys of Hitler’s Youth.
Gunter continued to hold out his hand. The weapon.
Franz nodded, choosing to keep it for leverage.
“You’re a fool, Franz. We are the future. But if you don’t believe, then give me the Luger and go. And take the cowards with you.”
“Just like that?” asked Franz. There was a clear warble to his voice.
“Yeah. Just like that. The Reich has no need for those who do not believe in one rule, one law, and one religion.”
“And if I give you the weapon, Gunter, would we end up like Karl Goetz? Or the two boys you killed simply to make a point? That deciding against your wishes is an intolerable act against your faith?”
Gunter remained quiet.
“Your future, Gunter” Franz added, “is to deny the future of those who do not believe in your ideas. It’s a future without hope.”
“I . . . .am . . . hope.”
“Look around you, Gunter. The landscape is in ruins. The food we eat come from dying curs, from insects and worms. This is your future. This is what you offer. Nothing but death and destruction.”
Gunter chortled. “The price of progress is destruction. One must destroy imperfection in order to rebuild absolute perfection.”
“And if you rebuild from the ashes, the only thing you will create is a repeat of history. And history will serve to repeat itself all over again and lay your idea to ruin, again.”
“You’re wrong, Franz. This is an opportunity to learn from. This is an opportunity to make amends.”
Franz shook his head. “Hitler finally saw the truth when he killed himself. He realized there was no future for the Reich. And he couldn’t live with that.”
When Franz saw Gunter position himself for a forward leap, Franz immediately drew space between them.
“You don’t have the courage,” Gunter told him, staring at the Luger. “You don’t have it within you. You never did.”
“Please, Gunter. We just want to go.”
“Give me the Luger.”
“No.”
The moment Gunter took a step forward, the pistol went off. Gunter stood there with a look that didn’t alter or shift. He simply stared at Franz with an indescribable rage. Then he went to the ground and to his knees, his thigh bleeding from a gunshot wound. Within moments his leg fired up with white-hot pain and he screamed, the cry a driving force coming deep from his diaphragm.
Franz’s heart suddenly became eclipsed with agony, his conscience blackened. And he started to cry as the sky opened up with a downpour as rain drummed against the roof with madness.
“Forgive me, Gunter.” Franz started away with the boys of the Jungvolk behind him. “I’m so sorry.”
Through clenched teeth, Gunter cried out: “You’re a coward, Franz! You’re all cowards! And someday the future of one rule, one law, and one religion will become yours as well! That’s the true utopia! One rule, one law, one religion!”
“I’m sorry, Gunter. I pray that someday you’ll see differently.”
“I promise, Franz, someday we’ll all be uniform in mind, thought and action!”
“You forget one thing,” Franz stated in contest. “None of us are machines. We all have free-will . . . And free-will always finds its way.”
Gunter bowed his head towards the floor. His team of lieutenants knelt beside him, the three sticking with Gunter and his beli
efs.
Without saying anything additional, Franz led his team of Jungvolk out of the house and disappeared into the copse of trees. Behind them, Gunter cried out profanely with threats and promises of a new order, and that Franz would have no place in it because he would see him dead during his lifetime.
Dead.
As Franz led the boys away he cried tearfully with full sobs. After they had drawn enough distance between them and was sure that the rain would cause the sludge to cover their tracks, he tossed the Luger aside. The weight of the weapon carried it beneath the soft soil and became buried within the mud. Because Gunter was wounded and incapable of giving chase, his lieutenants would never leave his side.
So as children who were free to live life as boys and no longer were forced to grow up too quickly, they headed for Italy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The sky was pure and blue without a single cloud to be seen from horizon to horizon. And to Franz Kleimer-Schmidt this was a good sign. They would see themselves to Italy with Light as their guide, rather than the Darkness that had driven them for so long.
But as the journey continued and the boys now having the freedom to choose their own destiny, all opted to head in different directions to seek out family members. Franz neither stopped nor deterred them in any way. Since the war had devastated their lives on such a personal level, he understood their need to cuddle within the embrace of a mother or a father, or against the bosom of an aunt or an uncle.
Love was out there.
They just had to find it.
But since Franz had no family to speak of because his parents were dead, his mother from a fast-moving cancer and his father in the war, his loss had left him an orphan in search of his next meal—perhaps a fat grub or a wild mushroom, hardly enough to sustain him. But despite the hardships of constant hunger and poor clime, his spirit refused to dampen.