by Lee Strauss
Table of Contents
Title Page
Playing with Matches
Emil Radle is a dedicated member of Hitler Youth. He's loyal to the Fuehrer before family, a champion for the cause and a fan of the famous Luftwaffe.
DEDICATION
“Your child already belongs to us. What are you? You will pass on. Your descendants now stand in a new camp. In a short time they will know nothing else but this…”
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
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About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Books by Lee Strauss
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
Recommended Reading
PLAYING WITH MATCHES
by
Lee Strauss
Playing with Matches
Second Edition
by Lee Strauss
Cover by Steven Novak
Photo Credit: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München/Fotoarchiv Hoffmann
Copyright © 2012 Lee Strauss, Elle Strauss
ISBN: 9780987807823
NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: This new edition has several minor revisions, including name changes to three minor characters, in order to add clarity and authenticity to the timeline.
This is a work of fiction and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual event or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Emil Radle is a dedicated member of Hitler Youth. He's loyal to the Fuehrer before family, a champion for the cause and a fan of the famous Luftwaffe.
When his friends Moritz and Johann discover a shortwave radio, everything changes. Now they listen to BBC broadcasts of news reports that tell both sides. Now they know the truth.
The boys, along with Johann's sister Katarina, band together to write out the reports and covertly distribute flyers throughout their city. It's an act of high treason that could have them arrested--or worse.
As the war progresses, so does Emil's affection for Katarina. He'd do anything to have a normal life and to stay in Passau by her side. But when Germany's losses become immense, even their greatest resistance can't prevent the boys from being sent to the Eastern Front.
For Katrina's sake, and for his family, Emil hopes he will survive the battle. He knows they've already lost the war.
DEDICATION
To my parents, Gene and Lucille Franke,
and my parents- in-law, Herbert and Martha Strauss,
whose own stories are reflected within.
“Your child already belongs to us. What are you? You will pass on. Your descendants now stand in a new camp. In a short time they will know nothing else but this…”
- Adolf Hitler
PROLOGUE
1945
JULY
THE PILLAR of smoke rising on the horizon could only mean one thing: a farm, which meant food.
Emil Radle limped across the sloping field that was brittle and dry from lack of rain and irrigation. He lost his footing twice, falling, grabbing at his leg, his mouth opening in a wide teeth-baring groan. The first time he beat the pain, pulling himself back onto his feet, hunger pushing him on. The second time he gave into the primal urge to scream and cry, until sleep threatened to take him again. The warm sun beat down, heavy, his mind lapsing into a drug-like state.
Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew he couldn't stay there; if he did he would die. He pulled himself up again, shaky and quivering. Finally, a house came into view. Out of breath, he slipped through the narrow opening of a stiff iron gate and knocked on the door.
It opened and a thin, elderly man with an unshaven face looked him up and down. “Not another one,” he muttered.
“Please, do you have a piece of bread? Anything?”
The man frowned. “How old are you, boy?”
“Sixteen.” Emil wondered what he must look like to the man. He hadn’t bathed or had a change of clothes in weeks. He knew his hair was too long. He shifted his weight nervously, rubbing his bad knee.
The man noticed. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Injured on the front.”
The man sighed. “I don’t have anything left. Someone knocks on my door every hour looking to eat.”
As if on cue, Emil's stomach growled. “Please, I beg you. I’m starving.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. His face was drawn, fatigued, and his eyes were watery, as if he were about to cry.
“Wait here.” He pointed to a rickety chair on the patio, and Emil let his weary body drop into it. The man returned with a coffee cup and handed it to Emil. “I have a cow out back. She doesn’t give much. It’s all I have.”
Emil slurped it up. It was like a drop in a very large bucket, but it would keep him going for a while.
“Where are you headed?” the man said.
“Passau.”
The man whistled. “That’s a long way from here. At least two hundred kilometers.”
“Yes,” Emil said, handing the cup back. “But it’s my home. I have to find my family.”
“All the trains are out,” the man said. “The roads are too damaged in most places for automobiles.”
“I know. I’m walking.”
“That will take you weeks.” The man glanced at Emil's bad leg and sighed again. “At least you are young. I wish you the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man offered his hand, pulling Emil to his feet. Emil said goodbye then turned to the road. Step, limp, step, limp, he headed south.
Behind him, Nuremberg lay in ruins, a beaten down giant.
CHAPTER ONE
1938
OCTOBER
Passau, Germany
HEINZ SCHULTZ’ word could send a man to prison. Though only a youth of fifteen, he was strong, tall, and blond
. The boys in his Deutsches Jungvolk unit esteemed him and feared him.
And they wanted to be just like him.
Mesmerized, Emil sat straight and attentive. He didn’t want to miss a thing Heinz might say or an opportunity to be noticed by him.
Heinz grabbed a pointing stick and tapped a well-worn map of Europe that was thumb-tacked to the wall. “This is a map of Europe from 1871.”
He stopped abruptly in front of another, newer map. “And this is a map of Europe as she looks now. What is the striking difference?” His eyes scanned the room before landing on Emil. “Emil?”
Emil squeaked, “Germany is too small?”
“YES!” Heinz shouted. “Germany is too small. Much, much too small.” He pointed again to the first map. “Here we were larger, though not yet great enough. And here,” he swiveled back to the second map. “We are so tiny, you need a magnifying glass to see us. This is injustice!”
The severity of Heinz’s convictions had grown since his voice had changed. It seemed to Emil that Heinz’s voice came from his gut now rather than his head and he couldn't wait until his own voice finally changed. Not yet eleven, Emil knew he had a while to wait which frustrated him. It was hard to act tough when you sounded like a girl.
Heinz stood stiff, hands behind his back, studying each of his students until they were all white in the face with fear. He whispered, “Who is to blame?”
Friedrich slowly raised his long, skinny arm. Though the same age as the rest of the boys, he was much taller, with long, thin legs. He reminded Emil of an ostrich.
“The Jews,” Friedrich answered.
Heinz’s head bobbed in affirmation. “Correct. The Jews. And how do we know this?”
Friedrich continued, “They hurt the war effort by stirring up bad feelings against the government. We lost the Great War because people lost heart when they heard these lies.”
“Jews and Communists,” Heinz said. “They are the real enemies of Germany.”
Emil tried to remember what his father had told him. Germany had lost the Great War because they thought they could win it quickly. They had underestimated their enemies. In the end, they hadn’t enough soldiers left to finish the job.
But according to Heinz, his father was wrong. Germany’s defeat was actually due to these other people, though, he still didn’t fully understand what they did to cause their fall.
“We were a great nation,” Heinz continued. “We are a great nation. And one day we will be an even greater nation.”
Emil felt like a strong wind was pressing him against the wall.
After a long meaningful pause, Heinz said. “Give me examples of our superiority.”
Emil’s hand shot up, and then realizing he wasn’t sure what answer Heinz wanted, quickly brought it down again. Heinz called on his own younger brother, Rolf.
“We are white, Aryan, and not Jewish.”
Rolf said this like he was better than the rest of them, Emil thought, just because he was Heinz’s brother.
Heinz nodded in agreement. “Others?”
Friedrich thrust his arm up again. “We are athletic and fit.”
Moritz shifted uneasily in his chair; Emil knew his hefty friend wasn’t exactly the most coordinated person. This time Emil raised his hand and left it up.
“Emil?”
“We are intelligent.” All eyes were on him. Heinz waited. Why? Should he present an example? A model glider hung above the table prompting him. “We built the Luftwaffe.”
“Indeed,” said Heinz. “The mightiest air force in the world!”
“One day I will be a pilot in the Luftwaffe!” Emil boasted. The continued attention caused crimson flares to rush up his neck.
“A noble goal, Emil,” Heinz said. Emil sat up even taller if that were possible.
Heinz then nodded to Johann who picked up his guitar and led the boys in a boisterous rendition of Deutschland, Deutschland, uber alles: Germany, Germany over all.
“Time’s up,” Heinz said after checking his watch. “But next meeting we have a surprise. There will be a test of courage. Bring swim wear.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT ONLY took a flick of his wrist, a quick masterful nudge that propelled the beech wood piano lid in motion, dropping it shut.
The scream that ensued caused Mother to spring from her chair in the kitchen where she enjoyed her Saturday morning coffee, fresh cream no sugar.
“Ach du Schreck!” Mother said, her house shoes click-clacking across the wooden floor. “What happened?”
Helmut’s small face erupted, fluid springing from his eyes and nose. He raised his purpling finger as evidence, wide sobs preventing him from creating words. With his other hand he pointed.
“Emil, what did you do this time?” Mother squatted low and wrapped Helmut’s bruised finger in a tea towel. “Come to the kitchen, Helmut,” she said. “Let’s get some ice.”
Fleetingly, Emil felt something similar to remorse. Still, it was the younger boy’s fault. “He should’ve moved his hands. He saw me coming. He’s so slow.”
Helmut’s eyes flashed angrily, and with small hiccups he defended himself. “I didn’t see you, Emil, you idiot!”
Helmut’s incessant, talent-less plunking had driven Emil mad, probably drove the whole neighborhood mad. He’d pointed this out earlier to his Father. It was his fault. If he had done something, Emil wouldn’t have taken such drastic measures for peace and quiet.
Helmut continued to whimper, curled up on a chair with his left index finger wrapped in ice. He looked so small there and Emil fought an uncomfortable growing sense of regret. He pushed it aside.
Father entered the house at that moment, newspaper under one arm. He wore what he usually did on a Saturday, trousers and a white undershirt. “What’s going on here?” he said, taking in the red face of his youngest son and the defiant look of his eldest.
Helmut, his lips still quivering said, “Emil, slammed the piano lid down on my finger.”
“Father, he was making a racket. I couldn’t stand it any longer. You should’ve stopped him.”
Father and Emil locked glares. “Yes,” Father said, slowly. “If anyone was to stop him, it should have been me. I am head of this house.”
“Only under the Fuehrer.”
Mother gasped. She braced herself against the counter before systematically depositing dirty dishes into the sink one by one.
Father dropped the newspaper on the table. “The Fuehrer doesn’t yet live in this house with us, Emil.”
“Mother,” Emil said, avoiding his Father’s last comment. “Where is my uniform?”
Mother’s shoulders stiffened. She sighed, long and steady, a sound like air escaping a tire, and turned back to Emil. The skin around her dull grey eyes gathered at the corners. “You’re not going to Deutsches Jungvolk again today, are you?” She wiped her reddened hands on her apron. “That’s the third time this week.”
“That’s hardly too often. Heinz Schultz says we have much to learn and prepare for. Today there is a test of courage.”
Mother’s gaze landed on Father. Emil felt like they shared a secret language they spoke together with their eyes. “Peter?”
Father lifted his chin, darkened by yesterday’s stubble. “Really, Emil? Don’t you think it’s a bit much? Family time is important, too.”
Emil hated it when he sided with her. It was a weakness. Father had become weak. And Mother could be so suffocating.
“Heinz Schultz says all of Germany is our family now. What is best for the Fatherland must come first.”
“But, we are still your blood family, Emil. Don’t forget that.” The muscle in Father’s jaw twitched. He picked up his paper and settled on the sofa.
Mother let out another pointed sigh. “What do you do with so much time there, anyway?”
“Lots of stuff.” Emil felt the tightening of short patience in his chest. “We sing and march, play sports, hike, read maps.” Mother’s weary expression didn’t change
. “And we learn about the greatness of Germany and our Fuehrer. It’s fun. I don’t see why you and Father are so concerned.”
Helmut moaned and Mother rushed to his side. Anything to avoid his point, Emil thought.
“Come upstairs with Mama,” she said.
Emil grimaced. Helmut was five years old, yet he still clung to Mother like a baby. Emil was in no real need of his mother anymore. He cleared his throat as they started up the stairs.
“Mother, my uniform?”
She paused, studying him through the railings. “It’s hanging out on the line.” Then as an afterthought, she added, “And, while you’re out there, bring in the potatoes I dug up this morning and take them down to the cellar.”
Outside, Emil unpinned his uniform–brown shirt, black pants–and stuffed them under his arm. Ignoring the basket of potatoes by the door, he went back into the house.
Father had the radio on: “…unemployment in Germany is the lowest it has been in years, thanks to our good Fuehrer. The creation of the autobahn promises more jobs for more men, and we await the day when, as our great Fuehrer has promised, there is an automobile for every family…”
“See?” Emil said, pointing at the radio. Why didn’t they get it? Adolf Hitler was the hope of their great nation. If it weren’t for him, they’d still be a people lining up in soup lines and oppressed by France and Britain. At least that’s what Heinz had said.
Emil went to his room, put on his uniform, and expertly donned a thin black tie. He tightened his belt, taking a moment to run his finger over the embossed image on the rectangle buckle: an in-flight eagle with the swastika gripped firmly in its claws, the words Blood and Honor engraved above. The final touch was an armband, shiny and black with a striking swastika on it. Emil gazed in the mirror and admired himself. Not bad, he thought, grinning at his wiry image.
Father and Mother were still in the living room listening to the radio when he returned. They huddled near the device, practically shoulder to shoulder, concentrating on every word. Mother’s face had paled to the same color of the putty on the walls, her mouth forming a small O. “…the Jewish problem is being addressed…”