‘We hardly need to bother,’ he said to his companion. ‘He looks just like that boy in the Hitler-Jugend poster.’
They set the pincers either side of his ears, taking swift measurements of his face. The man indicated he should go to the room on the left with a smile. Piotr scurried in. There, other boys were dressed and waiting. As his fear subsided, he felt foolish standing there naked, clutching his clothes. There were no soldiers here, just two nurses, one stout and maternal, the other young and petite. Piotr blushed crimson. He saw a door marked Herren and dashed inside.
The ache in his bladder gone, Piotr felt light-headed with relief. They had not sent him to the room on the right and the covered wagon. He was here with the nurses. There was a table with biscuits, and tumblers and a jug of water. He found a spot over by the window and hurriedly dressed. He had arrived at the orphanage with only the clothes he stood up in and these were a second set they had given him. He sometimes wondered who his grubby pullover had belonged to and hoped its previous owner had grown out of it rather than died.
Piotr looked around at the other boys here with him. He recognised several faces but there was no one here he would call a friend.
Outside in the corridor he heard the scrape of wood on polished floor. The table was being folded away. The selection was over. The last few boys quickly dressed as the older nurse clapped her hands to call everyone to attention.
‘Children,’ she said in a rasping German accent, stumbling clumsily round the Polish words. ‘Very important gentleman here to talk. Who speak German?’
No one came forward.
‘Come now,’ she smiled. ‘Do not be shy.’
Piotr could sense that this woman meant him no harm. He stepped forward, and addressed her in fluent German.
‘Well, you are a clever one,’ she replied in German, putting a chubby arm around his shoulder. ‘Where did you learn to speak like that?’
‘My parents, miss,’ said Piotr. ‘They both speak –’ Then he stopped and his voice faltered. ‘They both spoke German.’
The nurse hugged him harder as he fought back tears. No one had treated him this kindly at the orphanage.
‘Now who are you, mein Junge?’ she said. Between sobs he blurted our his name.
‘Pull yourself together, young Piotr,’ she whispered in German. ‘The Doktor is not the most patient fellow.’
The tall, dark-haired man Piotr had seen earlier strolled into the room. He stood close to the nurse and asked her which of the boys spoke German. ‘Just give me a moment with this one,’ she said. She turned back to Piotr and said gently, ‘Now dry those eyes. I want you to tell these children what the Doktor says.’
She pinched his cheek and Piotr stood nervously at the front of the room, waiting for the man to begin talking.
He spoke loudly, in short, clear sentences, allowing Piotr time to translate.
‘My name is Doktor Fischer ... I have something very special to tell you ... You boys have been chosen as candidates ... for the honour of being reclaimed by the German National Community ... You will undergo further examinations ... to establish your racial value ... and whether or not you are worthy of such an honour ... Some of you will fail and be sent back to your own people.’
He paused, looking them over like a stern school-teacher.
‘Those of you who are judged to be Volksdeutsche – of German blood – will be taken to the Fatherland ... and found good German homes and German families.’
Piotr felt a glimmer of excitement, but as the other boys listened their eyes grew wide with shock. The room fell silent. Doktor Fischer turned on his heels and was gone. Then there was uproar – crying and angry shouting. Immediately, the Doktor sprang back into the room and cracked his whip against the door frame. Two soldiers stood behind him.
‘How dare you react with such ingratitude. You will assist my staff in this process,’ he yelled and the noise subsided instantly. ‘And you will not want to be one of those left behind.’
Piotr shouted out these final remarks in Polish. He was too preoccupied trying to translate this stream of words to notice an angry boy walking purposefully towards him. The boy punched him hard on the side of the head and knocked him to the floor. ‘Traitor,’ he spat, as he was dragged away by a soldier.
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in May 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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This electronic edition published in May 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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Text copyright © Paul Dowswell 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Lines from Molotov’s speech quoted on p.104, translated by Rodric Braithwaite,
Moscow 1941: A City and Its People at War © 2007 published by Profile Books
Lines from Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov © 1998 published by Bristol Classical Press
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