What a mess! What a loss of face and time for the ill-informed but earnest Nazi! No wonder his breath is steaming on the bright but cold September air.
‘I had no idea I was privileged,’ Gabi remarks in a rare attempt at irony. Rare and ineffectual; it bounces off Ortsgruppenleiter Wimmer’s solid skull like marbles off a granite slab. ‘You may not know it,’ he declares impressively, his chest swelling with the pride of one acquainted with the regulations, as indeed at last he is – he ought to be, he’s spent half the night poring over them. ‘You may not know it, but I do. You may be interested to learn that if you were married to an Aryan woman, you wouldn’t be privileged.’
Gabi doesn’t think she’d be privileged being married to an Aryan woman either, since she’s not that way inclined. But that’s not what’s in Ortsgruppenleiter Franzi’s dogged mind. He means if she’d been a Jewish man married to an Aryan woman. Neglecting to say so, he leaves Gabi mystified as to the drift of Nazi race and marriage laws. The mystery continues as Franzi does, going still deeper into the finer points. ‘But if you were married to an Aryan of either sex and had children who were baptised Christians,’ he declares, ‘you’d also be privileged. Unless the children were living abroad.’ What an expositor the man is, he really ought to have been a lawyer.
‘But I am married to an Aryan of either sex with children who are baptised Christians!’ (What does Gabi mean by ‘either sex’ here? Has she begun to entertain doubts about Willibald’s gender? You couldn’t blame her – he isn’t very virile.)
‘Exactly!’ Franzi declares triumphantly. ‘You’re doubly privileged! There are two reasons why you can’t wear those stars. Return them at once. Please,’ he adds, not having lost his sense that she’s still the Frau Pfarrer even if she is a Yid, and is therefore still entitled to those few grains of respect.
Gabi does as she’s requested and asks for her money back when she’s handed the badges over. Franzi Wimmer considers the top star lying in his hand, to see if its sojourn on Gabi’s tainted breast (or rather the coat that would have covered her tainted breast) has damaged or polluted it, then repays her forty Pfennigs, for which he in his turn requests and obtains a receipt on the official form he’s thoughtfully brought with him. No one would ever find fault with his accounts. This time he remembers not to give Gabi the ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute and mutters a sloppy Austrian ‘Wiederschau’n’ instead. To which she returns a frosty German ‘Auf Wiedersehen!’ which cracks like ice on the autumn morning and indistinctly reminds the poor man he’s just a country bumpkin after all who gets the regulations muddled and speaks a dialect that proper Germans ridicule.
So now the stars are gone. But so is Ilse’s schooling. And Martin’s will be next. Then –
7
One by one the others’
The following week Gabi has a long talk with Willibald in his study.
To begin with her voice sounds calm and reasonable. Then it becomes wheedling, then angry, then alarmed. Willibald’s voice starts quiet, becomes curt, changes to angry and ends shrieking hysterically, if a wombless creature can be hysterical. Books are thrown against the door and feet stamped on the floor.
My parents are discussing their children’s education.
The shock of Ilse’s expulsion has concentrated Gabi’s mind. Martin will be expelled at the end of the school year too, when he completes the sixth grade. Then it will be Sara’s turn, and eventually mine. Out of school and into the underclass. We can be hewers of wood and drawers of water for the Third Reich, but shakers and movers we certainly cannot. Ilse seems to have accepted her destiny with her customary resignation. She’s sure she was born to suffer, and so far history’s been on her side. Martin hasn’t confronted this idea yet, but it’s out there waiting for him as are one or two other things he doesn’t know about yet. As for Sara and me – it’s still too far away for us to think about.
Willibald accepts our fate as well, now that Aryanisation’s out, but Gabi’s still full of fight. If the two older children can’t go to school, school will have to come to them. Fräulein von Kaminsky must be recalled. Or Frau Dr Saur-that-was, who isn’t enjoying married life as much as she expected. And Gabi’s old and best friend Maria Müllendorf in Berlin could be asked to come, or her second oldest friend Frau Professor Hoffmann. Or some other ladies from the Confessing Church. (They haven’t been showing up recently, by the way. Not since Willibald’s return from the war, in fact. Could it be he doesn’t welcome them?) But one way or another, the children’s thwarted education must be carried forward.
‘Education for what?’ Willibald asks theatrically. ‘To work in some factory or sweeping up manure on a farm? Because that’s the only job they’ll ever get. They won’t need any more schooling for that.’ Then comes a graver objection. ‘It’s bound to be illegal. D’you think our children are being thrown out of school so that they can get a private education by themselves? It’s not long since the Authorities stopped them from having private instruction and made them go to school.’ (Whenever he invokes authority, it’s with an audible capital A.)
‘Well, now it’s the other way round,’ Gabi reasonably responds.
But then comes Willibald’s clincher. ‘Besides, we can’t afford it!’
Gabi certainly has her work cut out this time. But she goes straight to the heart of the matter, and says they can sell things – some of the furniture that came as her dowry, the jewellery and embroidered tablecloths, even the spare bed linen that came from her dead sister Frieda. Frieda meant it for Ilse’s dowry, but who knows if or when she’ll ever get married?
And that’s where the acrimony really starts. Willibald can’t bear to part from his possessions, even if they’re actually his wife’s or daughter’s. He’d rather submit to the divine or Adolf’s will and let Ilse and Martin get along without any futile further education. If that’s what life’s got in store for them, so be it, they’ll just have to get used to it. It is their lot that God in His unfathomable wisdom has chosen them to suffer. Here the tears flow for the stunted lives they’ll have to lead, and perhaps in hope of the rewards in heaven that may await them. But no selling of the family jewels! Is it his fault his children have been denied an education? Now the tears flow for himself, who he imagines will soon be living pitiably in a draughty house if his wife has her way, bereft of tables, chairs, beds and bed-sheets.
And in fact Gabi has been selling damask tablecloths and linen bed-sheets in Plinden and Bad Neusee already, to pay the bills she’s run up at the grocery and dairy, the doctor and the dentist. When Willibald learns this, the books and pictures begin to fly, which only depreciates their value for the future sales that Gabi has in mind for them. No wonder she’s started having gall bladder attacks, and she has one opportunely now.
It’s at this point in their discussion that Willibald displaces his anger at his wife and starts shouting curses instead at Deputy Führer Hess, who first of all didn’t permit him to teach religion in the schools, then secondly (‘That damned traitor!’) went off his head and flew to Britain in search of some Scottish duke or other a few months ago; and at the State Office for Genealogical Research for not acknowledging his wife’s mother was a dissolute adulteress.
Ilse might be slow in school, but she’s no sloth when it comes to scenes like this, and she’s already quietly closed whichever windows were still open. Martin maintains an aloof indifference. He’s been reading a booklet about the heroes of the SS Panzer regiments, one of whom, a Major Schultz, had chalked up so many kills that the enemy armour he’s destroyed in one theatre or another apparently weighs as much as all the factories of Coventry put together, which our brave bombers, including gallant cousin Erwin, have recently reduced to ruins. I believe Coventry had quite a lot of factories, so that sounds pretty impressive. Martin will have his work cut out designing a Panzer to beat that, especially if he isn’t going to be in school next year. But that doesn’t seem to worry Martin. He’s sure he can do it; he’s got a thing or two up
his sleeve. (Incidentally, Major Schultz has just been killed in his Panzer by what obviously can only have been a sneaky shot from an English anti-tank gun in the North African desert. Martin had better stick to the designing side and leave operations to someone else.)
Soon Willibald emerges from his study weeping copiously for all to see, and makes for the front door, followed by Gabi clutching her side. But as he doesn’t threaten suicide this time, Ilse does not follow to prevent him. He’ll only make a few parish calls. It’s nearly four in the afternoon, a good time for coffee, and some of his parishioners still have the real thing. With a bit of luck he might even get a slice of cake and a nip of schnapps as well. After that it will be back to King Saul (soon it will be King David. The Bible’s scope seems boundless), and refuge from the world he can’t confront.
Gabi, however, has things to do in that world. With a hot-water bottle pressed against her side she sits down at the dining table and writes to Maria Muellendorf in Berlin and to Fräulein von Kaminsky and Frau Dr Helena Saur-that-was in Vienna. But before she can get any answer she must first endure the vicissitudes of Martin’s mountaineering with the Hitler Youth.
And so must he.
Martin has taken matters into his own hands. Matters of the Hitler Youth, that is. He’s never been asked to join the noble band. How could he be? He’s a half-Jew. But his inordinate self-esteem has encouraged him to think the omission must be just an administrative oversight – after all, he’s half-Aryan too. So he’s written a letter to the area headquarters in Plinden, applying to join the sacred brotherhood. He hasn’t mentioned the maternal half of his parentage, but he has stressed the paternal half’s recent military service and his own devotion to the Fatherland – he’s even mentioned his Panzer interests. He always did have difficulty adjusting to reality. None of us know about his temerity until a letter with the official Hitler Youth heading arrives addressed to him. The letter requires him to appear at the next meeting of the Plinden Group, bringing food and clothing for three days, all to be packed in a weatherproof rucksack. Particular attention is to be paid to warm clothes, rain cape and boots suitable for mountain trekking.
Willibald, who usually escapes reality by ignoring it, is as pleased by this as Martin is, whose equally unfortunate attitude is to expect that reality will mould itself to his desires. ‘They’re learning sense at last!’ he declares. ‘Soon all the children will be recognised as true Germans. Mark my words, they’ll be going back to school soon, after all. I knew this would happen in the end. Someone higher up must have made a decision.’ If Gabi’s sceptical about that, and if she has mixed feelings about her son joining the Nazi counterpart of the Boy Scouts, she doesn’t show it. Any port in a storm. She tries to help Martin pack his rucksack but is soon sent packing herself by the assured young aspirant to Hitler Youthdom.
The glorious morning dawns and not much later we accompany Martin down to the ferry. Martin’s in his smartest shorts and shirt, as close as he can get them to the Hitler Youth uniform. ‘Off to join the Hitler Youth,’ Willibald announces proudly to a few sparrows snatching up breadcrumbs, to the Catholic priest, who peers at him mildly astonished, and to Dr Kraus’s wife, who’s holding her wig down against the freshening wind and doesn’t seem to hear. They are the only other passengers on the ferry, and Martin ignores them, as they ignore each other. Dr Kraus is an agnostic and his wife’s supposed to be one as well, although no one’s ever asked her – no one ever asks her anything much. As to the mistress, presumably she’s an agnostic too, since she’s no more seen in church than the others are. The agnosticism of the ménage à trois in their out-of-the-way house inhibits the Catholic priest’s ordinary affability (though the ménage à trois itself does not – he can deal with that), and consequently he ignores Frau Dr Kraus as much as Martin does. He peers out in silent discomfort instead at the receding bank, which for a time, and after a confusing turn about deck, his myopia induces him to think is the approaching one.
Martin stands at the stern in masterful solitude, one foot placed on the rail, his brown hair fluttering against his forehead. Where have I seen that pose before? I know I’ve seen it somewhere, but where? Of course! It’s Heinrich Schmidt’s air of careless command, the nonchalant superiority of the Aryan male. That’s how he stood on the ferry that far-off evening after our Indian summer up the mountain. Martin remembers too, I can see he does from the self-conscious look in his eyes. He’s imitating Heinrich, the only friend he’s ever had, his model Hitler Youth.
Martin takes the train to Plinden, as does the Catholic priest, but although Frau Dr Kraus buys a ticket, she waits at the station until the train has gone, as though she’s forgotten what she’s there for or had a sudden change of mind. Then, when the ticket office closes, she starts walking along beside the tracks as though she hopes to catch it up. We see her from across the lake, a small, dark figure receding into the woods, her hand occasionally clutching at her wind-raised wig.
Willibald decides we should celebrate this turn for the better and splurges money and ration coupons on some Apfelstrudel at the best baker, who will not serve his wife. (Gabi waits like a dog submissively outside.) The baker’s surly even to Willibald, but Willibald’s been swallowing insults and ridicule most of his life and today is no different as he burbles on about Martin joining the Hitler Youth as though the incredulously contemptuous look on the baker’s face is a congratulatory grin.
Meanwhile Martin has joined a number of other candidates for the junior heroes’ brigade. They’re told by a ramrod-stiff adult Leader to tag along behind the initiated as they stride up the mountain singing We’re Marching Against England and The Banner High. And surely – Yes! That’s Heinrich Schmidt up at the front, leading the singing and leading the march! Heinrich Schmidt! He feels his heart is going to burst.
It’s a long way up the mountain, further than he’s ever been before, and sometimes they pass through shreds of clammy mist that veil them from each other. They pause for lunch, pulling out their sandwiches of cheese and wurst, and Heinrich’s laughing and joking with everyone, even the stiff adult leader whose name Martin hasn’t yet learnt. Well, nearly everyone. Not the recruits; they’re treated with a certain lordly disdain. But it would be too much to expect Heinrich to stoop to them just yet. Wait till they’ve been enrolled.
Then it’s up and on, and before long they’re approaching the snow line. And there, nestling just below the snow, is a hut exactly like the one above Heimstatt, except that a swastika is flapping proudly from a tall white pole in front of it.
The initiates dump their rucksacks inside the hut shouting and laughing, while the candidates, shivering slightly (the sun is setting), wait outside in anxious expectation. This is the solemn moment before their rite of passage. In a few minutes, one of them informs Martin, the ceremony will begin. Their names will be called. One by one they will take the oath and be admitted to the brotherhood. ‘It’s like being confirmed,’ he remarks in awed tones. ‘Only this is real.’ And he ought to know – his brother was admitted last year. Martin tries an assured Heinrich Schmidt pose, resting one foot on his rucksack and gazing off towards the distant peaks, but the rucksack sags and topples, and he has to pretend he was merely giving it a casual kick.
Now, at last, as the sun goes down behind the western mountain rim, the sacred ceremonies commence. The Hitler Youths form three sides of a square round the flag-pole while the uncertain tyros stand self-consciously by their rucksacks along the other, lowest side. A bugle has appeared and it’s Heinrich Schmidt – who else? – who raises it to his pursed lips. Out the noble haunting call rings across the twilit peaks, echoing and re-echoing ever more faintly till it fades away among the rocks and snow. The three rows of Hitler Youths stand with their right arms unwaveringly raised. The fading light shines like torchlight on noble Aryan eye and resolute brow. And then the torches do come out, smoky and resinous pine torches, which burn like beacons in the cold mountain air. And the arms that hold them aloft no
more waver now than they did when they hailed the Führer at the going down of the sun.
The ramrod adult’s voice now summons the recruits to take the oath of fealty to their Great Leader, Adolf Hitler. One by one they come forward as their names are called and stand with outstretched arm beside the flag, repeating the sacred words in proud and solemn tones. Some even have tears pricking their eyes; they know they’ll never live another day like this. They are like monks taking their vows – no, they are monks taking their vows: the new Teutonic Knights, monks of race and war. One by one they pass from the flag-pole where the oath is administered to take their place in the ranks of their initiated comrades.
When does doubt begin to gnaw at Martin’s innards? When he realises that, while the names are being called in alphabetical order, the Bs have all gone but he has not? Or when he sees Heinrich Schmidt glancing at him with an amused ironic smile in his torch-lit eyes? Certainly, by the time he’s the last one standing there beside his sagging rucksack, his stomach’s beginning to quake with the suspicion that something isn’t going as it should be here.
Then his name is called after all, but not in the same tone as the other names were called. There is something cold in that voice now, something cruel, not the proud and welcoming tone that summoned the others. Martin steps uneasily to the flag-pole.
‘Martin Brinkmann, what race is your mother?’
Martin Brinkmann swallows. He licks his lips. But he doesn’t speak. Perhaps he cannot speak just then. In any case, he feels as though his insides have been suddenly scooped out.
‘Martin Brinkmann!’ the voice demands again, even more harshly. ‘What race is your mother? Answer!’
But Martin Brinkmann doesn’t answer, because it’s true, he cannot speak. Something’s quivering in his cheek, but his tongue is paralysed. He looks helplessly at his tormentor, then drops his eyes. The leader’s face is all edges and flint. There’s no hope there.
The Kaminsky Cure Page 10