Playing with Matches: Coming of age in Hitler's Germany.

by Lee Strauss

  “He’s such an idiot,” said Moritz.

  “I’d like to give him a taste of his own medicine,” said Johann, rubbing the burn from the back of his head.

  They often took long marches though the hills with heavy back sacks, and this afternoon’s march was no different. Moritz and Johann and Emil kept a steady pace near the middle of the pack, though Emil could hear Moritz’s breath, quick and heavy. All of them were red faced and sweating in the afternoon heat. It smelled of dust and sweat, and Emil’s mouth was swollen and prickly like his mother’s pincushion. He reached for his canteen and took another swig of water.

  Ordered rows of four youths snaked along a dirt road, with only the sounds of their boots marching in rhythm–links, rechts, left, right, until they had more blisters than clear skin on their feet, and every muscle in their bodies throbbed. This was their reasonable service, their duty and sacrifice. All for the love of their great nation and courageous Fuehrer.

  Links, rechts, left, right. Emil still believed it.

  Didn’t he?

  Officer Vogel suddenly shouted, “Enemy machine gun firing from the right!” After a slight pause, the first row threw themselves into the nearest ditch. They were all quick to catch on, rolling on the ground, bruising their bodies, scraping their bare knees. Emil groaned and wiped a trickle of blood off his leg. Johann rubbed his shoulder while Moritz laid flat on his back, just trying to catch his breath. Friedrich crouched low on his stomach, like a lion ready to pounce, waiting for the next command.

  The muscles around Officer Vogel’s mouth twitched like he was trying to hold in a grin. He called them back to formation. Schnell, schnell. Faster, faster.

  He wasn’t done playing. “Enemy plane flying low from the left!” and the youth repeated the dive as before into the opposite bank. Emil landed hard on his pack, the extra weight digging into his ribs. He clenched his jaw together, fighting the urge to cry out in pain. He understood now why his mother was concerned about his coming home in one piece.

  Eventually, they came to a ravine, a shallow creek meandered along its floor, about fifteen meters down. Officer Vogel commanded them to line up single file.

  “Since you have shown suitable aptitude on the rifle range,” he began, his mouth still twitching, “you will prove your merit today by throwing a grenade.”

  A grenade? Emil thought, astounded. They’d had one session on the rifle range. One. His eyes widened, as did the others. Some with fear, some with frenzy.

  The corners of Officer Vogel’s lips tugged up slowly until he let out a bellow of laughter. “It’s not a live grenade you imbeciles! They’re dummies, for practice. Mein Gott, you should see your stupid faces.”

  Emil’s shoulders sagged in relief, though he didn’t join in with Officer Vogel’s chuckles as some of the others, like Friedrich did. His lips pursed together in a displeased frown and he had to work hard to erase the emotion from his face.

  They took turns throwing the dummy grenades as far as they could, pulling the fake cord before doing so. Officer Vogel was merciless towards the boys with weak arms and crooked aims.

  Emil held the egg shaped dummy in one hand, surprised at how heavy it actually was. He felt sweat form on his upper lip as he tugged the cord and threw the grenade. His had landed across the ravine but not straight enough for Officer Vogel’s liking.

  “Girls! You’re all a bunch of girls!” He rubbed his hands together before presenting the next grenade.

  “I think we should try a real one.” He handled it more gently than the others, convincing Emil that Officer Vogel wasn’t joking around.

  “This is a mark 4 grenade,” Officer Vogel said, eyeing each boy in turn. “Who here is man enough to throw it?”

  None of the boys dared to avert their eyes, but Emil was certain they all were thinking the same thing. “Don’t pick me.”

  Officer Vogel’s gaze settled on Wolfgang. At least he’d picked on one of the more athletic types.

  Still, Emil caught the quiver in Wolfgang’s arm as he reached for the grenade. Officer Vogel went over the procedure, which was simple. Pull the cord, then throw.

  “Don’t blow yourself up, Wolfe,” Friedrich teased.

  “Shut up!” said Wolfgang. He gingerly held the grenade in his hand.

  Emil imagined Wolfgang pulling the cord and dropping the stupid thing, blowing everyone up.

  “Come on Wolfgang,” Rolf said, “throw it hard!”

  Wolfgang pulled the cord and threw. His nerves were showing, and his toss was weak. The grenade just missed the lip of the ravine. Everyone gasped and ducked. The grenade rolled crookedly forward until it finally tipped over the edge, like a life and death game of golf.

  It exploded.

  It was thrilling and everyone cheered, even Moritz and Johann, happy that the first attempt ended well.

  Now that the show was over, Emil hoped they could pack up and go back to camp. No such luck. Officer Vogel had a death wish. He presented another mark 4 grenade and with an evil grin, pointed at Emil.

  It’s simple, no problem, Emil thought, cheering himself on. He could do this. Officer Vogel handed him the grenade. Just holding that large, weighted, green egg in his hand made him sweat. Moisture trickled from his armpits under his uniform.

  Suddenly, he felt nauseous. His earlier imagination of Wolfgang blowing himself up was now replaced with images of himself bursting into a million little, charred pieces. How could he throw this thing, with all this sweat? What if he dropped it?

  “Throw it, you Dummkopf!” Friedrich yelled.

  Emil would throw it all right. He wanted to throw it right at Friedrich’s dumb head. He must have read Emil’s thoughts, perhaps from the fiery glare Emil sent his way, because Friedrich actually shut up and took a step back.

  Emil pulled the cord. Time seemed to slow down and his vision blurred. He was so sweaty and wet, he was sure he had wet his pants. Throw it! By some supernatural force Emil felt his arm whip over his head. The grenade followed a high, invisible arch, landing in the ravine with a boom!

  The next morning after their hike, Officer Vogel called a game of soccer. He scanned the lineup of youthful faces, his gaze quickly settling on the tallest boy.

  “Friedrich, you will be captain of team one.” A rapid decision brought him to his next choice. “Emil, you are captain of team two. Boys choose your teams.”

  Emil had never been the captain before and the idea, no, the reality, of it made him feel good. Important. And since Friedrich was the “enemy” captain, Emil really wanted to win.

  Friedrich made his first call. “Wolfgang.”

  “Johann.”

  “Rolf.”

  Emil searched for another strong player. “Sebastian.”

  Down the row of boys they chose their team, each of them after the strongest and fiercest.

  “You will be defeated,” Friedrich taunted. “Like little puppies devoured by the wolves.”

  Emil would not lose to this idiot. His focus on building the best team was so intense that he missed Johann’s perplexed look of disapproval until it was too late.

  He’d forgotten to choose Moritz. He ended up on Emil’s team anyway, but by default, not because Emil had chosen him. Moritz pretended not to be bothered by what had happened, but Emil knew him like he was his own brother. He’d hurt him badly.

  Emil’s excitement about the game diminished as he watched Moritz take the bench, his head bowed. Johann refused to go on the field, sitting next to him, his lips drawn tight.

  As team captain, Emil tried to shake it off, calling his teammates to meet the challenge. He hated Friedrich even more now.

  He wasn’t surprised when they lost.

  “Emil, you’re such a little boy!” Friedrich boasted, strutting like a peacock all over the field, like winning a dumb soccer game made him a prince.

  Moritz avoided him afterwards, and Emil never had a chance to say sorry. But what could he say that wouldn’t make things worse? Moritz would
hate to have his pity.

  The mess hall smelled wonderfully of spicy sausages and fried potatoes, and Emil’s stomach growled. He sat in his usual spot across from Moritz and Johann. The hall echoed with the chatter of boys, sprinkled with the odd hoot of laughter. This was typical for their table, too, on most nights, except for now: only cold silence from Moritz and Johann.

  Emil should apologize, he knew that, but it felt so awkward to start. Moritz would eventually get over it, Emil reasoned. Tomorrow it would be like nothing had happened. He decided on small talk.

  “Sure is hot out.”

  Moritz and Johann grunted.

  Emil tried again. “This is great sausage.”

  The most Moritz and Johann would give were noncommittal shoulder shrugs.

  Emil chewed his sausage and washed it down with tepid water. “Look, Friedrich is an idiot, okay?”

  Together Moritz and Johann arched their eyebrows, looking steadily at him. Emil knew what that meant. They didn't think that Friedrich was the only idiot.

  “I have an announcement!” Commander Riesling’s voice rose above the chatter. “An incredible announcement!”

  The din of the hall fell to silence. Emil placed his cutlery down in anticipation.

  “The Luftwaffe just began an aerial attack on Britain!”

  A loud cheer exploded from the youths in the hall. “Luftwaffe, Luftwaffe!” they chanted. Emil too, was caught up in the energy of it all. He loved the Luftwaffe. Johann and Moritz seemed shell shocked by the news. When they joined in with the applause, Emil could tell it was forced.

  Later that night, Emil found himself alone with Moritz in the lavatory, scrubbing their faces clean.

  “Hey,” Emil said, grabbing at his chance to make things right. “About the game today, I just got caught up with Friedrich. I didn’t mean…”

  “Forget about it. It doesn’t matter.”

  It did matter, Emil could tell by how he said it, but he let it drop. He rooted in his ears with a wet cloth, desperate to change the subject.

  “So, that was something about the Luftwaffe, today. Maybe my Onkel Rudi was there.”

  Moritz looked at Emil like he was an alien. “Why did we have to attack Britain, Emil? Don’t we have enough Lebensraum by now?”

  Moritz finished his scrub down and Emil was left standing there, stunned by what Moritz had just said. They both knew that his statement was treason, punishable by hard labor or even death. All Emil had to do was report him.

  Moritz knew it and Emil knew it. Was Moritz testing their friendship? Because of a stupid soccer game?

  I can be either a good friend or a good Nazi, Emil thought. He knew now that he couldn’t be both.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THEY SURVIVED summer labor camp, at least physically, and even their friendships had managed to stay intact. That was the thing about Moritz. He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. Emil was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand having Moritz mad at him.

  If labor camp was meant to turn him into a radical Nazi, it had failed.

  Still, he wasn’t prepared to abandon the cause entirely, either. How could he? He loved Germany, and would be faithful to the regime. What other choice did he have? He just had to figure out how to keep his friends happy, too.

  They had a few languid summer days before the start of school. Emil figured it was only a matter of time before this false sense of calm would end. He was right.

  The end came late on the evening of August 25. Herr Schwarz burst through the Radle’s front door shouting, “Berlin’s hit! Berlin’s been bombed!”

  His portly chest heaved as he delivered the news, stunning both of Emil’s parents and Emil as well. Britain’s Royal Air Force had bombed Berlin? How had this happened? Emil wondered. Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels had promised that not a single bomb would fall on Germany.

  It turned out the bombing raid wasn’t severe, but still, the whole nation was shaken. How did the enemy manage such a feat?

  The bombing didn’t stop Germany’s own blitz in London. The Luftwaffe continued their attack on Britain and the radio and newspapers ceaselessly broadcasted the Fatherland’s victory after victory.

  At home, their efforts were focused on preparing for the coming winter. Emil and Mother worked the garden, gathering up the last of the potatoes, carrots, kohlrabi, beans and beets. All the women worked tirelessly to stockpile for their families, including Frau Schwarz.

  Mother and Frau Schwarz often worked their backyard gardens together and Emil watched them as they paused, resting themselves against their hoes.

  “Have you tried the ‘Peoples’ soap?” Frau Schwarz said. She brushed a blond wisp of hair off her forehead, tucking it under her gray scarf.

  “It’s terrible,” Mother responded. “It’s abrasive and smelly. It hardly produces any suds, no matter how hard you scrub. It’s very hard on the clothing.”

  Mother had a light jacket on over her dress. The fabric had grown thin, the pattern faded. Emil couldn’t recall her ever wearing anything but good quality clothes in the best condition. Even with a husband who worked at a clothing factory, she was unable to get a new dress.

  A flash of anger burned his gut. He wanted his mother to have a new dress. He pushed the emotion away. What was the matter with him? Everyone had to make sacrifices.

  Frau Schwarz nodded. “Now they want us to save the soap and use sand or soda to clean the house. Can you imagine?”

  “How do we manage to keep Kinder, Kirche and Kuche these days?” Children, church and kitchen–this was the housewives motto.

  “Can you believe the latest story about the house-wife?” Frau Schwarz rolled her eyes. “‘Like a female bird, she pretties herself for her mate and lays eggs for him, while the male bird wards off the enemy.’ I read it in the newspaper!”

  Mother grew quiet, then in a near whisper added, “I’m afraid, Margarita. Our men will be recruited soon. So many men are dying every day. I don’t know what I’d do without Peter.”

  Emil continued to dig potatoes, careful not to make noise that would remind them of his presence.

  “I can’t believe Hitler led us into another world war,” Frau Schwarz said.

  Emil stopped, surprised by the venom in his neighbor’s words. But Hitler had, hadn’t he? His parents had been right about that.

  “Shh, Margarita!” Mother looked around. Seeing Emil seemed to startle her.

  “I’m sorry, Leni. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

  Helmut and Karl broke the awkward moment by running through the yards, Helmut tagging Karl with a loud, “I got you.”

  Emil picked up the basket of potatoes and headed for the cellar. The door was heavy and stiff and a waft of musty cold air assaulted his senses when he pushed it open. The steps were narrow and he peered over his basket, careful not to trip and tumble down. The cellar was small with a low ceiling and when Emil stretched, he was tall enough to touch the wooden beams with his head. Soon he would have to duck and hunch over like Father.

  A row of jars lined the shelves. Tomatoes, yellow and green beans, apricot and raspberry jam, pickles, and canned fish from the river. With all the food mother had preserved over the summer and fall, they should be fine for the winter.

  Emil poured the potatoes into the bin. It was half-full now. Full enough. He needed to get out, get away from his mother and Frau Schwarz and all their worries. He went to see Johann.

  For a change the Ackermann house was quiet, no beautiful music escaping through the windows; his father was away with the orchestra. His sister Katharina was getting ready to leave for a meeting with the League for German Girls. She was a little taller than Emil, boyishly thin, and suited in the standard League for German Girls; long black skirt with a brown fitted blazer. Something about her intrigued him. He worried that he’d be caught staring at her again, so he shifted his eyes around the room, letting them land on her for only seconds at a time. Emil didn’t have a sister, so having a girl wander around
the room was new to him. Exotic and kind of scary, like having a peacock or panther living in your house.

  Katharina said “hello” to Emil when she spotted him waiting for Johann. Emil waved shyly.

  Johann joined them and Emil followed him out to the barn.

  “What do the girls do in the League?” Emil asked once he was certain they were far enough away from Katharina that she wouldn’t hear him. “Is it the same as Deutsches Jungvolk?”

  “They hike and exercise,” he said. “But mostly they talk about motherhood.”

  “Motherhood?”

  “Yeah, they need to be good mothers to the Aryan race. That’s why they need to be strong. My sister says they’re taught to have a lot of children for the Third Reich.”

  “While their husbands are at war,” Emil stated somewhat sarcastically.

  “Actually, it’s not necessary any longer to have a husband, just babies.”

  Emil raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the Reich doesn’t really care if a woman is married or not,” Johann said.

  Emil’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I’m not joking.” Johann’s face grew serious. “You can ask my sister.”

  Emil wasn’t about to ask Johann’s sister anything, especially not something like that. “I’m not exactly speaking to a lot of girls right now.”

  “If Irmgard has her way, you will.”

  “What are you talking about?” “I think she likes you.”

  “Who?”

  “Irmgard.”

  “Likes who?” Emil asked.

  “Man, are you stupid?”

  Actually, Emil thought, she was looking at him a lot lately, and smiling with the flashy-eye thing. Thinking of her caused a warm blush up the back of Emil’s neck. He dodged.

  “Irmgard loves Herr Giesler. All the girls do.”

  “Girls can love more than one guy at a time, you know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s common knowledge.”

  “Oh.” Clearly, Emil had a lot to learn about girls.

  ***

  The fact that they were a nation at war never stopped the town of Passau from setting up the traditional outdoor Christmas Market. Come late November, Crafters and merchants assembled their wares—breads, buns, candles, and glass and crystal ornaments—in Christmas themed kiosks. Cheery lights hung overhead and a group of singers filled the air with hymns and carols in three-part harmony. Usually everyone was eager to visit and mingle with a stroll through the market and a cup of warm, mulled wine in their hands.