by Liz Kessler
‘You are home for good aren’t you, Vati?’ I ask as I come over to sit on the edge of his chair. ‘You’re not going back?’
‘I don’t plan on going anywhere,’ he says.
Mutti brings him a steaming cup of hot, frothy chocolate. He kisses her as he takes the cup. ‘Just as I like it,’ he says.
‘So what’s happened?’ Mutti asks once we’ve all had a drink. ‘How come you are back?’
‘I don’t know all the details,’ Vati says. ‘They don’t exactly share state secrets with us, but it seems there’s been a deal of some sort.’
‘What kind of deal?’ Otto asks.
‘One made by the politicians and lawmakers,’ Vati says. ‘Hitler has signed an agreement with Britain, Italy and France promising that he’ll leave Czechoslovakia alone.’
‘Leave us alone?’ Mutti asks.
‘They’ve said Hitler can have some territory to the west as long as he promises not to invade the rest of Czechoslovakia.’
‘And he agreed to that?’ Mutti asks.
‘He did!’ Vati says. He smiles. ‘It seems war has been avoided and we’ve all been sent home!’
I don’t understand most of what Vati is saying. I understand the last bit though, and that’s all I need to know.
Vati is home, and our family is back together again. Whatever danger there was, it’s over.
Otto and I are allowed to stay up late to celebrate. Just as well, as I’m far too happy to go to sleep any time soon.
MAX
The best thing about life in Munich was, without doubt, Max’s new circle of friends. The Hitler Youth had changed his life. In fact, it would have been fair to say the Hitler Youth was his life.
Gone were the days when Max would huddle with his two friends on the fringes of everything, playing tag in the park, making up their own games, laughing at their own jokes.
He was part of something much bigger than that now. No, not just part of something; he was at the centre of things. Max lived for the weekends when he would dress in his crisp new uniform and join the boys in the square. They would march in rows, as if they were a single mechanism. Their ‘Heil Hitler!’ salutes were shouted in perfect unison.
They weren’t just a group of friends. They weren’t just a team. They were a unit with one voice, one mind, one aim: to be perfect Nazis.
At age ten, Max was in the junior section, called the German Youth. He couldn’t join the senior ranks of the Hitler Youth till he was fourteen, but Max didn’t care. Fourteen was still such a long time away, he didn’t even think about it. Being in the German Youth still meant he felt part of something bigger, something important, and his friends felt the same way.
After marching, the boys would go to the Hofgarten park to train. They ran relay races, played tug-o-war, learned how to light campfires and make knives from twigs.
Max trained harder than any of the other boys. He ran faster, pulled more fiercely, cheered on his teammates louder. Soon, he was one of the first to be picked for a team. He was the one slapped on the back the most times at the end of the races. He could barely recall the days when he had been forgotten, picked last, teased for being weak.
He always went home bursting with so much pleasure he sometimes thought he might pop like an overfilled balloon.
It was on a day like this that something happened to put a tiny dint in Max’s bubble.
He and his friends were marching home from the park. They had been dismissed for the day so they didn’t have to march, but they did anyway because they enjoyed it.
They marched down the road four abreast, almost taking over the whole width of the pavement.
A man coming towards them had to dodge out of their way. As he hopped off the pavement, one of the boys called out, ‘Smelly Jew!’ Another held a hand out in front of his face, pretending to extend his nose out into a huge hook shape.
The other boys laughed. Max forced himself to laugh, too. Inside, though, he got an uncomfortable wriggly feeling. Saying horrible things about Jews was the only thing he didn’t really like about his new life.
And the things they said – Max still wasn’t convinced they were even true. His best friends had been Jewish – but they didn’t have huge noses and they didn’t smell.
So Max did what he always did in these situations. He forced his mind through the mental hoops he had constructed over the time they had lived in Munich. He told himself that if Leo and Elsa weren’t stinky and didn’t have big noses and weren’t nasty and evil, that meant they couldn’t really be Jewish. Maybe they had mistakenly believed they were. Maybe Max had thought they had told him they were Jewish but actually he’d got it wrong and they were something else altogether.
Before long, Max had convinced himself Leo and Elsa weren’t Jewish at all. They couldn’t have been. And if they weren’t Jewish then Max didn’t have a problem.
If they weren’t Jewish then he didn’t need to question himself every time someone said something about the Jews. If they weren’t Jewish, maybe he could even write to them, rekindle their friendship, tell them all about his new life and the Hitler Youth. They would be pleased to know he was so happy.
That night at dinner Max took all his courage in his hands, cleared his throat and in the most polite voice he could muster said, ‘Father, could I ask you a question, please?’
His father finished chewing, swallowed his mouthful and replied, ‘Of course.’
Max’s heart was thumping like the bass drum the boys banged at band practice. And then the words came out in a rush.
‘Father, I’ve been thinking about my old friends from Vienna, Leo and Elsa. I think we might have been wrong about them and I was wondering if I might perhaps be allowed to write to Leo.’
Max’s father carefully placed his knife and fork on his plate. Then he wiped his mouth, put his napkin back in its holder and turned to his wife. ‘Excuse us for a moment, darling,’ he said. Then he got up from his chair and indicated for Max to do the same.
‘Your room, now,’ he said and Max followed his father to his bedroom.
Once inside, his father softly closed the door. When he turned back to look at Max, his face was bright red, his eyes were tiny black holes.
Max swallowed.
‘How dare you,’ his father hissed. ‘After all we have done for you, the sacrifices we have made, the work I do for the cause of our great country and our great leader and this is how you repay me?’
‘Father, I just—’
‘DON’T interrupt when I am talking!’ His words felt like a slap to the side of Max’s face.
‘Your mother has spent half the day making us a nice dinner, and you spoil it by mentioning JEWS! What are you thinking?’
‘I – I – I wondered if perhaps there was a mistake,’ Max stammered. ‘That maybe they aren’t Jewish after all.’
‘Not Jewish? They looked like Jews, they smelled like Jews, they skulked around like Jews, they preyed on the rest of us. Of course they’re Jewish!’
Max wanted to argue. He wanted to say that his friends didn’t do any of those things. But he knew better than to argue with his father, especially when he was this angry.
‘And what are Jews?’
Max hesitated. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, he said nothing.
‘They are pigs,’ his father said through his teeth. ‘They are worse than pigs. They are scum. Vermin. Filth. They are rats.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Say it. Jews are scum. Jews are rats. Jews are filth.’
Max tried to get the words out but, when he tried to speak, the taste of bile in his mouth stopped him.
‘Say it!’ his father ordered.
‘Jews are scum. Jews are rats. Jews are filth,’ Max mumbled quickly.
‘Louder.’
Max swallowed down the bile in his throat and tried to speak louder. ‘Jews are scum. Jews are rats. Jews are filth.’
‘Louder!’
Max raised his voice. ‘Jews a
re scum. Jews are rats. Jews are filth.’
‘Louder!’
Max shouted. ‘Jews are scum! Jews are rats! Jews are filth!’ He could feel a tear snaking into the corner of each eye.
‘Again!’
‘Jews are scum! Jews are rats! Jews are filth!’
Max’s father stalked across the room and fiddled with the window catch. Max quickly swiped away the disloyal tears that had squeezed out of his eyes. He couldn’t let his father see him cry. He wouldn’t let that happen.
His father flung the window open. ‘Come here. Tell the world!’ he said. ‘As loud as you can. Over and over.’
Max ran to the window. He filled his lungs with air, and then he poured every bit of guilt, shame, anger and confusion into his words as he screamed at the top of his voice: ‘Jews are scum! Jews are rats! Jews are filth! Jews are scum! Jews are rats! Jews are filth! Jews are scum! Jews are rats! Jews are filth!’
By the time his father indicated for him to stop, Max’s forehead was coated in sweat, his heart was pounding like a train, his legs were so weak he thought he would faint.
His father closed the window. ‘Good. Don’t ever forget that,’ he said. ‘And you are never to speak of those filthy Jewish children in this house again.’
‘I won’t, Father. I promise.’ Max knew it was true. He would never allow himself to be put through this after today. He would do anything to avoid making his father so angry again. He would never again doubt what Leo and Elsa were. He would never even think about contacting them. He would banish them from his mind.
His father looked at him for a long time without speaking. Then in a quiet voice, he said, ‘Are you ready to put your words into action?’
Max would have agreed to anything his father suggested in that moment. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, then. You’ll join us tonight. It’s a big night. An important night. I am giving you an opportunity to prove to me that you aren’t completely useless and to show me that you are ready to play your part.’
‘I’ll show you,’ Max said fervently. ‘I promise. I won’t let you down.’
‘Good. Now, let’s go and finish our meal.’
Later that night, Max and his father left the house in the dark and headed to the city’s Jewish quarter with a growing army of men joining them at every corner.
Armed with bricks, stones and a heart that had begun to beat to the rhythm of rage, Max was determined to honour his promise.
LEO
What was that?
A crashing sound had woken me and I sat bolt upright in my bed. I held my breath and listened for a moment. Nothing. It must have been a cat jumping off a roof. They did that all the time.
I was about to lie back down when I heard it again.
CRASH!
This time there was no mistaking the sound: breaking glass. It sounded like it was quite far away.
I crept out of my bed and tiptoed across my bedroom.
CRASH!
This one was closer. I edged to the window and, kneeling on the floor, I lifted a corner of my curtain so I could look out without being seen.
A gang of men were walking down the street. Some dressed in black with heavy boots and big coats, others in the SS uniforms and helmets I’d grown used to seeing on the streets every day.
I had never seen them at night before. They looked like my worst nightmares, multiplied by ten. They looked like an army of darkness coming directly for me. My heart beat so hard I had to clutch my chest to make sure it stayed inside my body.
As the men came closer, I could see they all had armfuls of bricks or large sticks. I watched as they stopped outside a shop doorway halfway up the street. One of them gave a nod to the others and then—
CRASH!
The men threw bricks through the window. Then they slapped each other on the back and moved on. They were getting closer to our house. They didn’t stop at every shop window. Why not?
As soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer: they were targeting the shops owned by Jewish people.
Suddenly, Mama was outside my door. ‘Leo. Liebe. Darling boy,’ she whispered.
I dropped the curtain and crept to my door. She opened it and reached out for me. ‘Come,’ she whispered. ‘Stay down.’
Together, we crawled across the landing, crept downstairs and into the hall. Mama silently beckoned me to the door under the stairs. ‘In here,’ she said, gesturing for me to crawl into the cupboard.
A split second’s memory opened in my mind. Playing hide and seek with Elsa and Max. Elsa had hidden in here behind the boxes at the back. Max and I hadn’t been able to find her and had given up in the end.
I hoped the men outside would do the same.
We were about to crawl inside when I heard the back door softly open. My heart stopped with fear – until a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.
‘Papa!’ I breathed with relief. Then I noticed that his face was cut and bleeding and he was limping. His coat was torn and his trousers ripped at both knees.
‘We were – at – the – synagogue,’ he said, his words coming out in breathless raspy bursts. ‘Praying. Praying for an end to this. They came. They came to our place of worship. They are destroying every part of us.’
Mama pulled him towards her and hugged him hard. I could see Papa’s shoulders shaking as he sobbed in her arms.
I had never seen him cry. Not once in my whole life.
‘Hush, my love,’ Mama whispered in Papa’s ear as she stroked his hair. ‘They will never destroy us. Never.’
She beckoned to me. ‘Leo, fetch the medicine box. Quickly. Then come back.’
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the box from a drawer. Mama ushered me and Papa into the cupboard under the stairs.
‘I’ll fix you up in here,’ she said to Papa as she followed us into the darkness.
As she tended to Papa’s wounds, I sat in the pitch black, praying for the night to be over and pretending I couldn’t hear my father’s sobs over the sound of breaking glass.
At some point, we must have fallen asleep.
When I woke, my head was in Mama’s lap and she was resting against Papa’s shoulder.
We dragged ourselves out of the cupboard and stretched to straighten our bodies out.
‘Come on, let’s eat.’ Mama went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
I looked at Papa. ‘How can we think of eating?’ I asked.
He put his hand on my shoulder and replied, ‘How can we not? We must stay strong, Leo. We must do everything we can to hold on to our dignity. All right?’
I bit my lip and silently dared the tears to show themselves. They didn’t. Then I nodded.
‘Come here,’ Papa said. He pulled me close and I flung my arms around him. I breathed in the comfort of him: his worn jumper and the scratchiness of his unshaved chin.
We had only just sat down to eat when there was a knock at the door.
My instinct was to run back to the cupboard under the stairs. Papa stood up.
‘No. Please.’ Mama reached out to grab his arm.
‘What do you want us to do, darling? Hide in a cupboard for ever?’
She let go and Papa went to answer the door.
I heard familiar voices in the hall. It was Papa’s friends. Maybe they had come to check we were okay.
The relief didn’t last long.
Papa’s face was grey when he came back into the kitchen, flanked by two of the men, the third one behind him. The last time I’d seen all three men was in the square, laughing and pointing at Papa.
‘I have to go,’ Papa said to us.
‘Go?’ Mama asked, getting up and crossing the kitchen to join him. ‘Go where?’
‘You shouldn’t ask, Mrs Grunberg,’ Mr Weber said. He’d been friends with my father as long as I could remember. He’d sat with us at this very table. Eaten Mama’s cakes, drunk Papa’s wine. He’d worn a kippah on his head while my father said prayers over our bread.
‘I shouldn’t ask where you are taking my husband?’ Mama replied, her voice as sharp as her best kitchen knives.
Mr Ferdinand was on Papa’s other side. ‘He needs to come to the police station,’ he said.
Mama clapped a hand to her face. ‘You are arresting him?’
The third man standing behind Papa stepped forward. It was Mr Muller. ‘If he comes with us, they will leave you and Leo alone,’ Mr Weber said.
Mama stared at Mr Muller. ‘How long have you been friends?’ she hissed. ‘How much has my husband done for you?’
Mr Muller held his hands out in a helpless shrug. ‘We don’t make the rules, Mrs Grunberg,’ he said, as formal as a police officer. ‘But we have to take him now.’
Papa turned to the men. ‘Just give me five minutes.’
The men looked at each other. Then Mr Weber nodded. ‘Five minutes. We’ll be in the hall.’
The second they left, Mama ran to Papa. He wrapped his arms around her, beckoning me to join them. The three of us stood huddled together in silence for a few moments in the middle of the kitchen. I wanted to stop time, turn those five minutes into forever.
Papa pulled away eventually. He knelt down and cupped my chin in his hand. ‘I’m going so I can keep you safe,’ he said. ‘You heard them. If they have me, they will leave you and Mama alone.’
‘But what if they don’t?’ I asked. ‘What if they come for us too?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s me they want. You are the man of the house now. You look after your mother. You do everything you can to help her. You hear me? You promise me?’
‘Yes, Papa. Of course I promise.’
He pulled me in for one last hug before standing up again. He spoke quickly, in a low, rough voice. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time. I wasn’t going to talk to you about this till I had good news, but it’s too late for that now. You have to take over from me.’
‘Take over what?’ Mama whispered back.
‘Arrangements for getting out of the country. I’ve been looking into it and you must continue my work and get away from here.’
‘What? You want us to leave our city, our home? Without you?’