Volk

by Piers Anthony

  Uncle Karl calmed himself, turning to a more positive subject. “But Adolf Hitler changed all that. He stabilized the currency, reduced unemployment, brought law and order and restored pride to us. He made the Volk respectable again. He made the French return the Saarland. He rearmed us, and there was nothing the French or the British could do. He made Austria part of Germany, as it should have been long ago. Austria wanted to unite with us, but the Allies prevented it from pure spite. They wanted us to suffer! And now, soon, Czechoslovakia—”

  “Czechoslovakia?” Herr Best inquired, as if he didn’t catch the drift. Ernst smiled privately; his father kept a low profile, politically, but he knew precisely what was going on. He had probably known about the Czech situation long before it had come to Uncle Karl’s attention.

  “There are millions of good Germans settled in the Czech Sudeten,” Karl assured him. “They are mistreated there, under foreign rule. There have been riots. They must be permitted to rejoin the Fatherland, and Germany itself must have Lebensraum, room to live. It is only right.”

  And there was a potent term, Ernst thought. Lebensraum was part of Hitler’s Blut und Boden vocabulary: blood and soil. It suggested that the members of fittest races had to establish a link of blood to the soil they worked, and extend their territory to the regions governed by weaker races in order to gain more soil for the superior blood. The strong needed room to live.

  “Indeed so,” Herr Best agreed. But he was understandably sober. “We do not operate in a political vacuum, internationally. If such unification should provoke war—”

  “Then it will be a righteous war! Besides, Germany is strong, now. No more will the French intrude on our soil with impunity.”

  Ernst was listening, but his eye was wandering over the familiar yet newly strange scenery beyond the road. He noted the new buildings and reduced vegetation. He had traveled through here when in the Hitler Youth.

  “And what is your opinion, Ernst?” Karl inquired suddenly.

  “I prefer not to express opinions on matters which are beyond my competence,” Ernst said carefully.

  “Then express one on a matter within your competence,” his uncle said. “Demonstrate the manner your mind is maturing.” It was a challenge. Karl had never said so directly, but had always managed to convey the impression that Herr Best was a relative nonentity, and his son another.

  Ernst glanced at his father, who looked away. It was time for Ernst to perform for his fiery uncle, and take the consequences. If his sojourn in America had corrupted him, Karl would make him pay.

  He remembered the game of Truth he had played with his American friend Lane and Lane’s Quaker Liebling. This was like another episode of that. He could make of it what he chose.

  “This region reminds me of my experience in the Hitler Youth,” he said. “I traveled this road then. I joined at age fifteen, when the program was rapidly expanding, and I enjoyed it and believe I did well. Today boys may join at ten, serving four years in the Jungvolk, the junior division, then four more in the senior division, Hitler Jugend, which we called HJ. I was too early, so lacked those first four years; I simply crossed over from one of the other youth programs.”

  “Which makes you exactly like every other boy in Germany,” Karl said. The implication was that Ernst had no mind of his own. But to deny it would be a trap. How could he differ from the patriotic support of his country?

  Seeing the trap was tantamount to avoiding it. But he wanted to do more than that; he wanted to set his uncle back a step, to teach him some respect—without ever expressing any disrespect. There was the true challenge. So he allowed himself to walk further into the trap, seemingly.

  “Perhaps so,” he agreed. “There was no social pressure put on me to join; I simply liked the uniform and the programs and the camaraderie and the approval of my family. My father, working in the government, was a Nazi Party member, and of higher social status than that of the families in my neighborhood, which sometimes made for awkwardness. But in the HJ there were boys from all classes, and there were no social distinctions. In that framework, I could have any friends I wanted, including some my family might otherwise frown upon.” He glanced again at his father, who continued to fix his gaze elsewhere. “All of us were united in HJ in patriotism, and excitement. We camped out, we ate well, we marched in parades, we rode horses, paddled inflated rafts across wild rivers—well, flowing streams—rowed boats, motorcycled, climbed mountains, threw dummy hand grenades, flew gliders, and indulged in many sports. We boxed, participating in tournaments, winning prizes, developing ourselves physically. We sang, both patriotically and just for fun. We loved every bit of it.”

  “Completely ordinary,” Karl said. “No individual character at all.”

  “Completely,” Ernst agreed. “Except in the approved manner. We had an enhanced sense of responsibility and dedication. For the Hitler Youth in my day was run by youths rather than by adults. Here, boys were no longer subservient to teachers; we were not confined to prisonlike buildings. Boys were supreme! There was an exuberance about that which was almost intoxicating. This was an escape from narrowness, and it was associated with something vital and important. This was the uplifting spirit. Here were—the Volk.”

  “The Volk!” Karl echoed, agreeing. He had used the word himself.

  “What spirit is associated with that term!” Ernst continued. “It stands for the racially and spiritually pure and fit, the young strength and hope of the nation. In the World War we Germans lost partly because we had been deceived and betrayed by the Allies and Jews and Communists, and partly because we had not been strong. Not strong enough to withstand the kicks of the whole world. But this time our youth is being brought to its full potential, to be absolutely superior to all others. Other nations may let their youth lie fallow, to grow up into weaklings. I have seen it in America: few are strong. One in a hundred, a thousand.” He thought of Lane Dowling, indeed one in a thousand. “Most Americans never approach their potential, lacking any program to bring them up to it. But here in Germany we know that a physically healthy human being with courage is more valuable than any weakling, regardless how intelligent that weakling may think himself. The Volk are strong, and I am proud to be one of them.”

  Karl eyed him appraisingly. He could not argue with this thesis without seeming false to the Fatherland, and he could not object to Ernst’s attitude on the grounds of conformity. Ernst was conforming in the most patriotic possible manner. Herr Best was still gazing away, but smiling. He knew that Ernst had backed Karl off. That was a significant family event.

  Then Karl changed the subject, which was his way of conceding the issue. “And what of the girls?”

  “I did not go to America to socialize, I went to learn the best of what they had to offer.” But now he thought of Lane’s fiancée, Quality Smith. On the surface a typically decadent college creature. But she was not. She was another in a thousand, intriguing in surprising ways.

  “Wait until you see the Mädchen,” Karl said smugly. “Remember that spindly neighbor’s girl Krista?”

  Krista. Ernst concentrated, remembering. She had been fourteen, perhaps fifteen, in the BDM, Bund Deustcher Mädchen, the League of German Girls within the Hitler Youth. He had seen a lot of her because her house was adjacent and her main entertainment had been to tag along after him. Her family had not kept close enough watch on her. She had stringy yellow hair, freckles, a turned-up nose and awkward limbs.

  But Krista, despite her inadequacies, had believed in the Aryan ideal. She had been convinced that proper living and proper effort would transform her, too, into a superior creature. She had had faith, determination, and precious little else.

  “I remember,” Ernst said.

  Uncle Karl grinned. “You have an experience coming. She is most eager to see you again.”

  “All in good time,” Ernst murmured, aware that he was the object of some sort of joke. Had Krista become an amazon? That was hard to imagine.

&
nbsp; At last they drew up to the house. This was a fine big mansion, stone-fronted, surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns and hedges. Ernst had lived here four years, between Herr Best’s Spanish and American assignments. Two of those years his father had been away on duty in Japan; the family had felt it better for Ernst to remain in civilized Germany during this important segment of his education. Thus he had had four full years in the Fatherland, and he remained grateful. It was not that he had disliked his time in Spain or America—those had in fact been rewarding years, and he had been sorry to part with his friends in those places—but he had friends here too, and continuity was important.

  But now he had no time for reflection. They were swept up in the rush of moving in. Several of the old servants remained, and all had to be individually greeted by each member of the returning family. Ernst more or less turned off his mind and engaged in the necessary ritual.

  • • •

  Ernst had hoped to renew his acquaintance with his friends, particularly his peers of the Hitler Youth, but he was disappointed. Most of them were gone. The fittest had joined the Wehrmacht , the army; others had gone into Party service. The rest had found employment in the booming economy. There was virtually no one to talk to. What a change two years had made!

  Then Krista showed up, as Uncle Karl had warned she would. Ernst did not at first recognize her. She had been gangling at fifteen; now she was voluptuous at seventeen, with hair that glistened like that of a harvest goddess, and startlingly blue eyes. Her freckles had abated, and her nose had assumed esthetic proportions, enhancing her facial features. In fact, she was little short of stunning.

  They sat in the receiving room, decorously, and talked, for Herr Best tolerated no impropriety between the sexes. In this he was in exact accord with the stricture of the Hitler Youth. Ernst, having seen the way it was in America, now found the German system constrictive. But in due course he would be on his own; then he would see. Here, he obeyed the rules of the house. He watched while the maid delivered innocuous refreshments and retreated.

  Ernst had expected conversation to be strained, for he had not really wanted to encounter the girl so soon. But Krista was charged with news and excitement, and she carried the dialogue forward at the pace of a bubbling brook.

  “Oh, Ernst, you are as handsome as ever! How was it in America? Have you forgotten how to speak German? How do you like me now?” And she inhaled, turning her profile to advantage. How well she knew what she had become, a strikingly beautiful young woman. Ernst was reminded of Lane, again, who had by his own confession been a weakling in youth, but transformed into a very fine figure of a man. Krista had certainly transformed. Maybe there was more to positive living than Ernst had supposed; more likely Krista had been fated to blossom at this time regardless of her beliefs or actions.

  “I miss the Hitler Youth,” Ernst said, avoiding her challenge for a compliment. She had become a forward girl, and that was not ideal.

  “I’m in the BDM,” she said quickly. “I’m a group leader, same as you were. We may demonstrate in Nuremberg next month.”

  “The Nuremberg rally,” he said, remembering. “How well I recall that!”

  “Yes, you were there,” she agreed brightly. “Tell me how it was.”

  She was playing up to him deliberately, pretending a greater interest than she felt, in order to flatter him. Ernst was aware of this, and was accordingly flattered. His prior image of her was fading under the onslaught of present reality. She was one radiantly attractive girl, and the force of her prettiness was almost tangible. But he was wary of such attention. Why should this newly-bloomed creature be so fascinated with him, after two years separation? He preferred to ascertain her true motive before accepting her interest at face value. So he temporized. “How do you feel about the Youth? I mean, of course everyone attends until age eighteen, but do you really like it?”

  “Of course I like it!” she exclaimed defensively.

  What else would she say? To criticize the Führer’s youth program would be unpatriotic. Yet sometimes expressed patriotism could mask a fundamental dissatisfaction with the system. Ernst had always understood that; his father’s employment had made him canny about the ways of covert and overt belief. Part of the reason he had succeeded so well with his youth group was his comprehension of the motives of individuals. He had acted quietly to get the incorrigibles and incompetents transferred to other units, and had concentrated on the wavering cases that had most promise. In due course he had brought them to full belief and acceptance, so that they worked wholeheartedly for the benefit of the group. Ernst’s troop had become one of the most disciplined and responsive, a model, and the rewards had been gratifying. They had made public demonstrations, and in the end had been selected to march at Nuremberg: an honor that brought lasting pride to every member.

  Now he applied his subtle skill to Krista. “I liked it too. But the horses were better than Mein Kampf.”

  “The horses!” she agreed joyfully. Of course a healthy girl liked to ride. But there was also the tacit confession that she had not been interested in the Führer’s autobiography. The truth was, few youths were. Ernst himself had read it and found it fascinating— but that was because he had special interest. He was the only one he knew who had honestly gotten through it. The other boys, if they read at all, had much preferred the heroic sagas of Karl May, and Krista surely was no exception. Her body had changed remarkably in two years, but her mind had remained more constant. Copies of Mein Kampf were abundant—it was perhaps the most widely distributed book in Germany—and they remained clean and neat because they received almost no attention. This girl was probably a minimal reader; she read only what she had to, to set an example and qualify for a position of leadership.

  “And the ghost stories were better than the propaganda,” he added.

  “They still are,” she agreed. Then she picked up the significance and affected shock. “Propaganda?”

  “Do not be naive,” he cautioned her. “Propaganda is not a bad word. All countries use it. In America the people are conditioned to believe in the saintliness of Roosevelt and the sanctity of the rights of all citizens, even the Negroids and the Jews.”

  “The Jews!”

  “And what is wrong with the Jews?” he asked, smiling.

  She was so confused she splattered. “How can you—”

  Ernst laughed. “All I am doing is telling you how it is in decadent America. They have almost no concept of racial purity, of Volk. They take pride in being a melting pot of races.”

  “What do they know,” she said, relieved. “You shouldn’t tease me so.”

  “Pretty girls are meant to be teased.” Actually he had been trying to draw her out, to provoke her, to verify what she was now made of, so that he could come to a conclusion whether she was worthwhile to know. Ernst certainly appreciated the physical appeal, but that was superficial, like the shine on a car. More important were the fundamental attributes of personality and intellect. In addition, he was interested in exploring the currently prevailing attitude on race, for he suspected racism had been intensifying here while he had been exposed to the far more liberal attitudes of the Americans. He could make a fool of himself in Germany if he misjudged the political climate; he preferred to play it safe.

  Krista, meanwhile, was blushing, pleased at the compliment. She had worked so hard for such a harvest! But she could not refer to it directly, so she continued the other subject. “So you did not associate with Jews, there?”

  “I met some. I was on a college wrestling team, and one of my matches was against a Jew.” Actually, a teammate had been Jewish, but Ernst deemed it inexpedient to advertise that here. “I must confess he was a strong man; he looked almost Nordic, and he fought fair. I would not have known his origin, had he not told me.”

  “And you touched him?”

  Ernst laughed again. “It is difficult to win a wrestling match without touching your opponent! Jews are after all people, even as we ar
e. It can be hard to blame them for the unfortunate accident of their birth. This one’s grandfather was a Jew; he himself did not follow their abominable religion.” Even here he was skating on thin ice, for he was not at all sure there was anything inherently abominable about the Jewish religious ritual. Was it really so different, fundamentally, from the ceremonies of Roman Catholicism? Obviously the Jews and Catholics thought so, but Ernst himself was disinterested in the various forms of religion. He believed in God, but was uncertain which forms of worship God actually favored.

  “A Jew is a Jew, to the sixth generation,” she said grimly. Tainted blood was extremely potent; a tiny drop of it could ruin an otherwise excellent Aryan.

  “True. Yet in America it is different. Their discrimination is very subtle. Their Jews can intermarry freely with others. Some hold responsible positions; some are honored in politics or industry. To many Americans, what they term racism is a worse offense than being Jewish.”

  “You must be glad to be home!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, of course—but not for that reason. If I were to live in America all of the time, I would probably come to feel as they do, to accept Jews as part of the society. Jews are people too, after all.”

  “Are you testing me?” she demanded, growing worried and angry.

  He was, but not in the way she thought. He was verifying her horizons, which seemed not to have expanded as adequately as had her body. “Perhaps I am merely verifying my own beliefs,” he said carefully. “I did not object to Jews at first. It was only after I read Mein Kampf that I realized their nature. How they infiltrate quietly into society, like worms in fresh apples. How they pretend allegiance, but actually conspire to hurt decent folk and dominate the world. Even now I concede that some Jews could be good people. But they are indelibly tainted by their blood and their heritage. A tame python might be a worthwhile pet, but it re