“No problem, Schatz. Over.”
Johann was nearly bursting with pride as he stood in front of the Staffelkapitän’s office after the mission was successfully finished.
“I told you that Fähnrich von Sielaff can be a great wingman. He just needed a good flight leader to follow.”
“We’ll see,” the Oberleutnant replied with an odd expression about him.
“You’re still assigning us to each other, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am,” he replied, rubbing his forehead in a tired manner. “No one else wants to fly with him anyway.”
NINE
NPEA Berlin-Spandau (Napola School). September 1940
Harald Brandt raised his gaze to the blackboard, on which the major points of his future essay were enumerated by an instructor. The latter sat at his desk, his back rigid and straight, his hawkish gaze trained on the class in front of him. He would have been exceedingly handsome had his face not been marred early on by cruelty which twisted his full, smiling lips into an unyielding line; bleached his cornflower eyes into two frozen pools of glacial indifference and seeped into each joint and bone of his, it seemed, hardening them together with his heart. A faultless Teutonic Knight, precisely the way Der Führer liked them. They didn’t have any other sort of instructors at the Napola.
Despite having to spring out of his bed at the very first sounds of a trumpet at 5.45 am every morning, Harald loved his new school. So, it wasn’t his Mutti who used to wake him up with a gentle kiss on the temple and who didn’t mind if he sleepily begged for another five minutes in bed, but he was not a little boy anymore. He was a future leader of a Thousand Year Reich◦– an idea which every instructor drilled on a daily basis with such relentless obstinacy into their little heads that Harald eventually grew to accept it. To be sure, they were still children, the youngest Napola cadets; however, there was something fundamentally different in the way they were treated. They were allowed to demand explanations from the adults concerning just about anything◦– and why precisely don’t you have a portrait of our Führer hanging in your store, Herr Vogel? And God help those who lacked the sense to apologize at once and promise to fix such an overlooking within the next few days. Very well. I’ll come back and check, while scribbling in his small black notebook. I already have your name and the address of your business.
To Harald’s question as to why no one chased them away as they would have done in his native town, one of the older boys squared his shoulders in response and jerked his thumb over his back, with a conceited look about him.
“See those two plain-clothed fellows loitering on the corner? That’s why.”
“Are they some sort of authority?”
“The Gestapo,” in an awed and excited whisper of a boy talking about a bloodthirsty cannibal from a geography book.
It certainly was pleasing for one’s ego to feel so powerful. Privileged. Bowed at, even at such an early age. Even if there was a minuscule sliver of doubt that would claw its way from under the heap of indoctrination and sound a barely audible alarm in that little blond head of his, Harald’s kind instructors were always there to squash it under their polished boot and turn confusion into crystal clarity at once.
Why did some citizens shy away from them, Napola cadets, as though they carried a leprosy bell in place of their service dagger?◦– Those citizens have something to hide and you must watch them carefully or, better off, report them to your superiors at once. Loyal Germans have nothing to fear from us and therefore they salute us with pride instead of lowering their gaze to the ground.
Why did Catholic priests watch them with such unmasked horror in their eyes, as they, the cadets, proudly marched in front of their church◦– “coincidentally” always during Mass hours◦– and pleaded with their leaders vainly trying to out-scream the rhythm of the drums and bellowing of the trumpets; “you are corrupting our youth! You’re turning them into soulless savages!”◦– Soulless savages are the Bolsheviks; they refused their God. We still honor ours, with eyes, invariably raised toward the portrait of Der Führer. Harald never uttered the question but he had the most profound conviction that God and Der Führer somehow morphed into the same thing◦– under the Napola’s roof at least.
Yes, despite the fleeting doubts, Harald loved his new school.
The classes were most interesting too; a week ago, for instance, the cadets were instructed to outline a small genealogical tree.
“Only your closest relatives.” The instructors smiled kindly.
Harald drew each “leaf” diligently◦– here’s him, here’s Johann, here’s Mother and Father, here’s Father’s Father and his wife, Sabine, Harald’s Oma. Three other names next to his Father’s names◦– his aunts and an uncle... He never stumbled over a single name. It was an easy task, considering; after all, they all had to submit the same tree together with their entrance application, dating all the way back to the year 1750.
Today, the task was just as creative; to write an essay about each and every living family member they listed, according to the instructions drawn on the blackboard in an exemplary cursive.
Name of the relative.
Relation.
Age.
Occupation/military rank.
Marital status.
Number of children.
Membership in the Party.
Favorite book.
Imagine that you asked them about our Führer’s international policy. What would they most likely answer? Write in the form of a dialogue.
With a fond grin, Harald dipped his pen in ink and started carefully writing.
“My only brother’s name is Johannes Brandt. He’s a fighter pilot in the Luftwaffe. He’s only twenty years old but he’s already an ace, with thirty-four victories under his belt. He was recently awarded an Iron Cross First Class and promoted to Leutnant, of which I’m very proud. He’s engaged to Wilhelmina von Sielaff, to be married later this year when he gets his leave. She’s a member of the BDM and even had the honor to lead a BDM parade during Der Führer’s birthday two years ago. My brother is not a member of the Party. He has a lot of favorite books as he’s quite fond of reading, but most of all he likes…”
“All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque, Harald meant to write but felt his hand faltering when he remembered that the book had been officially banned. Johann promised to give him a copy to read once he got older as he wouldn’t understand it at twelve.
“Cadet Brandt.”
Harald’s head shot up at once. The SS instructor’s gaze was boring into him, frighteningly penetrating.
“Don’t overthink your replies. Write the truth only. Truth doesn’t need any mulling over since you know exactly what to write. Now get to it.”
“Jawohl, Herr Untersturmführer.”
After a split second of hesitation, he started scribbling enthusiastically.
“…most of all he likes ‘Mein Kampf’ written by our Führer, Adolf Hitler. He always carries a copy on him and he’s told me on numerous occasions that he reads his favorite passages in-between missions as they inspire him immensely. He promised to give me my own copy for my birthday this year as I’ll be old enough to understand it. I’m very much looking forward to it.