A blond boy, maybe twelve years of age, clutched a pamphlet tightly in his hand as he rushed down a dirt road toward home. He hopped over an old wooden fence and hurried through a field in a desperate attempt to catch up with his brother who, being the more athletic of the two, had left him in the dust at the sound of the school bell.
“Hallo, Gunther.” An old man waved to the boy as he fled past.
“Hallo, Herr Petersen.” Gunther waved back.
He reached the other side of the field, went right over the fence, and back onto the streets, but then began to slow his pace. It was difficult to keep up such a speed for so long; Luther had outrun him again. His run became a jog, his jog became a walk, and his walk became a shuffle. He covered his eyes as he passed the corner drugstore where, about a year prior, the owner had placed an anti-Bolshevik poster in the window with a strange illustration on it. Gunther could hardly remember what the caption was—something like “So ist das Sowjetparadies”—but recalled vividly the image of an emaciated caricature with a contorted expression, deep hollow eyes, and a trickle of blood escaping its mouth. He wasn’t entirely clear on what a Bolshevik was, but he knew not to like them, and he didn’t like looking at the picture even in the daylight.
He was almost home. He had regained some wind and had better paced himself for this last leg of the journey. His family lived in a dense but small village, and it always felt very isolated in Gunther’s opinion; it was a humble cluster of homes surrounded by a sea of derelict farmlands. Their residence, like many others, was packed tightly between two neighbors: The Mohns, whom he didn’t care for much, and the Müllers who had a son, Jens, of whom Gunther was tremendously fond. Jens was two years older, but had always treated him like an equal—more of an equal than Gunther’s own twin brother ever did.
Upon arriving home, he submerged himself all evening in the pamphlet, reading and re-reading line after line, and just before suppertime, Gunther’s father requested he read aloud the closing verse:
“Those words it was that first awakened us,
From dull brooding, hollow death —
We can no longer perish,
A light burns for us in the night!”
Luther scoffed at Gunther’s enthusiasm. “You just want to join since I did.”
Gunther balked at this, but their father interjected, “Well, I think it’s a fine idea. Gunther, I’m glad to see you actually showing some initiative.”
“This is stupid,” shouted Luther. “Every time I do anything, he has to tag along.”
Their mother joined in as she set dinner on the table, “Bayerischer Mit Spargel,” she called.
“Hm,” Luther mumbled, “Gunther’s favorite, of course.” He climbed to his feet and moved to the table. Gunther followed humbly behind, bringing the pamphlet with him.
“Gunther, please say the prayer,” his mother instructed to his surprise. It was something of a rarity that he, with his unassuming character, was ever asked to do anything of the sort. He cleared his throat—he had already pushed himself by reading the pamphlet, but he did his best. “Father, bless this meal, for our strengthening and to your praise. Help us, God, today and at all times, make us prepared for… eternity.”
He had never liked the concept of eternity, and shuddered at the word. The idea of living forever, in God’s graces or otherwise, wasn’t a comforting notion, but that was how the prayer went.
“God bless Germany, and God bless the Führer,” added his Father.
Everyone began to eat while Gunther picked nervously at his veal rather than diving right in as would have been typical for him. He felt dejected, as was often the case, by his brother’s comments. He looked across the table as Luther eyed some asparagus with great skepticism. To an observer, watching the two of them might have been like seeing double, but Gunther was perfectly able to pick out the negligible differences between himself and Luther only their parents might notice. Meanwhile, Luther simply insisted he and Gunther looked nothing alike at all, scorning the very notion.
Eventually, Luther noticed he was being watched and reacted with a kick to Gunther’s shin.
“Ouch! Mom,” squealed Gunther. “He kicked me.”
“You’re such a baby,” said Luther. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds in the Hitlerjugend.”
“Luther,” their mother chastised him. “Leave your brother alone.”
“But you’re gonna let him do it. You’re gonna let him do it and he’s gonna tag along with me and he’s gonna embarrass—”
“I will not,” Gunther insisted. On a normal day, he would sit and suffer silently through Luther’s torments, but for some reason, he felt aggressive, and Luther wasn’t backing down.
“—I’m gonna be the kid with the schwul running arou—”
“That’s enough,” their father shouted. “Luther, go to your room.”
Luther furiously pushed away from the table and stormed off without a word. Their father turned to their mother. “Where the hell did he learn a word like that?”
Gunther stared down at his plate, looking pathetic.
“And you stop being such a baby,” his father added.
“Yes, Father,” Gunther replied.
Silence fell over the table; the only sounds were the clinking of utensils as the three worked on their meals. After a few minutes, their father spoke up once more, “You’re going to learn real skills, real survival techniques, and you’re going to learn how to be a proud German citizen in the HJ.”
Gunther nodded. It had all been a ruse; his fate had already been decided, and feigning excitement was all he could do. If he lied to himself long enough, maybe even he would believe the pamphlet—maybe the HJ wouldn’t be so bad.
The next day—Sunday—his mood deteriorated as a result of the cold scorn he had received from his brother the remainder of the previous night and all morning as they prepared for church. Gunther’s family always seemed to wind up in the same spot in the pews—never too close to the front, never rudely far back—always right in the middle and close to the aisle. Today, Gunther was on the outside. He hardly listened during the usual speeches and prayers, and instead counted the minutes as he waited for the service to end. Then someone caught his eye as he looked over his shoulder.
It was Jens, across the aisle and back two rows. Jens made an exaggerated expression, betraying his own boredom, and then pantomimed blowing his brains out using his fingers as a gun. Gunther snickered quietly and was promptly whacked in the arm by his brother. He turned his attention back to the sermon.
Jens was tall and gawky, but outgoing and well-liked around town by everyone. Gunther, not being terribly popular, felt fortunate he had a next door neighbor of such notoriety; Jens served as a buffer of sorts between Gunther and the teenage bullies. He recalled an afternoon earlier that spring when he was too afraid to try a cigarette some of the older boys had found. They’d mocked him mercilessly until Jens shut them up with an issue of Reine Luft, convincing them within minutes that not only would they all die of cancer, but it was decidedly un-German to smoke. If anyone other than Jens had tried that, they’d have been laughed out of town. He had a way with people, and always seemed to be aware of some big secret far before anyone else was—even the adults. Nobody could pull one over on him.
Before too long, church ended and the families began to filter outside. Gunther took extra care to make sure he wound up beside Jens as the crowd squeezed down the aisle.
“That was unbearable,” Jens whispered.
“Yeah,” Gunther replied. He often didn’t know what to say to Jens; he always wanted to be clever, but that was not his strong suit. Oddly, Jens always laughed at his jokes, and so he tried one, “I wasn’t sure eternity would last long enough for him to finish.”
It met with success; Jens smiled and laughed, and whether he really thought it was funny or not, it was still genuine.
As the two finally made it outside into the bright, late morning sun, Gunther’s father patted Jens on the shoulder. “You staying outta trouble?”
“Always, Herr Gruenwold.”
“Good,” he replied. “You know, Gunther is starting up with the HJ later this week.”
“Yeah?” asked Jens, with a glance at Gunther. He anticipated what the man’s instructions might be. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” Jens threw up his right hand in salute. “Heil Hitler!”
Gunther’s father returned the gesture, “Heil Hitler,” before moving on to mingle with the crowd.
Jens mumbled quietly to Gunther, “Heal Hitler? Why? Is he sick?” playing off the similarities between the words.
Gunther laughed, but stopped when Luther whacked Jens in the arm. “Don’t be stupid,” he said as he walked past.
Jens pursed his lips.
“He’s being a bastard,” Gunther murmured.
“Nah,” Jens replied. “He’s right. I could probably get my ass kicked for saying something like that.” He turned to Gunther. “So, you’re gonna do it?”
“I guess so, yeah,” said Gunther. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Has Luther been trying to scare you out of it? It’s just the boy scouts, plus a bunch of Nazi stuff. You can handle it.”
“He doesn’t want me around, I guess.” Gunther slumped a little. He and his brother had never had a perfect relationship, but he had been acting unusually hostile toward him in the last year or so, and Gunther couldn’t peg a reason why.
“He’ll get over it,” Jens replied, seeming to read Gunther’s thoughts. “This sort of thing happens. A few years ago—before my cousin Manfred moved to America—he just stopped talking to me one day….” He started to trail off.
“At least you don’t have to share a bedroom.”
“True.” He smiled at Gunther, trying to cheer him up, and then began to run. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
The two hurried down the street.
The pair had met at church three years prior, when the parish met after mass to discuss the newly-passed Nuremberg Laws. Gunther was nine, Jens eleven, and the two had been left in the nave to play with some other boys. One of them thought it would be funny, for no real reason at all, to try and spit on Gunther from several pews away. After a few failed attempts, with Gunther doing his best to avoid it, another boy crept up behind him and let a huge wad of saliva drop on Gunther’s head. Shocked and disgusted, Gunther might have cried were it not for Jens who, at some point, had visited the church’s stoup.
Jens tapped the shoulder of the boy above Gunther and made a muffled sound, “Mhrm.”
He looked over just as Jens spat a mouthful of Holy Water onto his face with such force, the boy toppled backward. He did cry, and Gunther laughed.
Jens was always sticking up for Gunther, and no matter how awkward or embarrassing he acted, Jens never seemed to notice or care. He didn’t even laugh when Gunther told him about being afraid of the Bolshevik poster at the drugstore. Instead, whenever they passed by, Jens would distract and captivate Gunther with conversation until they were safely out of its sight. When they were alone, he’d talk about music: often about swing and, to a lesser extent, jazz, both of which were decidedly non-German things. Bad influences. When they were in public or around adults, Jens was careful to discuss tough-sounding, nationalistic things like how he wanted to be a soldier or how much he admired the Führer’s strength and conviction.
That was how conversation went that evening; Jens and his family came over for Sunday dinner, and Jens, being the oldest child present, was the focus of what little attention the adults gave the children. Gunther sat quietly as Jens effortlessly kept them placated with his stories of learning to use a Karabiner 98 Kurz just like soldiers in the Wehrmacht, going to Nuremburg for rallies, and so on. Gunther’s father proclaimed proudly at one point, “Children are the future of Germany. They shall be the ones to realize the dreams of the Führer. Gunther, Luther, you both could learn a lot from this fine young man.”
The brothers nodded politely, but afterward, nearly imperceptibly, Jens rolled his eyes at Gunther.
That night, as Gunther lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he wondered what it would be like to go to Nuremberg, or Munich, or Berlin—those big cities that seemed so unbelievably far away. He wondered if he’d have to learn to use a gun like Jens had. He didn’t really want to do that. He didn’t want to join the HJ at all….
“It’s dangerous, Gunther.”
His attention was pulled to his brother, who lay in the bed next to his.
“What?” he asked, surprised Luther was speaking to him again.
“How long do you think you can hide it from everyone? What do you think’s going to happen to you when somebody finds out?” Luther asked.
He wasn’t sure what to say.
“Mother and Father don’t know, but I do. I know.”
“… What are you talking about?”
“Gunther,” Luther replied harshly. “It’s obvious, and it’s gonna get you or him in a lot of trouble.”
He shifted nervously. “You’re being weird.”
“Gunthe—”
“Leave me alone.” Gunther turned away and shut his eyes, forcing the world to disappear. The last sound he heard before sleep was a heavy sigh from his brother.
* * *
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