The Storyteller (19 page)

I heard hoofbeats, and then felt the cold air on the back of my neck, felt the absence of pressure and pain. Like a great, winged bird, something swooped down from above and called my name. That was the last thing I remembered, because when I opened my eyes, I was in Damian’s arms, and he was carrying me home.

The door opened, and Aleks stood inside. “What happened?” he asked, his eyes flying to mine.

“She was attacked,” Damian answered. “She needs a surgeon.”

“She needs me,” Aleks said, and he took me from Damian’s arms into his own. I cried out as I was jostled between them, as Aleks slammed the door closed with his boot.

He carried me into my bedroom. As he lay me down, I saw all the blood on his shirt, and my head began to swim. “Ssh,” he soothed, turning my head so that he could see the wound.

I thought he was going to faint. “Is it bad?”

“No,” he said, but I knew he was lying. “I just can’t bear the sight of blood.”

He left me for a few minutes, promising to return, and when he did, he had a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of whiskey. The last he held up to my lips. “Drink,” he commanded, and I tried, but found myself coughing violently. “More,” he said.

Eventually, when the fire in my throat had turned into a glow in my belly, he began to wash my neck and then spilled whiskey over the open gash. I nearly came out of my skin. “Let go,” he said. “It will be better that way.”

I did not understand what he meant until I saw him threading the needle and realized what he was going to do. As he pierced the hollow of my throat, I blacked out.

It was late in the afternoon when I awakened again. Aleks sat in the chair beside my bed, his hands steepled before him, as if in prayer. When he saw me stirring, a visible relief washed over his features.

His hand on my forehead was warm. He stroked my cheek, my hair. “If you wanted my attention,” Aleks said, “all you had to do was ask.”

JOSEF

My brother used to beg for a dog, when we were little. Our neighbors had one—some sort of retriever—and he would spend hours in their yard teaching it to roll over, to sit, to speak. But my father was bothered by pet dander, and because of this, I knew that no matter how hard Franz pleaded, he wasn’t going to get his wish.

One autumn night when I was maybe ten years old and asleep in the room I shared with Franz, I heard whispering. I woke to find my brother sitting up in bed, with a small hunk of cheese on the covers between his legs. Nibbling on the cheese was a tiny field mouse, and as I watched, my brother stroked the fur on its back.

Now mind you, my mother did not keep the kind of house that attracts vermin. She was always scrubbing the floor or dusting or what have you. The next day, I found my mother stripping the sheets off our beds, even though it was not laundry day. “Those filthy, dirty mice—as soon as it gets cold outside, they try to find a way in. I found droppings,” she told me, shuddering. “Tomorrow on your way home from school, you will buy some traps.”

I thought of Franz. “You want to kill them?”

My mother looked at me strangely. “What else should we do with pests?”

That night before we went to sleep, Franz took another sliver of
cheese he had stolen from the kitchen and put it down beside him on the bed. “I am going to name him Ernst,” Franz told me.

“How do you know he’s not an Erma?”

But Franz didn’t answer, and before long, he was asleep.

On the other hand, I stayed awake. I listened carefully till I heard the scratch of tiny claws on the wood floor and watched, in the moonlight, as the mouse scrambled up the blanket to get the cheese Franz had left. Before it could succeed, however, I grabbed the mouse and smacked it against the wall in one quick motion.

The noise woke up Franz, who started crying when he saw his pet dead on the floor.

I am sure the mouse didn’t feel anything. After all, it was only a mouse. Plus my mother had made it very clear what should be done with such a creature.

I was just doing what she would have, eventually.

I was only following orders.

 • • • 

I don’t know if I can explain how it felt to suddenly be the golden child. It is true, my parents didn’t have much to say about Hitler and the politics of Germany, but they were proud when Herr Sollemach held me up as the benchmark for all other boys in our little
Kameradschaft
. They didn’t complain about my marks as much, because instead I would come home every weekend with winners’ ribbons and praise from Herr Sollemach.

To be honest, I do not know if my parents believed in the Nazi philosophy. My father could not have fought for Germany even if he wanted; he had a gammy leg from a sledding injury when he was a child. And if my parents had their doubts about Hitler’s vision for Germany, they appreciated his optimism and the hope that our country could regain its greatness. Still, having me as Herr
Sollemach’s favorite did nothing but help their status in the community. They were the fine Germans who had produced a boy like me. No nosy neighbor was going to comment on the fact that my father had not enlisted, not with me as the star representative of the local HJ.

Every Friday night, I ate dinner at Herr Sollemach’s house. I brought flowers for his daughter, and one summer evening when I was sixteen, I lost my virginity to her on an old horse blanket in a cornfield. Herr Sollemach took to calling me
Sohn,
as if I were already a member of his family. And shortly before my seventeenth birthday, he recommended me for the HJ-Streifendienst. These were patrol force units within the Hitler-Jugend. Our job was to keep order at meetings, to report disloyalty, and to denounce anyone who spoke ill of Hitler—even, in some cases, our own parents. I had heard of a boy, Walter Hess, who turned his own father in to the Gestapo.

It is funny, the Nazis did not like religion, but that is the closest analogy I can use to describe the indoctrination we had as children. Organized religion, to the Third Reich, was in direct competition with serving Germany, for who could pledge an equal allegiance to both the Führer
and
God? Instead of celebrating Christmas, for example, they celebrated the Winter Solstice. However, no child really chooses his religion; it is just the luck of the draw which blanket of beliefs you are wrapped in. When you are too young to think for yourself, you are baptized and taken to church and droned at by a priest and told that Jesus died for your sins, and since your parents nod and say this is true, why should you not believe them? Much the same was the message we were given by Herr Sollemach and the others who taught us.
What is bad is harmful,
we were told.
What is good is useful.
It truly was that simple. When our teachers would put a caricature of a Jew on the board for us to see, pointing at the traits that were associated with inferior species, we trusted them. They were our elders, surely they knew best? Which child does not
want his country to be the best, the biggest, the strongest in the world?

One day Herr Sollemach took our
Kameradschaft
on a special trip. Instead of marching out of town, like we did on many of our hikes, Herr Sollemach walked us up the short road that led to Wewelsburg Castle, the one that Heinrich Himmler himself had requisitioned for SS ceremonial headquarters.

We all knew the castle, of course, we’d grown up with it. Its three towers shielded a triangular courtyard, perched high on a rock above the Alme valley; it was part of our local history lessons. But none of us had been inside since the SS began its reconstruction. Now, it was no longer a place to play football in the courtyard; it was for the elite.

“Who can tell me why this castle is so important?” Herr Sollemach asked, as we trudged up the hill.

My brother, the scholar, answered first. “It’s got historic relevance, since it’s near the site of an earlier German victory—where Hermann der Cherusker defeated the Romans in
A.D
. nine.”

The other boys snickered. Unlike in
Gymnasium,
Franz wasn’t going to get any points for knowing his history textbook here. “But why is it important to
us
?” Herr Sollemach demanded.

A boy named Lukas, who was a member of the HJ-Streifendienst like me, raised his hand. “It now belongs to the Reichsführer-SS,” he said.

Himmler, who as chief of the SS, had taken over the German police and the concentration camps, had visited the castle in 1933 and had leased it that same day for a hundred years, planning to restore it for the SS. In 1938, the north tower was still under construction—we could see this as we approached.

“Himmler says the
Obergruppenführersaal
will be the center of the world, after the final victory,” Herr Sollemach announced. “He has deepened the moats already and is trying to spruce up the interior. Rumor has it he will be here today to check on its progress.
Do you hear that, boys? The Reichsführer-SS himself, right in Wewelsburg!”

I did not see how Herr Sollemach would gain entrance to the castle, since it was guarded, and not even the leader of the local
Kameradschaft
was in the habit of mingling with the highest echelon of officers in the National Socialist Party. But as we approached Herr Sollemach heiled and the guard heiled back. “Werner,” Herr Sollemach said. “Quite an exciting day, no?”

“You’re right on time,” the soldier said. “Tell me, how is Mary? And the girls?”

I should have realized that Herr Sollemach would leave nothing to chance.

My brother pulled me by the arm to draw my attention to the man in the center of the courtyard, addressing a clot of officers.

“Blood tells,” the man said. “The laws of Aryan selection favor those who are stronger, smarter, and more righteous in character than their inferior counterparts. Loyalty. Obedience. Truth. Duty. Comradeship. These are the cornerstones of the knighthood of old, and the future of the Schutzstaffel.”

I did not understand what he was saying, really, but I knew from the respect he was getting from the crowd that this must be Himmler himself. Yet this slight, stuffy man looked more like a bank teller than the head of the German police.

Then I realized he was pointing at me. “You, boy,” he said, and he gestured.

I stepped forward and saluted the way we had been taught at our HJ meetings.

“You are from around here?”

“Yes, Reichsführer,” I said. “I am a member of the HJ-Streifendienst.”

“So tell me, boy. Why would a country looking toward racial purity and the future of a new world choose a decrepit castle as a training center?”

This was a trick question. Clearly, a man as important as Himmler would not have made a mistake in choosing a place like Wewelsburg. My mouth went dry.

My brother, standing beside me, coughed.
Hartmann,
he whispered.

I didn’t know what he was trying to say by speaking our last name. Maybe he thought I should introduce myself. That way Himmler would know exactly who was the idiot standing in front of him.

Then I realized my brother had not said
Hartmann
. He’d said
Hermann
.

“Because,” I replied, “it’s not a decrepit castle.”

Himmler smiled slowly. “Go on.”

“It is the same place Hermann der Cherusker fought the Romans and won. So even though other cultures wound up becoming part of the Roman Empire, the German identity stayed intact. Just like we will again, now, when we win the war.”

Himmler narrowed his eyes. “What is your name, boy?”

“
Kameradschaftsführer
Hartmann,” I said.

He walked through the crowd and put his hand on my shoulder. “A warrior, a scholar, and a leader—all in one.
This
is the future of Germany.” As the crowd erupted in cheers, he pushed me forward. “You will come with me,” Himmler said.

He led me down a set of stairs toward
die Gruft,
the vault. In the basement of the tower that was still under construction was a round room. At its center, buried in the floor, was a gas pipe. Around the edges of the room were twelve niches, each with its own pedestal. “This is where it will all end,” Himmler said, his voice hollow in the small chamber. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“Reichsführer?”

“This is where I will be, long after the final victory. This will be the final resting place of the top twelve SS generals.” He turned to me. “Perhaps there is time for a bright young man like you to reach that potential.”

It was at that moment I decided to enlist.

 • • • 

As proud as Herr Sollemach was about my enlistment as an SS-
Sturmmann,
my mother was equally devastated. She was worried for me, as the war escalated. But she was equally worried for my brother, who—at eighteen—still lived with his head in a book, and who would be losing the protection I provided.

She and my father held a little social gathering on the eve before I was to report to the concentration camp Sachsenhausen, as part of the SS-Totenkopfverbände, the Death’s Head Unit. Our friends and neighbors came. One of them, Herr Schefft, who worked for the local newspaper, took a photograph of me blowing out the candles on the chocolate cake my mother made—you can see it here; I still have the clipping she mailed me afterward. I have looked at that picture often. You see how happy I am in it? Not just because I am holding my fork over the plate, waiting to eat something delicious. Not just because I was drinking beer like a man, instead of a boy. Because everything is still possible, for me. It is the last photograph I have of myself where my eyes aren’t full of knowledge, of understanding.

One of my father’s friends began to sing to me:
“Hoch soll er leben, hoch soll er leben, dreimal hoch.” Long may he live, long may he live, three cheers
. Suddenly, the door burst open, and my friend Lukas’s little brother ran in, wild and quivering with excitement. “Herr Sollemach says we must come right away,” he said. “And we shouldn’t wear our uniforms.”