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Franz kept his composure as probing fingers tapped on the oak table. He looked up into his father’s eyes, seeing fear behind the forced veil of anger and curiosity. Smiling, he realised that fear was part of everything his father was. He shouldn’t be surprised, really.
Again, Franz’s father asked him the question. The kitchen, or kuche in German, was gloomy. Lit by a single candle, the room trapped Franz; it was oppressive, just like his family. His father’s voice commanded him to look into his eyes.
Franz returned his father’s piercing glare. He asked his father why he was so scared, so reluctant that his son had found his place in the Fuhrer’s Germany. In response, his father, whose name was Benedikt, tightened his hand into a fist. Then, the same nonsense came from his mouth.
He tried, with all his might, to get his son to see that what he thought was heroism was really poisonous hatred, senseless anger. Franz just snorted and looked away.
The father asked him about his day – perhaps when Benedikt explained the motives behind the “activities” his son was undertaking, then…
Franz looked back to the events of the morning and afternoon.
The Hitler Youth was compulsory – for some strange reason, of course. Franz could not see how such a group could be frowned upon. Then, he recalled being told about the Edelweiss Pirates and their rebellious actions. No matter, he told himself, they all hang now.
Franz and his friends had gone camping in a nearby wood. On the way they had sung songs about freedom and power, power over everything else. A boy of 15 called Lukas had refused to sing and had been beaten by the rest of them. Refusing to sing was disrespect to those who fought for Germany’s armed forces. Many of the boys had relatives doing just that, so the beating was justified.
When they arrived, Lukas would not stop singing. The first thing to do was the setting up of the tents. These were not needed as they would be returning the same day, but their superiors insisted it was for the strengthening of their bodies. Once that was done, the real fun started – the kind of fun that made Franz’s blood boil.
Their monitor had organised a series of athletic competitions. Franz was talented at the sprint and won every time – much to his delight. He had been unmatched in the runs across a clearing in the German forest. He was very proud, but not smug.
Athleticism was not all that was germinated in the young boys’ hearts and minds. My Struggle, the great Fuhrer’s autobiographical manifesto, was also used. The boys were tested to see how much they could remember off by heart. The loser of each round would be disqualified. Again, Franz excelled in this exercise.
The other boys were never jealous – they were happy for Franz. However, there was always a nosy one who would ask how he was so good, considering his background. Franz would always bark in reply as a warning. If the curiosity was not suffocated, he would turn to more defensive means. He knew, in his heart, that he was a born fighter. Even though his father showed none of his glorious qualities, Franz still believed in himself.
Finally the group settled down to listen to their monitor, or supervisor, talk of Germany and her powerful army, government and youth. Franz really liked this part. He could really relate to the early Nazi politicians – in a world of ignorance and stupidity. He felt that way in his own home! The war was raging, with Germany and her allies outnumbered by other governments but superior in strength.
Franz was a little surprised when the stories stopped, replaced by passion in the supervisor’s voice. Earlier that day, in the woods, the group of forty or so boys was asked if they knew of any vermin in their homes or neighbourhoods. Some asked, genuinely, if he meant rats. Many of them had seen rats.
The monitor of the group, instead of embarrassing those boys, said yes. Franz, however, knew he was not talking about scurrying rodents. Not in the literal sense, anyway.
The supervisor asked again, more loudly, if anyone had a rat problem in their house. Franz kept perfectly still as more and more boys began to catch on. Unsurprisingly, none raised their hands. Franz knew they were all pure.
Slowly, with a grim look on his face, Franz raised his. There was no room for weakness in Germany.
Franz’s account was interrupted suddenly by his father. Benedikt had gone from inquisitive to panicky when Franz had mentioned his monitor’s last exercise. Where is your mother?, he shouted.
Franz kept still, not letting any emotion percolate through his expression. He just said: It’s for the best.
Then his father burst away from the small oak table, screaming his wife’s name: Lidia?! He rushed to the door, and then up the stairs to search for her. Franz loved his mother, but loved Germany even more. Was that not the right thing to do?
Franz stayed at the table. He had told his group of his mother’s weekly trip to the butcher’s. She was gone, but it was for the best. His father’s screams resounded off of the walls, in vain. Rats had to be exterminated.
Franz’s mother was a Jew.