Two Brothers

‘We should take them in,’ the first lad insisted.

‘What’s the rush?’ the meaner one replied, and it was clear to Paulus that the majority of the junior boys agreed with him.

‘So, bitch,’ the more popular leader said, putting his face close to Dagmar’s, ‘are you a Jew?’

The game was up and Paulus knew it. His best shot was a long one but it was all that was left. The lead boy was much closer than the others, who were all still hanging back somewhat selfconsciously. They were, after all, only boys, and Dagmar was a woman.

Paulus swung a fist into the vicious boy’s face, knocking him to the ground with a single huge blow. Then, in a movement so swift that it was really a follow-through from the blow, he jumped down and tore the dagger from the boy’s belt, pressing the blade to his throat.

‘OK!’ Paulus shouted. ‘Fuck off or he gets it. I’ll stick him, I swear! When you’re gone I’ll let him go, but not till then. Fuck off!’

The youngsters were not used to this kind of thing at all and were already stepping backwards in the face of Paulus’s shocking fury. But then the other lead boy spoke. His character, which Paulus had at first thought might be useful, now proved to be their undoing.

‘Stand ground!’ the first boy shouted. ‘Stand ground, I say! This swine has laid his hand on a Hitler Jugend dagger! Our weapon is our life! And like our life it belongs to the Fuhrer! This man has stolen the Fuhrer’s dagger! Our honour is in his hand!’

The boy Paulus had by the collar was whimpering as he felt the knife on his throat, but there could be no doubt that resolve amongst his comrades was stiffening.

‘Don’t worry, Hitler Youth Man,’ the first of the leaders assured his comrade, ‘if this Jew swine dares to harm you, he knows what he’ll get.’

It was a standoff that could go one of two ways, both the worse for Paulus and Dagmar.

Paulus dropped the knife.

Then another voice intruded on the scene.

‘What the FUCK do you think you’re doing, you little bunch of pricks!’

Paulus and Dagmar almost cried with relief. It was Otto.

He was standing on top of the sand dune. Two years older than either of the troop leaders. Muscular. Commanding.

Dressed in the same uniform.

‘You want to mess around with a Spandau district unit, do you, you little arseholes?’ Otto went on.

Paulus had told his brother to be sure to wear a uniform for the trip, and Otto had chosen his brown Hitler Jugend one because the school one was black and highly formal, and would have looked pretty grim after a day at the seaside.

It had been a fortunate choice. Not least because it carried on it the badges showing that Otto was of a considerably senior rank to that held by the two lead youths confronting Dagmar and his brother.

Paulus let the lad he was holding go. The boy snatched up his dagger from the ground, red-faced with fury but at a loss what to do.

The first of the troop leaders was in no such doubt. He leapt to attention.

‘This man will not show us his papers, sir—’

‘Well, of course he fucking won’t, he’s screwing the Oberrottenfuhrer’s bird! Would you want to be identified?’

At this some of the junior boys in the troop began to snigger.

‘I just wanted to know if—’ the leader protested.

‘All you need to know, sonny,’ Otto went on, ‘is that you are a poxy little Stammfuhrer while I am an Oberkameradschaftsfuhrer.’ Otto patted the badge of rank stitched to the arm of his shirt, above the swastika armband. ‘And what’s more, an Oberkameradschaftsfuhrer from the Spandau district, who, as I think you know, are the meanest toughest bastards in the whole HJ. Even our BDM girls could kick your arses. What could our BDM girls do?’

The boys knew the authentic voice of brutal authority when they heard it and replied at once.

‘They could kick our arses, Herr Oberkameradschaftsfuhrer sir!’

‘That’s right,’ Otto snarled. ‘Now piss off all of you because there’s a queue to get under that oilcloth with this bit of skirt and none of you are in it. So say Heil Hitler and fuck off!’

Otto clicked his heels and gave the German salute.

‘Heil Hitler!’ came ten instantaneous replies.

After which the two young leaders and their little troop of boys hurried away as quickly as they could.

Once more the three of them were alone.

‘Shit.’ Paulus whistled. ‘Glad you came back, Otts.’

Dagmar sank to the ground.

‘I thought…’ she said. ‘I thought they were going to…’

‘But they didn’t, Dags,’ Paulus said quickly. ‘They didn’t, that’s what matters.’

‘I’m sorry I ran off,’ Otto said. ‘It was stupid and if I hadn’t done you wouldn’t have gone through any of that.’

‘You couldn’t have known, Otts,’ Dagmar said.

‘Of course I bloody could! There’s danger absolutely everywhere. We all know that and I should have stayed with you. And that’s what I came back to say, Dags. That I won’t leave again, all right? Whatever you feel about Paulus doesn’t make any difference. I still love you and I’ll still look out for you, just like we planned. I promise.’

‘No, Ottsy,’ Paulus said. ‘I think the plan should change.’

The Last Meeting of the Saturday Club Berlin, February 1939

THE FOUR MEMBERS of the Saturday Club met under the clock at the Lehrter Bahnhof.

Or rather under the great crimson slashes of red that hung beneath the clock.

The cavernous interior of the station was festooned with swastikas. More so even than usual. Hitler’s fiftieth birthday was only weeks away and the station management had shown considerable ingenuity in finding places to hang banners where none already hung.

‘Just when you think there’s nowhere left to put a flag,’ Otto murmured.

‘Flags and parades. Parades and flags,’ Dagmar said, without bothering to lower her voice. ‘Don’t they ever get bored with it?’

‘Dagmar!’ Silke hissed in exasperation. ‘How many times? You don’t have the luxury of being able to moan.’

‘Nobody’s damn well listening, Silke!’

‘They are always listening.’

‘Come on, let’s not fight,’ Paulus begged. ‘Not on our last day together. You buy the tickets, Otts. I’ll try and get us a table at the cafe. The train doesn’t leave for another hour, we can have some coffee. Come on, Dagmar.’

Paulus led Dagmar away towards the station restaurant while Otto and Silke joined the queue at one of the numerous ticket office windows.

When they arrived at the window, the woman behind the glass gave the German greeting. It was a ridiculous sight. There was so very little room in her tiny cubicle that the woman was forced to make her gesture with a bent arm cramped close to her chest. More like the salutes Hitler gave himself at rallies, walking past a forest of outstretched arms, his own wrist merely flicked back at the shoulder in a selfconscious demonstration of absolute authority. Too busy, too weighed down with the cares of destiny to offer anything more than a limp parody of the