Two Brothers

themselves a fearsome reputation for fitness and toughness. The court considered such a school would be the best means by which Otto would receive the discipline and indoctrination he needed in order to become a good German.

‘He is of the purest Saxon peasant stock,’ the SS officer attached to the court insisted. ‘The most valuable type of German of all. This is one we can’t afford to lose.’

When they told Otto the news in his cell, he was fearful that they would be sending him far away, but fortunately a Napola school had been established the previous year in the Spandau district of Berlin. The headmaster had already been contacted and had, Otto was assured, accepted ‘with relish’ the ‘challenge’ of making an elite German from a boy raised by Jews.

‘This really is very fascinating,’ the SS man explained when he visited Otto in his cell. ‘It’s the same as with these wolf boys one occasionally hears about. Feral children raised by a different species who must somehow be brought home to their race. A wonderful opportunity, lad, for which I am confident you will one day be truly grateful.’

Otto spent that night in the police cells before being taken directly to his new school the following morning. It was an intensely lonely night, an isolation of which he had no experience and for which he had prepared no strategy. It was almost the first time in his life that he had not gone to sleep to the sound of his brother breathing just a few feet away, and although the cells were noisy and the nearby traffic constant, to Otto the long hours seemed heart-breakingly silent and empty.

Still he did not cry. Some inner defence instinct told him that were he to give himself over to despair he would be lost. It was quite clear to Otto that this was only the beginning of the nightmare and young as he was he recognized that he must hoard jealously his store of emotional strength.

Hatred would be the staff on which he leant.

So instead of crying that night, Otto exercised. Performing push-ups and sit-ups in his little cell until exhaustion let him sleep. He knew he must stay fit because he was quite resolved that he would be in another fight within a very short time and would be fighting constantly after that. They thought their Napola could bend him to their will. Well, his fists would tell them a different story.

The school in Spandau had been set up in an institution that had until the previous year been the Prussian Academy of Gymnastics teacher training school.

‘Good facilities,’ the SS man assured his silent and sullen charge as they drove across the city. ‘Plenty of sport. As the Fuhrer has said so often, it is the body which must be trained first. Above all, he wants boys who are fit! Book learning is a lesser issue. We do not much trust those so-called “clever” gentlemen. Wasn’t it them who ruined Germany?’

Otto did not reply but for the first time since being taken from his home he almost found himself smiling. How often had he wished for a school which didn’t like books? Now that he’d found one it was run by bloody Nazis.

The first thing that Otto was subjected to after he had been delivered to his new school was a ‘medical’ examination to determine scientifically and mathematically the exact nature of his ‘race’. It seemed that even amongst those of ‘pure German’ blood there was an enormous variation in blood ‘value’ and a strictly annotated pecking order of racial superiority.

Two other boys, a thirteen-year-old and an eleven-year-old, were taking the same tests as Otto, both hoping they possessed the correct shape of skull and right length of nose in order to be judged worthy of an elite education.

‘Why would you want to come anyway?’ Otto asked the older of the two as together they stripped to their underpants in a sports changing room.

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ the thirteen-year-old replied. ‘This is it! The elite. Have you seen the uniforms! The parade one’s black. It looks amazing! And when we get out, we’re the bosses. The future Gauleiter. My HJ leader says we get to rule Germany, and when Germany rules the world, we’ll rule that too.’

The younger boy was trying to look brave but seemed a lot less sure this was all a good idea.

‘I liked my old school,’ he said, ‘but the Napola are free and my mum and dad are a bit poor, you see. My dad’s a miner and he doesn’t want me to have to work like he does. They can’t believe that I can get a private education in a top school and the Government pays. They really really want me to get in so I have to try hard to, I suppose.’

‘No snobbery any more,’ the first boy said with brash self-confidence. ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re a lord or a peasant in Germany now. Not to the Fuhrer. He knows it’s not class that counts but blood! We’re all Germans together.’

Otto wished the lad had been older so that he could have punched him.

The three boys were summoned into the gymnasium and told to sit on a bench that had been placed in front of a table on which lay a selection of strange and scary-looking objects: a pair of very long metal callipers, which looked like an insect’s antennae, and a couple of instruments that reminded Otto of the sort of clamps he had used in woodwork at school. There were also a series of wooden sticks from which were hung many locks of hair of varying colours and textures. Most intimidating of all was a sinister-looking display box from which thirty or forty different coloured glass eyeballs stared blindly upwards, all laid out neatly in little compartments.

‘Wow, creepy,’ the older boy laughed. ‘Looks like a morgue after the post-mortem’s finished.’

‘This is not a morgue, boy!’ a voice barked as a white-coated figure entered the room. ‘It is a laboratory dedicated to the science of racial truth. Stand up!’

The two other boys leapt to their feat. Otto rose more slowly. He had decided in his own mind that he must gauge his next protest in order to make the maximum impact. This he decided was not the right time. The only witnesses would be the white-coated figure and the two other boys who were much younger than him.

‘Good morning,’ the man in the white coat said. ‘I am Doctor Huber of the SS Central Office for Race and Colonization. You are all three of good German lineage or you would not be here. However, the Napola require more than that. Only the best and noblest of blood can be educated here and I shall decide whether it flows in your veins or not. We recognize five Germanic types. The finest of which, the Herrenmensch, is of course Nordic. After that comes Falic, then Dinaric, West Germanic and finally Balto Slavic. Only the first two racial types are guaranteed places here. However, despair not, boys, if you have a Polish great-granny lurking in your line. The majority of the Jungmannen we see here are a mixture of the five types and we require only that applicants are predominantly Nordic. Step forward, Stengel!’

Otto stood up and stepped forward.

He was weighed and then measured and subjected to the various tests. The size of his ears and his skull was determined using the long callipers, and the distance from his chin to the bridge of his nose was measured with the clamp-like devices. Swatches of hair were held up and compared with Otto’s thick, sandy thatch and various glass eyeballs were placed against his temples that a match might be found for his pale grey eyes. His pants were pulled to his knees and his penis was held and closely inspected. The foreskin which his mother had denied to Rabbi Jakobovitz during the Kapp Putsch of 1920 was rolled back and forth over Otto’s glans.

All the while Dr Huber barked out a bewildering series of numbers and letters which an orderly with a clipboard diligently recorded on Otto’s form.

When the examination was over, Otto was told to sit back down while Huber pored over the form, tallying up the columns of figures and applying them to various charts.

‘Congratulations, lad,’ Huber said finally and with much solemnity, ‘you are of pure Falic blood.’

A term Otto had never before heard in his life.

‘A rare and fine thing indeed,’ the doctor went on. ‘You are second only to pure Nordic and to Nordic/Falic in the great German family of races. You are truly a son of German soil and will be admitted to this academy this day.’

Otto absorbed this news in silence and was irritated to receive a slap of congratulation on the back from the older of his two fellow candidates.

Then it was the turn of the other boys. First, the younger one was subjected to the same bewildering series of measurements, comparisons and numerical diagnoses, before finally being graded as an acceptable mix of Falic and Dinaric. Like Otto, he was told he would be entering into the school, an honour Otto felt the little boy received with distinctly mixed emotions. The thirteen-year-old, however, the one who had been so enthusiastic about joining a Napola, was rejected. He was informed that his ‘rounded’ cranium was ‘pure Balto Slavic’ and hence he was