Two Brothers

racially unfit to study alongside the purer-blooded boys.

‘Cheer up, lad,’ the doctor said as it was clear the boy was fighting back tears. ‘You’re a good German, no doubt about that. Just not one of the best, that’s all. The Wehrmacht will be delighted to have you when you are older and you may serve the Fuhrer as a soldier.’

When the three boys returned to the changing room, Otto and the younger boy found that their civilian clothes had already been removed and replaced with a school uniform in which they were told to dress.

Otto felt as if he was in a dream as he buttoned up the brown shirt and knotted the brown tie, then pulled on the black trousers and lace-up boots. The jacket was also black with a swastika armband stitched to the sleeve, with a diamond-shaped design rather than the traditional circular motive. There was a shiny black belt, shoulder belt and epaulettes. There were white gloves and a little black forage cap with an eagle and swastika badge.

Apart from the cap and the boots, the whole ensemble looked exactly like the SS uniforms that Otto had first seen worn by the men who had come to take his father to a concentration camp. On the night he and Paulus had killed the would-be rapist Karlsruhen.

Otto looked at the little eleven-year-old. He was dressed in the same way except that his boots were knee- length, laced all the way up and had caused the little boy considerable trouble.

He looked ridiculous, like a little Nazi doll.

The other boy had already left. Hurried out by the school orderlies while still buttoning his shirt. He was a bad smell that could not be mentioned and must be quickly dispersed. Then the eleven-year-old was collected to join his year group and Otto was brought before the headmaster.

The principal of the school was a big, quite jolly-looking man who nodded with approval at Otto’s uniform, even leaning forward to adjust Otto’s tie.

‘You wear it well,’ the principal said. ‘You’re not tall, I admit, but you’re strong. A fighter I’m told. Well there’s no better uniform to fight in.’

‘Where are my clothes?’ Otto asked.

The principal flinched slightly to be so perfunctorily addressed, but then smiled indulgently.

‘You won’t be needing civilian clothes any more, boy,’ he said. ‘From this day forward you will wear only uniform. A school uniform to begin with but after that who knows? A party uniform in some important Gau? Or an SS one? A member of the black knighthood? Perhaps as an officer of the Wehrmacht if you choose a military career. Although I think that by the time you are of age the Waffen SS might well have seen off those old army Junkers, eh? No matter, army or party you will live your life in uniform, my boy, for you are now a servant of the state. Give thanks, boy! Give thanks! For from this day forward you belong to the Fuhrer. He who knows all, sees all and loves all. All that is German.’

If the head teacher had imagined that this little speech would inspire Otto then he was immediately disappointed, for Otto had decided the time had come to make his feelings felt.

‘Speaking of the Fuhrer,’ he said.

‘I did not give you permission to speak, lad,’ the head replied sternly. ‘I forgave that once, but not a second time. Be quiet.’

‘I was just wondering what sort of racial mix he is?’ Otto went on, ignoring the headmaster’s order. ‘Some people say he looks Jewish but we wouldn’t have him. I’d say he was about half prick and half arsehole — what do you reckon, sir?’

Otto knew exactly what he was doing.

He truly didn’t care if they killed him. His life was over anyway.

Everything that he loved was lost to him. His home. His family. And his beloved Dagmar.

They were all that mattered in his life and they had been stolen from him. In exchange he had been given a Nazi uniform. An SS uniform in all but name. Had there ever been an irony so cruel? A fate so despicable and low? To be in amongst the Devil’s own? Welcomed as a prodigal son?

Otto would quite happily have taken his own life but he did not want his enemies to be able to say that his Jewish family had turned him into a coward. Therefore he had resolved that he would see if he could force them to do the job for him.

‘A half prick, half arsehole Untermensch, that’s your Fuhrer, sir.’

The principal didn’t rant and rail as Otto had expected him to. He didn’t beat him or shoot him on the spot. Instead, the big friendly-looking face broke into a smile.

‘Well, I must say, lad,’ he boomed good-humouredly, ‘those Jews certainly didn’t manage to knock the spirit out of you, did they? You’ve got balls, my fine young man. Big proud German balls.’

‘Fuck you, sir,’ Otto replied, ‘and fuck Hitler too.’

‘That’s right. Get it all out. Fifteen years a kike is going to have an effect, isn’t it? But I’m going to fix that. You see, young Otto my lad, you are my project. An experiment if you like. I’m going to show that your blood is stronger than any Jewish lie. I’m going to bring you back to the Volk, my son. Renew your membership of the master race, which some careless Commie doctor disregarded at your birth. So then, let’s get to business. We know you’ve got guts all right. Tell me, can you box?’

Otto had resolved not to cooperate with this man but still could not resist the question.

‘If I’m hitting Nazis,’ he replied.

‘Good. We have lots of those here. There’s a senior class going on right now as it happens. Come with me.’

Otto was led back down to the same changing room that he had just left and presented with a sports kit marked with the same triangular swastika badge that was switched to his arm. He could hear the sound of boxing going on in the gymnasium where he had just been examined and, sure enough, on being led back in he saw that a boxing ring had been set up and a group of seventeen-and eighteen-year-old boys were sparring.

‘Lads,’ the head teacher shouted as he entered the room, causing all the youths to spring to rigid attention. ‘This is Otto. He’s a new boy. He just insulted the Fuhrer. Who wants to teach him a lesson?’

The clamour that this announcement caused produced the most likely candidate in short order, a hugely powerful young man who was three years older than Otto and twenty centimetres taller.

‘If this Jungmann has insulted our Leader,’ the powerful-looking boxer boomed, flexing his rock-like biceps, ‘then it will be my honour to punish him.’

Otto shrugged and climbed into the ring.

As he did so the principal stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, whispering into his ear, ‘Bet you can’t last a single minute with him, little Jew boy.’

Otto wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being goaded. But then he did not need goading. He was ready and happy to fight an opponent who looked quite capable of killing him. All he hoped for was to do some damage first and show those Nazis that a Jewish boy knew how to die. As they tied the gloves to his hands and pushed a gum guard between his teeth, Otto resolved that the only way he was leaving the ring was either unconscious or dead.

The fight was stopped after lasting almost three rounds, by which time Otto was not quite yet unconscious, but then neither was he fully conscious. He was a swollen, bleeding, staggering, gagging, punch-drunk wreck, hitting the canvas over and over again but refusing to stay down and somehow managing to drag himself back on to his feet.

For most of the first round he had even held his own, tucking in under the big man’s reach and getting a couple of heavy hooks into his opponent’s body. But as the older lad got his measure, Otto quickly became nothing more than a tenacious punching bag, as bloody faced as he was bloody minded, careering about the ring, propelled by the massive blows that were raining down on him.

Eventually when one particularly vicious haymaker sent him spinning and tumbling through the ropes and in amongst the spectators, the principal called a halt.

‘You see this wild boy,’ Otto could hear the principal calling out, ‘brought up by Jews! But within him flows the blood and beats the heart of Thor! This fight has been proof! If proof were needed that blood is everything. Take him to the hospital.’

As they dragged him to his feet, Otto attempted to bawl out a cry of defiance, but his mouth was too cut and swollen for him to speak. Both his eyes were also closing fast. He struggled feebly in the grip of the grinning youths