Gerhard’s eyes brighten the way they always do when he stands up to Hugo. “I do honor my country, Hugo, the way my church tells me I should. Every day I honor my country by obeying, honoring, and sustaining its laws. I am a good German, no matter what I think of the Führer.”
“Are you insulting the Führer?” demands Hugo.
“No,” says Gerhard. “I am insulting that essay.”
Helmuth can’t take their arguing anymore. He can’t afford a bad grade — or a bad mark — in his Party record book, because that would keep him from getting a good job later on.
And so before Hugo can respond, Helmuth smacks his hand against the table. “It’s my homework!” he shouts. “And I’ll write what I need to write!”
Hugo and Gerhard stop arguing. They are surprised at Helmuth’s outburst.
“A savior is somebody who rescues someone or something from harm or danger,” Helmuth begins. “That’s what Hitler has done. He has rescued the Fatherland from poverty, unemployment, and inflation — just as he promised he would.”
Hugo’s eyes widen with pleasure, but Gerhard doesn’t say a word. He stacks his books loudly and stalks to the door. He yanks the door handle hard, and then lets the door slam behind him.
The slamming door sounds like a pistol shot. Helmuth looks to Mutti, who is standing in the kitchen doorway. He wants her to say something, to defend Gerhard be-cause that’s what mothers do for their children, but she doesn’t. Suddenly Helmuth can’t remember the last time she spoke up for one of them. Hugo always has the final word. And now Helmuth feels just as cowardly. He didn’t speak up for Gerhard, either.
Mutti’s face crumples. She lowers herself onto the couch, buries her face in her hands. “Why can’t you two let each other be? Why must you fight?”
Hugo sits beside her, draws her to him, kisses the top of her head. “Men like to fight,” he says. “That’s the way we are. It’s in our blood. But don’t worry. Gerhard will come around. You’ll see.”
And then to Helmuth, Hugo beams. “But you, my boy, have the right attitude! A born leader, that’s what you are! A man to watch! You will go far!”
Helmuth blocks out the sound of Hugo’s praise. He doesn’t feel like a leader, a man to watch. He squirms inside as he stares at the words, God has blessed our Fatherland by giving us Adolf Hitler. Is Gerhard right? Does it make an idol out of Hitler? Does it mock God?
Every day, it seems, the Nazis hang more portraits of Adolf Hitler. Town squares and buildings are renamed after him. They evoke his name in praise and even in prayers, giving thanks to the Führer for getting Germany back on its feet, for jobs, for the new factories that produce everything from tanks and airplanes and guns to the cheap People’s Radio.
Helmuth knows he’s supposed to support his country and its leaders, and yet the Nazis feel dark and threatening, too. Every day, it seems, the Nazis pass more laws against the Jews. Helmuth sees terrible signs that read: JEWISH SWINE and JEWS OUT, JEWS DIE. In school, Helmuth must pass tests that show he understands the differences between inferior races such as the Jews and the superior Aryan race. How does such meanness and hate build a better Germany?
Helmuth sits at the table, tapping his pencil impatiently as he wrestles with his feelings. Finally he pushes them down and begins to write. He doesn’t think about the meaning behind the words, just writes — writes what Herr Vinke wants to hear, writes what will earn a high mark.
The inside of Helmuth’s head feels like crashing cymbals. The words, the sentences, waver, bang apart, come back together again until at last he’s finished. He stares at the handwritten pages and feels worse than a coward. He feels like a traitor, a traitor to his brother but mostly a traitor to himself. A traitor to his true feelings.
That night Gerhard’s side of the bed remains empty. Helmuth turns on his stomach, then flops back again, thinks about Gerhard, of how sure he is of everything, even what he wants to do with his life. As Helmuth drifts off to sleep, he wonders about his own future and what he has been put on this earth to do.
Several days later, Herr Vinke returns the graded essays. Helmuth has earned a high mark, with only a brief comment, Well done. He stuffs the essay into his satchel and heads home. The satchel feels heavy, but not from the weight of books. It is heavy from the weight of the graded paper, the weight of Vinke’s praise.
* * *
In spring 1938, Austria is reunited with Germany, and near the end of the school year, a Nazi official, an SS officer, accompanies Herr Vinke to class. The official introduces himself as Asmus, the senior district director of the Hitler Youth in the Hammerbrook neighborhood.
“As you know, all eligible young people are required by law to join the Hitler Youth,” Herr Asmus says crisply. “It’s your duty to serve the Fatherland. Most of you already belong. I am here today to sign up stragglers.”
Helmuth is the first to be called. He stands, wishes he could drop through the floor. There was a time when Helmuth longed to join, but living with Hugo has changed all that.
Herr Asmus looks down at his orderly notes. “Name?” he asks, though Helmuth can see his name printed there, plain as day, in the non-member column.
Helmuth stands straight, arms at his side, takes a deep breath, says, “Guddat, Helmuth Guddat.”
The director asks general questions about Helmuth’s family and their political beliefs, which Helmuth answers briskly:
“Nein, I am not a member of the Hitler Youth.”
“Nein, my mother is not a Communist.”
“Ja, my mother’s name is Emma Guddat Kunkel.”
“My mother is divorced from her first husband, Johannes Kunkel.”
“I have two older half brothers, Hans and Gerhard Kunkel.”
“My mother never married my father.”
Herr Asmus looks up at Helmuth. A mocking smile crosses his face.
“She is engaged to marry Hugo Hübener,” says Helmuth.
At this, Asmus arches one eyebrow, says, “Hübener, you say? The Rottenführer?”
“Ja.”
Asmus nods in approval. “Ach, ja,” he says. “The Rottenführer is a good Nazi.” He pries no further. He scribbles a notation and then hands Helmuth a paper to sign and another to get signed at home.
Helmuth takes the first paper and signs his name, assuring that he is 100 percent Aryan, not one drop of Jewish blood. He has the documentation to prove it for six generations.
“Welcome,” says Asmus. “Here’s the address where your Kameradschaft meets.” He slides a piece of paper toward Helmuth. “Report Wednesday at seven o’clock sharp.”
Mutti doesn’t fuss at all, and the next day Hugo surprises Helmuth with a brown Jungvolk shirt and the ten Pfennig for dues. “Few men are born to lead. The rest are born to follow,” he tells Helmuth. “You are a leader, my boy. I can tell.”
All that spring and into the summer, Helmuth busies himself with the Jungvolk — its meetings and games and weekend hiking and camping trips.
Oma and Opa complain when Helmuth misses church, and that’s something that Helmuth misses, too.
But Hugo tells Oma and Opa that it’s Helmuth’s duty. “God expects young people to serve the Fatherland,” he says. “It’s one of the sacrifices young Germans must make for their country.” He beams as he looks at Helmuth. “Isn’t that right, my boy?”
The sound of feet ring outside Helmuth’s cell. A key turns in the lock, and the door swings open. Helmuth catches his breath, releases it slowly. It’s the morning guard. Exercise time.
Helmuth picks up his slop bucket, carries it outside, waits his turn to empty it, hose it out. Everything feels magnified in the prison yard — the crisp autumn air, the grass, the trees, the leaves red yellow orange, the sky blue clouds white sun yellow so much color so much air so much light. So much everything it hurts.
The guard barks a command. The prisoners trudge clockwise around the prison yard, marching single file on the worn path, their gray prison smocks billowing lik
e the wings of birds. It’s verboten to speak to other prisoners.
Helmuth keeps his head down, avoids their faces, doesn’t want to see the new faces, or the missing faces after the executioner has done his work. He looks down his thin legs his knobby knees his worn leather shoes no shoelaces the grass the dirt. Thinks instead about his two best friends, Rudi Wobbe and Karl-Heinz Schnibbe. Sees Rudi’s worried face, Karl’s big grin, a face comfortable with smiling.
The boys lived in different neighborhoods and attended different schools, but they belonged to the same Mormon church. There aren’t many Mormons in Hamburg, and their church is housed in a factory building in the St. Georg district of Hamburg. It seemed as though the three boys were destined to be friends, from the day they met in primary class at church.
By summer 1938, the city parks have sprouted signs forbidding Jews to enter. Churches, too, for the Nazis declare that even Jews who convert to Christianity are still Jews.
Such a sign is even posted at Helmuth’s church to protect the church from Jews. This is what the branch president says after he sees the Gestapo sitting in the back of the church, taking notes. The Nazis watch everything — churches, schools, places people work. But church members protest and tear down the sign after one week.
The Hitler Youth’s Jungvolk meetings keep Helmuth busy, and several weeks pass before Helmuth sees his friend Rudi Wobbe. When he does, it’s by chance that they meet. Helmuth is sitting on a park bench, reading a detective novel.
Rudi sits himself down next to Helmuth. “Where have you been?” he asks.
Helmuth dog-ears the page and closes the book. “Jungvolk,” he says.
Rudi scowls. “You joined?”
Helmuth nods, and Rudi grows silent, giving the bobbing mallards his undivided attention. Helmuth knows Rudi had a bad experience in the Jungvolk, that he quit after his squad had roughed him up. Karl Schnibbe’s experience wasn’t much better, except that Karl was expelled after he beat up his zealous platoon leader. Karl has no patience for Nazis — or bullies.
“So you’re a Nazi now?” says Rudi.
Helmuth stares at a pair of ducks, circling each other. Admires how smooth and unruffled they look, but beneath the water, they’re paddling furiously.
“Hugo bought me the shirt and paid the dues,” he says to Rudi. “I couldn’t refuse. But don’t mistake me for a Nazi. I’m nothing like Hugo.”
He doesn’t want to tell Rudi that there are things he actually likes about the Jungvolk: the weekend hiking and camping trips that take him away from the Sachsenstrasse flat that feels so full of Hugo. There’s also a special Hitler Youth section for older boys that intrigues him — the HJ-Streifendienst, a patrol force whose members act as junior Gestapo. He likes the idea of detective work, of working to serve and protect the public. But that doesn’t make him a Nazi.
If Helmuth were a detective, he’d arrest real criminals, not the ordinary men and women who criticize Hitler or the Nazi Party and find themselves denounced by friends and neighbors.
Helmuth glances back at Rudi, can tell he’s brooding. “You’d like this book,” Helmuth says, changing the subject. He reads the title out loud: Lord Lister, genannt Raffles, der grosse Unbekannte. “It’s about a gentleman thief who helps honest men ruined by swindlers.”
Silence.
“The thief twists the law,” says Helmuth. “But he does so for honorable reasons, to bring dishonest men to justice. He robs the robbers!”
“Like Robin Hood?” says Rudi.
“Exactly!” says Helmuth. Helmuth has missed his friend, finds himself irritated that Jungvolk duty has kept them apart. Suddenly Helmuth is struck with an idea, one that will restore their friendship. “Rudi, we should start our own detective agency,” he says.
Rudi looks at him incredulously. “And play detective like children?”
“No,” says Helmuth. “Have you not noticed all the unsolved crimes in the newspaper? The police say they need our help, that it’s our duty to report suspicious activity.”
“Do you mean spy on our neighbors?” Rudi’s eyes narrow with disgust. “The Nazis have enough informers.”
“No! Real crimes. You know, robberies and murders.”
“We can’t do that. We’re not old enough. The police will laugh at us.”
“They won’t laugh,” says Helmuth. “Not when they see that we can think like adults.” He taps his head with his forefinger. “And we have an advantage. We’re young, so criminals won’t suspect us. We’ll get more information that way.”
“It’s impossible,” says Rudi. “You’re talking about the Gestapo.” He shudders. “I’d rather steer clear of them. A lot of people disappear after the Gestapo visit.”
“I’m not afraid of the Gestapo,” says Helmuth. He straightens his shoulders and juts out his chin. “When we crack our first case, we’ll be famous! Maybe they’ll even offer us a reward. Or a job! Come on, it can’t hurt to try.”
Helmuth watches Rudi’s face. Everything Rudi thinks shows on his face. Before Rudi says so, Helmuth can see his face shift into agreement. “Sure,” says Rudi. “Okay. Why not? We’ll be detectives.”
The discomfort between the two friends has fallen away. Helmuth crooks his arm around Rudi’s neck. “This will be fun.”
The next day Helmuth hands Rudi a small card. The card reads, LORD LISTER DETECTIVE AGENCY.
Rudi holds the card by its edges and whistles under his breath. “You made these yourself? They look real!”
“They are real,” says Helmuth.
Rudi reads further. “Helmuth Guddat, Agent Number 1. Rudi Wobbe, Agent Number 2.” He grins, tucks his card into his wallet.
“Come on,” says Helmuth. “Let’s go down to the police station and see what crimes they have for us.”
Helmuth and Rudi head north toward the local police station at Hammer Deich 57. An odd, watchful silence hangs over the foreboding brick building. They stand outside and watch as four SS men exit the front doors, green files tucked under their arms, striding toward Grevenweg. Two other men, wearing the coats and hats of Gestapo agents, stride past without even a glance at the boys.
Helmuth thought about wearing his Hitler Youth uniform, but settled upon wearing good brown trousers and a white shirt. The trousers and shirt make him look more grown-up. He walks crisply to the heavy wooden door and pulls it open.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” says Rudi, firmly rooted on the sidewalk. He is also dressed in his best dark trousers and a white shirt.
“Come on,” urges Helmuth. “You don’t have to say a word. I’ll do the talking.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out inside.”
Rudi traipses behind Helmuth. The foyer feels cool and dark as they walk down the hall, reading the gold-lettered names and titles on the doors. Helmuth stops outside a detective’s office and reads the name: Inspector Becker. It seems as good as any other name.
Helmuth turns the doorknob. A blond secretary sits at a gleaming wooden desk. Helmuth introduces himself, asks to speak with Inspector Becker. She hesitates, but Helmuth tells her that he and Rudi wish to do their duty as citizens. She leaves her desk, raps on the door behind her, and disappears inside. When she returns, she ushers the boys into a wood-paneled office that smells of cigarette smoke.
A balding man with strands of dark hair combed carefully across his head sits behind another wooden desk polished to a sheen that reflects the glow of the lamp. With his white shirt and red bow tie, Inspector Becker looks more like a banker than an inspector. He sets a green folder flat on the desk blotter, motions to a pair of dark leather chairs. The boys sit, and Becker leans back. He thrums the tips of his fingers together, smiles thinly, and says, “So you boys are here to do your duty as citizens?”
Herr Becker has a broad, blunt face, and Helmuth notes that his eyes don’t match his smile. “Yes, sir,” he says.
The smile fades. “Do you have informati
on for me? Perhaps you know somebody who is breaking the law? A neighbor or relative or teacher, perhaps? Something you’ve overheard? Some suspicious activity?”
“No, sir, nothing like that. My partner and I” —Helmuth nods at Rudi — “want to help the police solve crimes.”
Becker’s expression changes, grows less pleasant. “I am a busy man, with no time to waste with childish games.” He picks up a folder, taps it against the desk, sticks it on top of a short stack of files.
“This isn’t a game, sir,” says Helmuth. “We think like adults, even better than adults, and because we’re —” He starts to say children, catches himself, starts over, says, “Because we’re young, adults let their guard down. They’re less cautious about what they say. That works to our advantage.”
Becker’s chair squeaks as he sits back, eyes Helmuth, then Rudi carefully. “I consider myself a good judge of people,” he says at last. “You’re smart. Curious. Not afraid to take initiative. I’ll bet you can put two and two together.”
Helmuth leans forward. “We can.”
Inspector Becker tugs open a desk drawer, fingers through several files, takes out a slim folder, spreads it open on his desk. He thumbs through newspaper clippings, pulls one out. “Here’s an open case. A streetwalker was murdered in Rothenburgsort.”
Helmuth looks wide-eyed at Rudi, at the luck of it all, then back at the inspector. “We know that neighborhood.” Helmuth thumbs at Rudi. “That’s where my partner lives.”
The inspector nods. “See what you can find out. Let me know.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, offers one to Helmuth and Rudi.
Helmuth shakes his head and says, “No thanks.” Mormons don’t drink coffee, though Helmuth likes its deep, rich smell. Inwardly he feels pleased that Becker asked. It’s a sign that the inspector takes him seriously.
* * *
Over the next several days, Helmuth and Rudi prowl the Rothenburgsort streets, engaging the local shopkeepers and customers in conversation about the night of the stabbing. Helmuth keeps careful notes. He jots down each detail, no matter how small or insignificant. Afterward, he and Rudi put the details together, shaping a story, tracing the streetwalker’s last night.