He stares at the sheet. The Nazis call these leaflets enemy propaganda, designed to undermine German morale. By law, Helmuth is supposed to destroy the leaflet, but he doesn’t, not right away. How can he be expected to obey a law that feels so wrong? To obey a leader who strips away one freedom after another?
* * *
The Germans continue to strike Poland hard and fast, in a new kind of warfare called a Blitzkrieg, a lightning-fast war. Throughout September the Germans bomb cities and villages, leveling homes and buildings. There are whispers about terrible things happening in Poland, about low-flying planes that shoot women and children, about German soldiers who machine-gun Poles and Jews over mass graves. It sounds too terrible to believe.
At home, Mutti drops another kind of bomb: She and Hugo are getting married. And they do, on a Tuesday late in September.
After the short ceremony, they gather at Oma and Opa’s flat. Helmuth is about to take a bite of wedding cake when Hugo says to him, “Wait and see, my boy. The war will be over, as soon as this matter is settled with Poland.” With his fingers, he shoves cake into his mouth.
“It’s one thing to attack a weak Poland,” says Gerhard. “And quite another to take on England, the greatest power in Europe.”
“Enough defeatist talk!” says Hugo. “We have to fight back. We can’t let the Poles abuse Germans living in Poland!”
“What about the Nazis’ atrocities?” says Helmuth. He knows he’s inviting an argument, and that he shouldn’t, not on Mutti’s wedding day. But he can’t help himself. “The Nazis don’t even try to hide what they do here — to the Jews or to anyone who disagrees with them.”
“Jews are not Germans,” says Hugo, his temper flaring. “They are foreigners. Germany is for Germans. As for the others, we can’t tolerate defeatists. They should be arrested. We must have a united front during war.”
“But not at the cost of our own freedom!” says Helmuth. “Just when you think you can’t lose any more freedoms, the Nazis find another to take away. Now it’s against the law to listen to foreign radio.”
“Such laws are necessary during wartime,” says Hugo brusquely. “To protect the Fatherland. The enemy will stop at nothing to destroy our will to victory. Their propaganda caused us to lose the Great War.” He fixes a stern eye on Helmuth. “What’s happened to you, Helmuth? You had better watch your step or you could find yourself sitting in jail — or worse.”
Helmuth feels his blood turn icy. Hugo has never called him Helmuth before, has always called him “my boy.” Has he pushed Hugo too far? Has he made a mistake in revealing his true thoughts to Hugo, the Rottenführer? Would Hugo-the-good-Nazi denounce Helmuth for his beliefs?
Helmuth grows sullen and distant, unable to bring himself to eat the cake as Hugo makes small talk with Opa.
Mutti nudges Helmuth and hands him a cup of tea. A wilted mint leaf floats on top. “Hugo is not a bad person,” she whispers gently.
“But, Mutti, he’s wrong.”
Mutti smooths Helmuth’s hair into place and touches his cheek. She looks hurt.
Hugo stands, heads to the door. He nods to Mutti, his eyes warm. “Let’s go,” he says, crooking his arm.
Without another word to Helmuth, Mutti straightens her skirt, links her arm in Hugo’s, and leaves. Helmuth looks away as the darkness spreads inside him. His mother no longer belongs to him. Mutti belongs to Hugo.
* * *
In late September, Warsaw falls. Poland surrenders, and trains filled with victorious German troops receive a jubilant homecoming.
“What did I say?” exults Hugo, clapping his hands. “The war would be over as soon as this matter with Poland is settled, and now, thanks to our Führer, it is.”
Within days, however, more German soldiers are shipped on trains to the west. Throughout that fall and into the winter all of Germany holds its breath, waits for more fighting, but nothing more happens. “See?” says Hugo. “Hitler is satisfied, just as he said he would be, now that he has Poland.”
* * *
Hugo is wrong.
The spring of 1940 sends German troops marching across France. Hamburg finds itself digging the thawing ground, tearing up city parks, and building tall concrete towers armed with flak guns to shoot down enemy bombers. They also dig underground bomb shelters that can hold as many as one thousand people.
One June night, British bombers wing their way across the open water of the North Sea and grope their way up the Elbe, easily spotting Hamburg with its maze of waterways, docks, wharves, and oil refineries.
The damage is light, mostly confined to the U-boat pens and refineries, but two errant bombs land in St. Pauli, a neighborhood known for its theaters and cafes and concert halls. The first bomb hits the middle of the street, upturning the pavement and leaving a gaping hole. The second strikes a tenement, blowing away the top floors.
The next day, Helmuth and Rudi go see the damage for themselves, and it’s shocking. Refuse lies everywhere. Piles of tumbled brick. Shattered floors and walls. Splintered furniture. Broken glass. Everywhere, people with shovels and pails try to clean up the mess.
“This is Hitler’s fault,” Helmuth tells Rudi. “He should have been satisfied with Poland, the way he said he would. But no, instead he expands the war and goes into France.”
“It’s revenge,” says Rudi. “Hitler’s getting even for the Treaty of Versailles. Germany will be humiliated no more.”
* * *
Five days later, a newscaster shrills that Paris has fallen to the Germans, and the German people are overjoyed to see the Nazi flag hoisted over France. Thousands of French prisoners of war are shipped to Germany for forced labor in the German countryside, and Hitler sends the Luftwaffe to bomb Britain.
By summer’s end, Gerhard leaves for mandatory Reich Labor Service, where he’s stationed outside Paris, France.
“It isn’t so bad,” Gerhard assures Helmuth in letters. “I’m assigned to headquarters, completing paperwork. The Technicum has agreed to give me credit, so I will graduate on time. The way the war is going, who knows? I may be home sooner than we all think.”
Mutti does not object when Helmuth takes over Gerhard’s empty bedroom at his grandparents’ flat, and soon Hans joins him. Helmuth begins working as church secretary, a volunteer position. At night, behind shuttered windows, he sits at Oma’s table. He types letters on the church’s Remington typewriter to fellow Mormons stationed at the front. Each keystroke, each carriage return, makes Helmuth hate Hitler and his war all the more.
* * *
One September night, Helmuth, Karl, and Rudi are walking home together from choir practice. It is growing dark, but it’s not yet curfew. Helmuth begins to sing “You Are My Sunshine” in a loud voice.
It’s an American song, one that the boys learned from church missionaries. The boys miss the American missionaries, who were called home when war broke out. “Come on,” Helmuth urges Karl and Rudi. “Sing. You know the words.”
Rudi is quiet. His English isn’t very good. Karl’s English isn’t good, either, but that doesn’t stop him. He has always loved to sing, and so he joins Helmuth in a clear voice.
Suddenly Helmuth hears the distinct sound of marching boots. Karl stops singing, but Helmuth keeps on, even more loudly as a Hitler Youth patrol rounds the corner. He’s egging on the Hitler Youth, and he knows it.
“Heil Hitler,” says the patrol leader, saluting.
Helmuth finishes the song quickly in one breath and then snaps off a smart salute. “Heil Hitler!” He doesn’t know these boys, but he recognizes their uniforms. HJ-Streifendienst, patrol force. Junior Gestapo.
“We need to see your identification cards,” says the patrol leader. The boy is Helmuth’s age, with a long, lean face, sleek as a greyhound’s.
“Why?” says Helmuth. “It’s not curfew yet.”
Rudi has his wallet out already, his identification card extracted. “Come on,” he says, nudging Helmuth. “Show him your card. It’s no
big deal.”
But to Helmuth, it is a big deal. In anger, he snaps his card out of his wallet. The leader inspects it, writes down Helmuth’s name and address, hands the card back. “Guddat, why are you singing English songs?” says the leader, with an air of superiority.
“It’s not English,” says Helmuth, “it’s American. And why shouldn’t we sing it? We’re not fighting Americans.”
“It’s un-German,” says the patrol leader. “You should sing German songs. You’d better watch your step, or you’ll find yourself in weekend detention and possibly even a fine.”
Rudi grabs Helmuth’s arm. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Helmuth is seething. He throws off Rudi’s hand, struggles to get himself under control. He can’t afford a fine, but he wants to tell this patrol leader off.
Karl intercedes. “No need to get upset,” he says to Helmuth. And then to the patrol leader, Karl adds, “We were just having a little fun. We’ll be careful and make sure our friend gets home.”
“Get your friend home now,” orders the patrol leader. “I’m noting this incident on my report.”
The patrol force squad continues down the street and, in perfect rhythm, they pivot around the corner. Helmuth glares after them. “The Hitler Youth talk about comradeship, but what they really want to do is bully,” he says, seething.
Rudi nudges Helmuth. “There are lots of things worth getting in trouble for, but not a song. Come on. Let’s go home. Forget about them.”
* * *
As 1940 ends, more British bombs have fallen over Hamburg, but the Nazis have overrun Poland, France, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. There are rumors, too, about large camps being built in Poland, camps where Jews will be forced to work, and the German people are deliriously happy that God has given them Hitler and that God is on their side.
Helmuth, Rudi, and Brother Worbs spend New Year’s Eve on air-raid duty in a cold factory building that also doubles as their church. Karl should be there, too, but he has found a New Year’s party and sent a Mormon friend, Arthur Sommerfeld, as his replacement.
To pass time, Helmuth fiddles with a radio dial, trying to tune in a station other than the German Reich radio, the RRG. He twists the knob. Static. Twists again, and the radio coughs out a few garbled words of a Swiss broadcast. Twists again, and the radio growls German news.
It’s frustrating. Terribly frustrating, the way the Nazis jam the airways so that the German people can only listen to broadcasts approved by the Nazis.
Helmuth longs to hear news other than the RRG, since the German news is always the same. If he lived closer to the border, he might be able to pick up a foreign station from England or Switzerland. But not here, not in Hamburg. Not with a cheap People’s Radio.
Helmuth gives up on the radio, snaps it off, and turns his attention to the card game that Rudi and Arthur are playing. Brother Worbs sits off by himself in a small circle of light, reading his worn Book of Mormon.
The night passes slowly, until Brother Worbs pulls out his pocket watch and calls out, “Almost midnight, boys!”
Helmuth scrambles to his feet, out of the room, and down the hall. Rudi and Arthur follow, clambering behind, up the narrow stairs, groping their way to the rooftop. They push open the heavy door and spill out onto the roof.
In peacetime, the street lamps below would be lit and the city aglow with light. Especially tonight, New Year’s Eve. People would have been heading out to parties, all dressed sharply.
Instead the night is as quiet as a shadow. Helmuth digs his hands into his pockets. He gazes at the jagged outline of buildings, at the church spires and turrets.
A car rumbles slowly down the darkened street, its headlights shrouded. The driver must be a high-ranking official, for war rationing means that only important Nazis have ample access to gas and food.
Another minute passes, and it’s the new year. Where there is no light, there is suddenly noise. Church bells clang, and in the harbor, ships blare their foghorns and steam whistles shrill.
“Look,” says Helmuth. The boys follow his pointing finger across the jutted rooftops where fireworks explode — blue red yellow white — a thousand points of brilliant light. It isn’t as grand a celebration as it would have been before the war, but the boys gasp in amazement at the wonder and danger of it all.
“Nineteen forty-one,” says Helmuth, rolling over the feel of the numbers in his mouth, and for a moment the new year hangs there, ripe with hope and possibility.
Somewhere a police whistle shrills. There is always a fearful moment to wonder who they are coming after this time. The noise, the fireworks fade, and the boys retreat to their watch room. Brother Worbs pours hot cider, and Rudi brings out Berliners, the special jelly doughnuts that his mother has saved her ration cards to make.
Before they eat, Brother Worbs kneels and clasps his hands in prayer. In a strong voice, he prays, “Lord, give us peace, break the yoke of the Nazi butchers, make us free.”
The boys are shocked into silence. They stare, open-mouthed, at Brother Worbs. He should know better. His words are dangerous and foolhardy, for Nazi informers lurk everywhere.
“You’d better watch what you say in public,” whispers Rudi.
“I speak the truth,” says Brother Worbs.
“You can think whatever you want,” says Helmuth to Brother Worbs. “But be careful what you say.”
Brother Worbs opens his Book of Mormon and continues reading, leaving the boys to check through the warehouse every few hours. Everything appears in order. The boys struggle to stay awake, but no air-raid sirens sound. Finally they fall asleep, awaking only when three Hitler Youths in uniform report for duty early the next morning.
The boys bid good-bye to Brother Worbs and walk home. Helmuth remembers the feeling of hope and possibility he felt on the rooftop. He searches for it, tries to feel it again. He feels a sudden pang of sadness and something beneath the sadness. He follows the feeling, traces it back. It’s Gerhard. He misses Gerhard.
Noon. The small window in the cell door slides open again. A bowl of watery cabbage soup is shoved through. The soup is possible to eat if he doesn’t stop to smell it, doesn’t stop to think about his grandmother’s soup, her thick beef-and-barley soup, and the crusty bread to sop up the hearty broth.
He longs for a letter. He’d surely trade soup for a letter. He misses his family terribly, so terribly he aches. He knows he has caused them much sorrow, much hardship. Especially Gerhard. That he regrets, and only that.
He gulps the thin soup.
The March day is bright blue as Helmuth enters the Luisenweg tenement, turns the key to the flat. The door is unlocked. Puzzled, Helmuth drops his satchel by the door, finds himself startled at a noise coming from the hall. It’s Gerhard, standing at the closet, a gaping duffel bag at his feet.
“You’re home!” says Helmuth.
Gerhard is a sight for sore eyes, looking strong and fit in his brown Reich Labor Service uniform. The swastika armband fits snug. He has muscled out in the seven months he’s been away.
Gerhard grins. “I am. But it’s only for a few days. A week, maybe two at most. Until I get my draft notice.” He bends over his duffel bag and takes out a brown radio.
Helmuth spots the bright Rola logo, sucks in his breath in amazement. “A shortwave radio!” he whispers. “Where did you get it?”
Gerhard grins. “The black market,” he whispers back. “Paid 5,250 francs. That’s 25 marks!”
The black market. Germans stationed in France fill their duffels with items rationed or no longer available at home due to wartime restrictions. Twenty-five marks was cheap for a Rola radio — even cheaper than the People’s Radio.
Gerhard sets the radio on the middle shelf in the closet. He makes room next to his paintings, his railroad cars, and his violin and mandolin and mandola. He locks everything away for safekeeping because that’s the way Gerhard is.
“Wait,” says Hel
muth as Gerhard inserts a key in the lock. “Let me keep the radio.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” says Gerhard. “You can’t listen to a shortwave. You know what happens to people who break the Radio Law —” Gerhard stops midsentence, draws his finger across his throat for emphasis, makes a cutting sound.
Helmuth’s temper flares. “The Führer forbids everything,” he says angrily.
Helmuth holds his index finger to his upper lip, mocking Hitler’s toothbrush mustache, and goose-steps across the flat. “Swing music. Verboten,” he says. “Jitterbug dancing. Verboten. Reading un-German books. Singing un-German songs. Staying out past the ten o’clock curfew. Criticizing Adolf Hitler or the war. Verboten. Verboten. Verboten.”
Gerhard grabs his brother’s hand, grips it, iron-fisted. “Stop that,” he whispers, shocked. “Are you a fool? Do you want the neighbors to hear?”
Gerhard relaxes his grip. “The war won’t last forever. Soon the Fatherland will be victorious and then —”
Helmuth yanks his hand away, his fingers smarting. “And then what?”
“And then we will take out the radio. In the meantime, we obey the law.”
Helmuth crosses to the window, pretends to watch a robin hopping about in the courtyard. There are times when he hates Gerhard. And why shouldn’t he? Gerhard is so reasonable, so predictable, so resolute, always doing the right thing, obeying the law, even when he doesn’t agree with it.
Gerhard stands behind him, grips Helmuth’s shoulders, tries to turn Helmuth to face him. Helmuth resists. Gerhard presses harder. Helmuth gives in. Stares eye to eye with Gerhard and realizes for the first time that they are nearly the same height.
“I mean to speak to you man-to-man,” says Gerhard. “Can you handle that for once?”
Helmuth winces. How Gerhard can sting with so few words.
Gerhard’s eyes bore into Helmuth’s. “The Nazi government is not the first unjust government in the world,” he says. “Nor will it be the last. But it will come to an end.”
Helmuth searches Gerhard’s face. “Will it?”