A Quiet Genocide Page 2

  * * *

  It had not snowed again and the constant procession of buses and trams and the odd car had transformed the white blanket over Munich’s roads into a mucky brown mess.

  The pair of them reached the top of the hill which swooped down to Sebastian’s house and they now stood outside the house of the man who had sworn at them so aggressively earlier in the morning.

  ‘You know what I’m going to do?’ boasted Jozef, without awaiting a response. ‘Get that arse’s window!’

  Before Sebastian could protest, Jozef’s snowball banged against the glass. They careered off like bloodhounds who had been straining at the leash. Sebastian frantically tried to keep pace with his friend and they quickly reached the bottom of the hill, but they were not yet out of sight. The boys were giggling and gasping for breath in the cold, late afternoon, and they were about to congratulate themselves on their courage and sense of justice when Sebastian, a few yards in front of Jozef and turning round to look back, drained white. His eyes flooded with horror. Jozef had no time to react. They were two teenage pups splashing dangerously in the water – and now they had attracted the attention of a large predator hurtling up from the black below. Jozef felt enveloped.

  The man had barrelled out of his front door, recalling the two boys from this morning. He launched himself at Jozef, knocking him to the ground.

  Jozef felt his winter coat being ripped over his head before the man rained down blows with heavy boots. Numbing shock and a rush of adrenalin spared Jozef from pain. He wasn’t sure what was happening or why.

  Paralysed, Sebastian was forced to witness the fierce assault on his dear friend.

  A woman pushing a pram, with a small child skipping happily alongside, came around the corner of the avenue. The child immediately began to cry.

  The man yanked Jozef to his feet, drew his arm back and snapped a shuddering punch to his head. When he spotted the woman, he hastily retreated back up the hill.

  Sebastian flicked back to life and supported his friend like a crutch. The two of them were too stunned to speak. The woman wanted to know if Jozef was okay. She lived nearby, but Sebastian, fearing that they had asked for trouble and got it, quickly hauled Jozef away.

  ‘What shall we tell your mother?’ he said, panicked.

  Jozef still could not think clearly. Blood was trickling down from a cut underneath his left eye. That side of his face felt like a football and his backpack was lassoed around him, chocking his breast. He felt grotesque.

  ‘Frau Diederich!’ panicked Sebastian, holding his friend upright at Jozef’s door.

  Chapter Three

  Catharina bathed her boy carefully.

  His scarred cheek made Jozef believe he was a monster – until he limped in front of the bathroom mirror and realised it wasn’t all that bad. Still, he remained an anxious shell and he hardly touched his supper. Instead, he asked to be excused early from the dining room table and, noticing their son’s downcast eyes, his parents immediately acquiesced.

  ‘Of course Jozef,’ Catharina agreed gently.

  Jozef slowly climbed into bed and was too upset to try and read his latest book. Instead, he faced the wall and choked out an opening sob.

  The next morning Sebastian knocked nervously on their door, enquiring if his companion was coming to school but wary to reveal too much.

  ‘No, Sebastian,’ said Catharina somewhat sternly. ‘Jozef won’t be going to school today.’

  Jozef heard the exchange from his bedroom upstairs and wanted to rush out after his friend, see his face and at least in that moment begin to confront what had happened. Instead, he stuck to the sanctity of his bed. A breakfast tray remained untouched, bar half a piece of toast soaking in melted butter. Jozef finished a glass of watery orange juice and slipped back to sleep.

  He was awoken by a knock at the door downstairs. He did not know what time it was. It was early afternoon and the lady who had witnessed yesterday’s disturbing assault had come to see how he was. She knew Catharina by sight, but no more.

  ‘Frau Diederich, I am sorry to trouble you but I wanted to ask how young Jozef is doing. I saw what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Catharina. ‘Shaken up, that’s all. Must have been a nasty fall.’

  ‘Frau Diederich, forgive me. But what exactly did Jozef tell you happened?’

  Jozef was horrified when he heard the last question. He had been slowly starting to feel himself again and he was considering getting up, reading his book and hoping to persuade his mother to have an early supper by himself before his father came home. Now he felt sick. His lie to protect his part in inciting yesterday’s attack had surely been exposed. Downstairs, words spoken out loud had quietened to careful whispers. Jozef’s fragile psyche could hardly take a second volley in as many days. He remained upstairs and briefly considered killing himself.

  He imagined who might attend his funeral and who might be most upset. That would teach them, he thought. Of course, he was never really going to do it. He would not be able to enjoy his own funeral were he actually dead.

  It was dark when Gerhard finally came up to see him.

  Jozef was facing the wall and turned tightly on the far side of the bed. He felt the landing light glare uncomfortably on the back of his head when his father pushed the door ajar.

  Catharina had told Gerhard what had happened. Jozef had not fallen in the snow; he had been violently punched and kicked by a man much older and larger than him. Gerhard was struggling to remain calm and avoid marching up the road and tearing to pieces the animal who had attacked his son. But he knew he did not harbour such hostility.

  ‘Jozef, I want to ask you something. Did that man hit you yesterday for throwing a snowball at his window?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jozef, fearing the confession might inflict new wounds on his bruised frame. His diaphragm choked with emotion. He was trying very hard not to break apart completely.

  The room fell silent.

  The dark had regained control and all Gerhard could see before him was a silhouette of his son cocooned like a caterpillar. Gerhard felt he could say anything in these moments and it would not be repeated too soberly the following day. He wouldn’t want it to be. Gerhard loved Jozef very much, but he knew his relationship with him would never eclipse the connection Catharina shared with their son. They chatted away happily about anything and everything over something so mundane as breakfast. Gerhard would perhaps only enjoy such intimacy with Jozef a handful of times in his life. This might be the first of those precious occasions.

  ‘Jozef, I am going to go round to that man’s house and I am going to tell him that if he touches you again I will break his legs.’

  Jozef loved to hear his father care so much, but that knowledge only made him more emotional and prevented him from rolling over and hugging him. Instead, he gently nodded and murmured where he lay.

  Gerhard sensed that would be enough for now and he placed his hand on the back of his shoulder. He squeezed it before slowly releasing his grip and carefully climbing back to his feet. He went downstairs, poured himself a large whisky and drank it impatiently in the hallway like one might gulp coffee before dashing out the door for work in the morning.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Catharina.

  ‘Out,’ said Gerhard curtly. The alcohol was working and helping him be cold towards his wife.

  ‘Gerhard, don’t go up to that man’s house. I don’t want you to go. We’ll ring the police in the morning. Let them take care of it.’

  ‘The police won’t do anything, darling. Why would they?’

  ‘We’ll make them, sweetheart. We’ll make them,’ Catharina pleaded, standing over her husband, who now rose to his feet and prepared to open their front door.

  ‘No,’ said Gerhard and he was gone.

  Gerhard never revealed what happened the night he went to see the man who beat Jozef.

  Catharina never asked and it became something else between them that rema
ined unsaid.

  * * *

  Gerhard unloaded his guilt and grief over the incident that Thursday when Michael visited. Michael smiled and nodded politely when he heard, sipping his whisky with unnatural calm. Inside his blood was raging. He could feel its fury rising. It hadn’t deserted him.

  ‘Gerhard, Gerhard. Now, you know to come to me first with these matters, don’t you?’

  Gerhard nodded like a dog.

  Michael looked across the room and saw Jozef was slumped asleep, resting his head against the sofa. He leaned forward, cupping his glass in both hands.

  ‘Gerhard, you have been a good friend, a good Nazi over the years. Now, let me handle this and then we shall never speak of it again. But next time Gerhard…’ Michael’s voice rose ominously, waking Jozef and forcing him to check the escalation of his threat. ‘Next time, Gerhard,’ he repeated more calmly. ‘You will come to me first and make things easy on yourself and better for Jozef here.’

  Michael smiled at the boy.

  Jozef, drunk from drowsiness, had no idea what they were talking about. He had long abandoned trying to translate the riddles they often spoke in.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course Michael,’ Gerhard said impatiently.

  Chapter Four

  Jozef returned to school, sporting a scar which underlined one eye. With distance now between himself and the events of that afternoon, he was even rather proud of it, although everyone bar Sebastian thought he had acquired it by falling over foolishly. Only the two of them appreciated the awful truth.

  They had just returned from their lunch hour in the school yard and everyone was drunk on exercise, food and gossip. Jozef and Sebastian sat at the back of class, waiting for the afternoon roll call before heading to double German. Two girls sat giggling nearby. One was Elena Engel, a beautiful, blue-eyed blonde just how Hitler had posterized her on billboards across Germany – bronzed and ready to proudly bear the next generation of National Socialists.

  Jozef had had intense feelings for Elena since the first day of secondary school. Her lithe legs were perfect and he was very sweet on her.

  Now, egged on by the other girl, she leant across and kissed Jozef’s scar. She blushed coyly from the momentary intimacy, but that was nothing compared to Jozef’s complexion, which flushed redder than Stalingrad.

  Jozef did not care. He was only upset he could not quite experience her kiss, because that side of his face had still not regained full feeling.

  ‘Settle down, settle down. Lunch time is over ladies and gentlemen,’ said Herr Slupski at the front of the class.

  Jozef and Sebastian, who sat across from one another a few rows from the front, exchanged smiles. They loved it when Herr Slupski called them ‘ladies and gentlemen’. Chatter in the room quietened.

  ‘Today,’ said Herr Slupski, striding up and down the rows of desks and pupils. ‘We are going to deviate slightly from our normal diet of some of the greatest literature ever written and dabble in a spot of modern history.’

  Loud sighs.

  Jozef and the rest of class had enough of history in history. They didn’t need Herr Slupski to give them a second dose – and instead of German literature, most pupils’ favourite subject.

  ‘Calm down,’ Herr Slupski appeased. ‘Don’t panic. We’re not going to delve back very far in the hallowed annals of time. You can think of it more like current affairs, for I am only interested in your friend and mine, Herr Adolf Hitler.’

  Excited gasps could be heard around the room.

  ‘And if any of you have any ideas about repeating the fact that we might be getting creative, if you will, with the curriculum this great government has bestowed upon us, I will set the Gestapo on you!’ continued Herr Slupski, breaking into a wicked accent.

  The pupils laughed, half in humour and half in relief that maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  ‘Don’t think the Gestapo have suddenly disappeared along with Hitler’s remains, ladies and gentlemen. They are very much alive and well and thriving along secret channels spreading from right under our noses here in Germany all the way to the furthest reaches of South America. But make no mistake, they are some of the very same people who terrorised entire nations and drove thousands to their deaths in extermination camps.’

  Herr Slupski was in full flow. He occasionally paused to sweep what silver hair he had left on his head over to one side – he had just enough to make himself dashing still. Most of the girls in Jozef’s class were sweet on him. He had a confident air when he glided down the corridors of their school and a spring in his gait other teachers lacked. They seemed burdened somehow, like life had slowly saddled them with baggage over the years. Herr Slupski did not carry baggage. He carried a tweed jacket, slung casually over his shoulder, which acted peculiarly like a coat hanger. Jozef had not seen anyone carry their jacket like that before.

  ‘How did a far-right fascist party like the National Socialists come to power in one of the most powerful and cultured countries in Europe? How did they go from being a political joke in Germany to moulding our opinions and lives so closely that we tacitly complied with their murderous policy towards Jews and other groups in society that they regarded as enemies of the state or simply superfluous?’

  A boy shot his arm up high into the air, straining, reaching, desperate to answer. ‘Hitler was superhuman, sir. He was bound to lead,’ said the boy, gasping slightly.

  ‘The church says he was the devil and the Nazis’ 555th member. The number was an omen, sir,’ answered another.

  ‘Fantastic,’ exclaimed Herr Slupski, who cherished freethinkers in his class and the boys’ egos ballooned until they almost filled the room. ‘However, sadly incorrect. But wonderful insight gentlemen. Now let me add some meat to your bones,’ he said, waggling his hands and making everyone laugh.

  ‘Hitler was indeed the 555th member of the then new Nazi party – but only officially. In reality, my learned friends, Hitler was only the 55th member of the party. The Nazis started off with 500 fictitious members to make them appear stronger to newcomers. And so they pulled off their first deception aimed at the German public and the world. Therein lie their success and the truth at their heart – the Nazis were never all-powerful like they made out. They were bullies. And what do bullies always do?’ Herr Slupski asked, offering the question to the room like a present.

  The bullies in class shrank a little in their chairs, while the teacher’s favourites, Sebastian included, rose in theirs. Jozef did not move. He did not truly belong in either group. Of course, nobody dared answer the question, which continued to hang uncomfortably in the room. They didn’t need to.

  ‘Bullies always act like they are more powerful than they really are. It is a bluff, because that is how bullies flourish. They thrive upon intimidation and fear, and if their bluff is called their power goes up in smoke. Puff,’ said Herr Slupski, opening his clenched fist like a flower.

  The next morning Jozef and Sebastian bundled into double German, excited about what the lesson may bring and intrigued to know exactly where Herr Slupski was going with their temporary divorce from the school curriculum.

  Elena Engel slunk by them both. ‘Guten Morgen Jozef,’ she purred.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Jozef, slightly startled as she glided past in a skirt cut teasingly above bronzed knees.

  Sebastian gave Jozef a playful push.

  ‘Settle down, settle down,’ said Herr Slupski. ‘Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen. Then we shall begin. Continuing our little history lesson from the other day, let us explore how the Nazis rose to power in Germany in the 1920s and 1930s, and how Munich, our home, was their birthplace. The Nazis were born out of Germany’s surrender and defeat in the Great War in 1918. Two million German troops lay dead in France and the ones who survived – my very self among them – were angry, furious even, at the decision to surrender. There was a strong feeling that politically active men back home, Jews included, were to blame for selling out our soldiers on the f
ront. German soldiers on the Western Front, for example, were still in enemy territory in November 1918. Why had we surrendered?’

  Herr Slupski had momentarily managed to divert Jozef’s mind from thoughts of French kissing Elena Engel like in the movies. He whirled off his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. Sunlight floated in from the windows. It was a magical morning.

  ‘Textbooks might have you believe the political far left, classically represented by communism and the far right, fascists, lie at opposite ends of the spectrum. Hogwash! The political line is in fact a circle, ladies and gentlemen, and the far left and right lie not at opposite ends of it, but right next to each other. Why?’ Herr Slupski asked, pausing. ‘Because they are all extremists and they fought for the hearts and minds of German people, people like your parents right here in Munich, Bavaria post-1919.’

  That evening, Michael, backed by three associates, knocked on the front door of the man who had assaulted Jozef.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ said Michael, bowing to greet him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We would just like a moment of your time this evening. Might we come inside to talk? More discreetly?’

  One of the men behind Michael quickly reached out a hand to block any attempt to close the door.

  The man was outflanked. He had a sweetheart, but he lived alone. He let the men in and sat back down in his small, messy front room.

  Michael moved a pile of newspapers from the first available chair and sat himself down, uncomfortable for a moment in the disorder, distracted. He was a religiously tidy man, so he composed himself while his three associates came up behind the man. None of them spoke.

  ‘What? What do you want?’

  ‘You have hurt something valuable to me,’ said Michael coldly, like a surgeon making an initial incision. ‘You attacked and assaulted a boy, Jozef Diederich.’

  ‘That little shit,’ the man said.