Children to a Degree - Growing Up Under the Third Reich (23 page)

“That will do it.” Karl’s father turned to his son. “Didn’t you just tell me the other day that there are now guidelines published by the propaganda people?”

“Yes, we did receive a ‘reporting guideline’ which included unprofessional and suspicious behavior,” Karl remembered.

“Did they give you any reasons why the propaganda agency issued these rules to the HJ?” Karl’s grandfather wondered.

Karl hesitated answering because the instructions had been marked confidential. He also knew that they would upset his Opa. Unsure how to answer he looked to his father for guidance.

“Go ahead and tell Opa what you told me.” Herr Veth encouraged his son.

“No, they gave us no specific reasons.” Karl wanted to keep this topic short. He did not like the idea of telling on each other and hoped that his reply would suffice.

Herr Veth turned to his father. “It looks to me that Dr. Goebbels’ propaganda agency is using the HJ to encourage spying on our citizens. The boys are to report on ‘unprofessional conduct’ to flush out dissidents of the Nazi doctrine.”

“What does Dr. Foster’s arrest has to do with this?” pondered the old cavalry officer.

“It fits.  A doctor practicing medicine while wearing street clothing is clearly a follower of sloppy, unprofessional bearing,” Herr Veth explained.

“Yes, a physician is supposed to wear a white garment when he is seeing a patient,” Karl said, opening up. His sense of order agreed with this specific part of the ruling. It was the reporting which bothered him.

“But this cannot be a reason to arrest someone,” objected the granddad.

“It is reason enough for the SS to detain anyone who steps out of line. In their mind all professionals who are excused of active duty are nothing but military dodgers. Besides they are not just taken into custody. They are detained in labor camps until they are ‘cured’ of their transgressions,” Karl’s father elaborated.

“Yes, I heard about that and I am worried. Grandmother is not doing too well. She was seeing Dr. Foster before the holidays and now she will need to visit a different physician.”

While the grownups continued their conversation Karl went to the kitchen to see his grandma. She seemed to be in a good mood and when he asked her about her illness she just shook her grey head.

“Nothing, serious, Karlchen, it will pass. There is always something not working right when you get older. It’s either that or you have to die young.” She was always cheerful when she spoke to Karl and he was happy to see that she was her usual self.

He went back to the living room and asked to be excused. Today did not seem to be the day to bother his granddad with questions and he wanted to meet with Harold and Peter. He reached the office building just in time to see the fire trucks leaving. They had pumped the basement dry and the building seemed to be back to normal.

“What caused the flooding?” he asked Harold instead of a greeting.

“Some unfortunate devastating hit up the street caused the mainline to rupture and it flooded the neighboring basements. The school shelter was not connected, so it stayed dry.”

He reached for a paper on the shelf behind his desk. “Here is the address of a supply depot which stores shoes in your size and here is a cash equivalent certificate for government employees. You will not have to pay for the shoes or the pants.”

“I am not a government employee,” Karl objected, but he was surprised at the speed with which Harold had produced the needed address.

“It does not matter, my friend,” Harold assured him. “By the time Peter gets here I will have an assignment typed out and stamped by the administrator of this office.”

“Who is the administrator of this office?” wondered Karl. “And how will you obtain his signature?”

“Karl, you better get back to your camps. You have been out of touch way too long. You are much too slow for the Berlin of today.” Harold reached into his desk drawer and produced several rubber stamps.

“You wouldn’t dare, “Karl stammered.

“What?” Harold said, smiling. “First of all there is no real administrator of this office. But I have some stamps who say otherwise. So, I don’t need to obtain any particular signature.”

He started typing as if he was trying to break a record. Karl was mildly bewildered. Maybe his friend was right and he had been away too long.

Harold finished at about the same time Peter entered the office. He was out of uniform because he had slept at a nearby relative’s house. The clothes he was wearing did not exactly fit him but they were clean and dry.

“How good are you with signing with your left hand?” Harold greeted him. Peter did not know what to make with the question. He had no experience in signing anything. Right or left handed. He pushed both of his fists in his pockets and just stood there with his silly grin on his face.

Harold was not perturbed. He opened the door and waved at an old looking street worker who was busy brushing the last debris from the sidewalk. “Do you smoke?” he inquired.

“Of course, who doesn’t?” answered the old guy. Harold grabbed the papers and again reached into his desk drawer. He shook two cigarettes out of a packet and went outside. A moment later he was back and pressed his rubber stamp over signatures that nobody could read. He had to give both papers to Karl because Peter refused to take his hands out of his pockets.

Two hours later the boys were back. Both had a pair of brand new leather shoes in a paper bag and Karl also had two pairs of uniform pants.

“You were right,” marveled Karl. “They never asked for money or anything.” He was elated.

“Interesting,” muttered Harold. “I’ll be darned. This was my first attempt and it seems to work. I have to remember what I did.”

He pushed the desk clean of some scattered papers and unfolded a railroad and subway map of the city. “Remember the footpath you found?” he asked Karl. “I had some time to go back and found that the grate was unlocked. The grate and the culver was nothing but a decoy. The path opened up again and ended right under a dead, unused track of rails.” He touched a specific point on the map. Karl could see that it was fairly close to the long distance railroad platform at the Zoo Station.

“How was the exit concealed?” Karl admired that his friend had pursued their exploration.

“Just a simple grate among the lose Schotter (railroad rocks). There was a thin layer on top of the grate but otherwise it was right in the open.” Harold pushed the map closer to Karl who leaned over the desk. “What do you make of it?” he asked.

“I am not sure, but it looks like an escape or infiltration route,” Karl guessed.

Harold thumbed the map a few times.” There is no question that this is an escape tunnel. Nobody in his right mind would infiltrate the subway system. What for? Another thing, it is clear that the tunnel is old, but it is still in active use. What we don’t know is who is using it.”

Peter had listened to the friends and wondered about their exploits. His eyes went from the map to the boys and back. “What do you intend to do with this information?” he asked.

Karl had nothing to say and looked at Harold. “We could report it to the SS,” said Harold, uncertain of the possible consequences.

“No, I don’t like that. Whoever is using it, is just trying to get out of Berlin. That’s all.” Karl wished he had never discovered the trail. “Why don’t we stay away from this subway section and simply forget about it. After all, it is none of our business. Besides Peter and I will be gone anyhow,” he suggested.

“I agree, we can always ‘remember’ the path when it suits us.” Harold looked like he was relieved. “Will I see you once more before you leave?” he asked, looking hopefully at Karl.

“Don’t know about that,” Karl said, stretching out his hand. “First of all, thank you, but now that you have a phone why don’t you give me your number? I should be able to use the camp phone. It would be nice to stay in contact.”

Harold searched the phone instruction sheet to find it and then noticed that it was written on a small piece of paper and taped below the dial. It was a six-digit number starting with 92. No prefix.

“You did a great job with getting us our shoes. Thank you.” Peter shook Harold’s hand. He was eager to get to his parents in Stralau. “See you next week at the railroad station,” he waved at Karl.

A day later Karl saw his grandfather again. He told him about the subway path because he wanted to hear his granddad’s take on it. “Do you think that it could be an escape tunnel for Jews?” he asked him.

“It might have been in 1938 or in 39. But Harold thinks that it is still active?”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“You did right by deciding to forget about it. I would not be surprised if the SS is using it to smuggle valuables out of Berlin. They have been secretly plundering some of our museums under the pretext of storing the artifacts in underground shelters.”

Karl considered the possibility.  “I cannot imagine that the SS is doing anything in secret. They are all over the place and can ship out whatever they please.”

“Yes,” agreed Karl’s grandfather, “but you are talking about the organized units. I am thinking more of individual officers who have access and opportunities. The smart ones know that we will lose the war and they are hording right now.” He looked for his walking stick and reached for a cap. “You better go home. I have some errands to take care of.” He was curious about Karl’s little story and wanted to visit his friend, the switch master. He should know what kind of trains are routinely parked above the possible exit grate.

A week later Karl was in the Harz Mountains. By now he had enough experience with his assignment that it took him very little time to establish a routine with Peter. In essence it was always the same. Peter took care of the sport programs and Karl initiated little work details.

The camp was located in Allrode and Thale, two little villages featuring houses with incredibly steep roof lines. Karl had never seen anything like it. Most of the houses were of the Fachwerk (half timbered) construction and it inspired him to order assorted painting supplies from Berlin for the boys. He then proceeded to guide small groups of 10 or 12 boys to different locations and all of them competed to draw and paint on writing paper various likenesses of the pretty houses. After the teachers graded the artwork (all of them achieved at least a C grading), the boys sent the pictures home. It was unfortunate that none of the teachers were art teachers.

However, one of the women teachers was versed in the history of the area and took groups of boys to the many locations of the fairy tales the brothers Grimm had written about. They also visited the nearby Wartburg castle in which Martin Luther had translated the Bible into German. According to history it was here that Martin Luther had thrown an inkwell at the devil.

“Now, that story is a stretch,” Peter muttered to Karl when they looked at the stain on the wall. It was in a small cubicle and the supposedly original writing utensils were displayed on a small writing desk. The teacher as well as the castle guide, a woman Karl estimated to be in her seventies, insisted that it was an ink stain. “Alright, maybe it is a true ink stain.” Peter allowed. “But, the thing with the devil is a bit much.”

He was not born yesterday, he explained to Karl, who was more open-minded.

“Maybe the devil was something of a vision,” he opinioned to Peter.

“You are nuts, there is no such thing as a vision. The Martin fellow, or whatever his name is, was besoffen (drunk), that’s when you get visions. My father told me so. This is the reason that I will never touch an alcoholic drink.” To the horror of the castle guide he proclaimed his view loudly to the boys in the room. It was the only time that Karl had to pull rank on him to shut him up.

Twenty

Karl and Peter spent three months at the camp before they were ordered back to Berlin. Their new assignment was a camp in Poland. It was an old cloister located close to the small town of Kosten. This time there were not even woman teachers available. The boys were told that it would be a smaller camp, maybe not more than 120 boys, again between ages eight and ten.

Their new camp leader was supposed to be a Lieutenant. A former panzer commander who had been heavily wounded and had suffered two amputations. When the boys reported to their first meeting with the KLV officials, the officer was not present. Apparently he was still recuperating in a field hospital.

When Karl told his grandfather of his new assignment the old officer was stunned. “Kosten, in Poland? How can the KLV administration be so shortsighted? You will be overrun by the Russians. I don’t even think that the whole war will last more than a year. Do whatever you can to get out of this task.” He was clearly upset.

Karl’s father didn’t like it any better. “Of all the safe places in Germany, what are they thinking to establish a new camp in Poland?”

Even Peter’s mother was worried. Peter’s father served someplace in Russia and the Feldpost- military postal service- was sometimes delayed by weeks. She feared that she might not be able to stay in touch with her son.

“What do we do?” asked Peter when he saw Karl a few days later.

“I don’t know,” admitted Karl. “I don’t believe that we have a choice in this matter. However, I will talk with Harold. It would not surprise me if he has an inside line to the KLV.”

It turned out to be the opposite. While Harold had connections, mostly through his father, to all kind of goodies, it was Karl who was solidly established with the school administration. He went to see Herr Hartung to ask him if there was a choice of destinations.

“No, Karl, I don’t know how to tell you, but it seems you did too well of a job. All of our present camps run smoothly and your assignment to Kosten is actually recognition of your efforts.” The administrator rolled his chair from behind the desk. He wanted the meeting to be informal because he liked the boy.

Karl wondered if he missed something. Maybe he was just slow this morning. “I am not so sure that I deserve a prize, but I don’t understand how a camp in Poland is a reward.” He wanted to add that his parents thought that Poland was possibly the worst place, but his respect for the invalid hindered him from rattling on.