In my notebook, during the war

July sixteenth, 1939



    Today was my thirteenth birthday. Since it happened to be an occasion, wrapped in old news paper, a package sat on the table with my name on it: Lorelei.

    Papa gave me a notepad that he’d constructed of scrap paper with the pages burnt, bent, and uneven. Yet that does nothing to stop me from writing on them now. I’m fortunate enough to be able to read and write. Though, I was only in school up until the fifth grade, Papa sometimes teaches me whenever he’s not working. He’s a tailor and he’s at the shop more than he his at home.

    Papa’s never told me about Mama, except that she’s gone away. I don’t remember her much. Papa says I have the same pale, blond hair as her: The same safe blond hair and safe blue eyes. Since we don’t have a mama, Gunter, my older brother, is usually in charge. He doesn’t abuse the gifted power, he best knows not to. In fact I think he’d rather have me in charge. Yet Papa insists he’s the one to watch over me, not the other way around. I often tell Gunter we can watch over each other equally.

    Like me, Gunter was only in school until he completed the fifth grade. I think he misses it, not as much as I do, of course. If he missed school as much as I do, he’d have a journal by now.







September fifth, 1939



    On September first, Nazi Germany invaded Poland. Britain and France have declared war against Germany all together. Everybody, Gunter told me, is sure that we’re going to win. Papa didn’t seem so sure. He seemed more distant on the subject. When he tucked me into bed, I brought it up.

    He sat in the rocking chair in the corner of my room, breathing deeply with his eyes closed, slowly rocking away. I could smell the tobacco on his breath. I’ve told you before that I’m not a part of their party, he said. There were many Germans who were skeptical of Hitler when he became chancellor in 1933. But Führer propaganda and military success soon turned him into an idol. Papa remains untouched.

    Gunter is just the opposite. He’s a member of The Hitler Youth, and has been for six years now. When he turns eighteen in two years, he’ll join the war, only further supporting the Führer.

    I’m in the Jungmädelbund, League of Young Girls. Next year when I turn fifteen, I’ll be transferred to the Bund Deutscher Mädel, League of German girls. Gunter says Hitler Youth creates German discipline. Papa thinks this image is far from accurate.

Papa got up from the rocking chair and kissed me on the head. You shouldn’t be worrying about it. You already know too much for your age.







December fourteenth, 1939



    A family of two moved into the empty house next door to us—a mother and a son.

    Gunter and I met him, the new boy, on our way to the shops. He was wrapped in more jackets than the both of us combined. When we caught up to him, taking on his fast pace, we asked him where he was going. He looked at us for a long time before deciding to answer. The post office: I’m mailing a letter to my father, he said in frosty breaths.

    His name is Hugo. He’s fifteen, bone skinny right down to the knees, and he has that safe blond hair, though his eyes are dark brown. I think he got them from his mama. Of all the few times I’ve seen her, her eyes have always looked dark.

    As we walked along the pavement to town, Gunter and I persisted on with more questions. Clutching his letter close, Hugo never failed to give us an answer. We asked him where he was from: Berlin. If he had any siblings: He was an only child. And then we came to a final question, the moment before we parted ways at the square.

    I asked him about his father. The hesitation there in his eyes, he still complied. He’s a soldier. He trailed off to the post office, not once looking back to us.







April twenty-first, 1940



    It was the Führer’s birthday yesterday. In the evening people gathered in the town square for a celebration: A bonfire, setting fire to books and journals.

    Gunter wanted to burn my journal. He snatched it right out of my hands when I was trying to jot down words. It’s what’s best for you! You shouldn’t be writing! He yelled. Papa struck him on the face for it, enflaming his cheek with the rough palm of his hand. Gunter stayed quiet through it all, not daring to look Papa in the eye.

    The Hitler Youth—both boys and girls—joined for the annual parade, marching in our uniforms like all children had ever since the group was founded in the 1920’s. So close to the fire, the heat of the flames threatened to suffocate us. We were all so close together. Screaming, yelling, cheering. At least seven people collapsed or tripped. Still, we marched on as a unit, helping those who fell to stand back up.

    Hugo wasn’t part of that unit. Not once did Gunter or I see him in the mass of children or the crowd of the people. And without saying a word to Gunter or asking Papa for his thoughts, I came to a conclusion: Hugo was not, and had never been, a member of The Hitler Youth.

    Happy birthday Führer Hitler.







June seventeenth, 1940



    I’ve been talking to Hugo more—enough to say that we’re actually friends. Friends aren’t common without school. Gunter and I only ever had each other. Hugo’s had no body here so far. But now he has me. I think that’s why he’s told me so much. He’s told me things you wouldn’t normally tell a person. Things you wouldn’t dare say on the street. And things Papa wouldn’t want me to know.

    My Mama and I left my Papa. Do you know what type of soldier he is? He asked me. We sat huddled on his front porch, cupping our mouths so our voices wouldn’t carry. I shook my head. He’s the head at a concentration camp. Do you know what that is? He asked again. I told him something to do with the Jews. Gunter had mentioned it once in the privacy of our home, but not enough for me to really understand. It’s intended to hold political prisoners and opponents, otherwise known as the Jews, he nodded. But they’re not opponents and they shouldn’t be prisoners. Do you know what the Führer does? He works them to death, or kills them as they enter the camp in a mass.

    I was frozen, unable to breath or even so much as swallow. Mama and I fled once the war started. We ended up here, he concluded. Hugo looked around the block before he swallowed hard and spoke his next few words. I hate the Führer. I hate him.







August eleventh, 1942



    I turned sixteen not even a month ago. I’ve been in the Bund Deutscher Mädel, League of German Girls, for over a year now.

    Hugo still lives next door. He’s seventeen and more muscle than bone now. We’re still friends—perhaps maybe more. He helps to keep me updated on the war, the Jews, and the Führer. He told me that in this past January, his father attended the Wannsee Conference in Berlin to find a Final Solution for the Jews. As he spoke, I noticed his eyes glistening.

    Yes, Germany is still at war, along with several other countries that have recently joined. Two opposing military alliances have formed: the Allies and the Axis. Germany, of course, is a part of the Axis.

    Gunter doesn’t talk to Hugo anymore. He never really did from the start. They got by with small talk. Tensions began to rise, not only between the two boys, but also in our own household. Although unknowingly, Papa and Hugo almost have identical views on the war, but also the Führer, leaving Gunter bruised and outnumbered.

    I don’t think Gunter’s ever been happier with the idea of leaving for war.







May twenty-ninth, 1945



    Germany has surrendered. Hitler is dead. The war is over here.

    Gunter has yet to come home. We haven’t heard from him in years. Papa and I miss him dearly, even if he did misjudge the Führer.

    Papa’s business has shut down completely. Even with my help in the shop, business was too low and customers were scarce. So is food.

    Hitler Youth has dissolved completely. I graduated from it last year. Now at nineteen years old, I’m actually relieved to have completed the course. Hugo, now twenty, seems to be happy I’m finished too—the one sweet spot in a mouthful of bitter.

    His father is being tried for war crimes. Even though Hugo hated his profession, I don’t believe he hates his father, no matter what he says. When he told me, he didn’t bother to hold back the water in his eyes. I let him squeeze my hand as he cried.

    Hitler was a coward. He shot himself before he was captured. Every follower must feel humiliated and ashamed, letting a figure like Hitler use them for his own. Even Gunter, who is most likely hiding his face, because he lied to me.

    We did not win the war. And Führer Hitler was not the least bit of extraordinary