Ben Elton - Two Brothers

‘No snobbery any more,’ the first boy said with brash self-confidence. ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re a lord or a peasant in Germany now. Not to the Führer. He knows it’s not class that counts but blood! We’re all Germans together.’

Otto wished the lad had been older so that he could have punched him.

The three boys were summoned into the gymnasium and told to sit on a bench that had been placed in front of a table on which lay a selection of strange and scary-looking objects: a pair of very long metal callipers, which looked like an insect’s antennae, and a couple of instruments that reminded Otto of the sort of clamps he had used in woodwork at school. There were also a series of wooden sticks from which were hung many locks of hair of varying colours and textures. Most intimidating of all was a sinister-looking display box from which thirty or forty different coloured glass eyeballs stared blindly upwards, all laid out neatly in little compartments.

‘Wow, creepy,’ the older boy laughed. ‘Looks like a morgue after the post-mortem’s finished.’

‘This is not a morgue, boy!’ a voice barked as a white-coated figure entered the room. ‘It is a laboratory dedicated to the science of racial truth. Stand up!’

The two other boys leapt to their feat. Otto rose more slowly. He had decided in his own mind that he must gauge his next protest in order to make the maximum impact. This he decided was not the right time. The only witnesses would be the white-coated figure and the two other boys who were much younger than him.

‘Good morning,’ the man in the white coat said. ‘I am Doctor Huber of the SS Central Office for Race and Colonization. You are all three of good German lineage or you would not be here. However, the Napola require more than that. Only the best and noblest of blood can be educated here and I shall decide whether it flows in your veins or not. We recognize five Germanic types. The finest of which, the Herrenmensch , is of course Nordic. After that comes Falic, then Dinaric, West Germanic and finally Balto Slavic. Only the first two racial types are guaranteed places here. However, despair not, boys, if you have a Polish great-granny lurking in your line. The majority of the Jungmannen we see here are a mixture of the five types and we require only that applicants are predominantly Nordic. Step forward, Stengel!’

Otto stood up and stepped forward.

He was weighed and then measured and subjected to the various tests. The size of his ears and his skull was determined using the long callipers, and the distance from his chin to the bridge of his nose was measured with the clamp-like devices. Swatches of hair were held up and compared with Otto’s thick, sandy thatch and various glass eyeballs were placed against his temples that a match might be found for his pale grey eyes. His pants were pulled to his knees and his penis was held and closely inspected. The foreskin which his mother had denied to Rabbi Jakobovitz during the Kapp Putsch of 1920 was rolled back and forth over Otto’s glans.

All the while Dr Huber barked out a bewildering series of numbers and letters which an orderly with a clipboard diligently recorded on Otto’s form.

When the examination was over, Otto was told to sit back down while Huber pored over the form, tallying up the columns of figures and applying them to various charts.

‘Congratulations, lad,’ Huber said finally and with much solemnity, ‘you are of pure Falic blood.’

A term Otto had never before heard in his life.

‘A rare and fine thing indeed,’ the doctor went on. ‘You are second only to pure Nordic and to Nordic/Falic in the great German family of races. You are truly a son of German soil and will be admitted to this academy this day.’

Otto absorbed this news in silence and was irritated to receive a slap of congratulation on the back from the older of his two fellow candidates.

Then it was the turn of the other boys. First, the younger one was subjected to the same bewildering series of measurements, comparisons and numerical diagnoses, before finally being graded as an acceptable mix of Falic and Dinaric. Like Otto, he was told he would be entering into the school, an honour Otto felt the little boy received with distinctly mixed emotions. The thirteen-year-old, however, the one who had been so enthusiastic about joining a Napola, was rejected. He was informed that his ‘rounded’ cranium was ‘pure Balto Slavic’ and hence he was racially unfit to study alongside the purer-blooded boys.

‘Cheer up, lad,’ the doctor said as it was clear the boy was fighting back tears. ‘You’re a good German, no doubt about that. Just not one of the best, that’s all. The Wehrmacht will be delighted to have you when you are older and you may serve the Führer as a soldier.’

When the three boys returned to the changing room, Otto and the younger boy found that their civilian clothes had already been removed and replaced with a school uniform in which they were told to dress.

Otto felt as if he was in a dream as he buttoned up the brown shirt and knotted the brown tie, then pulled on the black trousers and lace-up boots. The jacket was also black with a swastika armband stitched to the sleeve, with a diamond-shaped design rather than the traditional circular motive. There was a shiny black belt, shoulder belt and epaulettes. There were white gloves and a little black forage cap with an eagle and swastika badge.

Apart from the cap and the boots, the whole ensemble looked exactly like the SS uniforms that Otto had first seen worn by the men who had come to take his father to a concentration camp. On the night he and Paulus had killed the would-be rapist Karlsruhen.

Otto looked at the little eleven-year-old. He was dressed in the same way except that his boots were knee-length, laced all the way up and had caused the little boy considerable trouble.

He looked ridiculous, like a little Nazi doll.

The other boy had already left. Hurried out by the school orderlies while still buttoning his shirt. He was a bad smell that could not be mentioned and must be quickly dispersed. Then the eleven-year-old was collected to join his year group and Otto was brought before the headmaster.

The principal of the school was a big, quite jolly-looking man who nodded with approval at Otto’s uniform, even leaning forward to adjust Otto’s tie.

‘You wear it well,’ the principal said. ‘You’re not tall, I admit, but you’re strong. A fighter I’m told. Well there’s no better uniform to fight in.’

‘Where are my clothes?’ Otto asked.

The principal flinched slightly to be so perfunctorily addressed, but then smiled indulgently.

‘You won’t be needing civilian clothes any more, boy,’ he said. ‘From this day forward you will wear only uniform. A school uniform to begin with but after that who knows? A party uniform in some important Gau ? Or an SS one? A member of the black knighthood? Perhaps as an officer of the Wehrmacht if you choose a military career. Although I think that by the time you are of age the Waffen SS might well have seen off those old army Junkers , eh? No matter, army or party you will live your life in uniform, my boy, for you are now a servant of the state. Give thanks, boy! Give thanks! For from this day forward you belong to the Führer. He who knows all, sees all and loves all. All that is German.’

If the head teacher had imagined that this little speech would inspire Otto then he was immediately disappointed, for Otto had decided the time had come to make his feelings felt.

‘Speaking of the Führer,’ he said.

‘I did not give you permission to speak, lad,’ the head replied sternly. ‘I forgave that once, but not a second time. Be quiet.’