Ellie Midwood - Of Knights and Dogfights

Schwechat, near Vienna. Jagdfliegerschule 5◦– Basic Flying School. September 1938

Johann politely thanked the uniformed, young man, of about his own age who gave him a short tour around his new living quarters and glimpsed the time on his wristwatch◦– his father’s parting gift before Johann’s departure for Vienna. Eleven hundred hours; military time. Only a few years ago he’d say that it was eleven in the morning, but then again, a few years ago he would greet the grocer with a smile and a Guten Morgen instead of a rabid shout of Heil Hitler and a click of the heels which was demanded of Germany’s youth nowadays. His younger brother Harald had no difficulty in embracing the new ideology as soon as he came home holding out his new Jungvolk dagger, with the words “Blood and Honor” engraved into it.

“I had to jump into a swimming pool from the three-meter diving board,” he muttered without tearing his eyes off the dagger. “For our Mutprobe ...” Test of courage .

“Congratulations,” Johann said in a flat tone. What else did he expect? Our banner means more to us than death, they sang at the top of their lungs daily. Der Führer was all Harald knew. It was easy for him to like him. Johann envied him at times.

He looked around hesitantly as the door closed behind his guide and finally threw his duffel bag on top of the two-level bed near the window. The walls still gave off a faint smell of fresh paint and the beds appeared remarkably new, freshly assembled, not yet slept in. A year hadn’t passed since Austria had become a part of the Großdeutschland and the Germans had already taken over with a typical Prussian efficiency, utilizing every single structure that stood unoccupied, for its military purposes, weaponizing, rearming, structuring, unifying them into something awfully powerful and vaguely threatening, something that Johann was yet to comprehend.

Johann was in the middle of transferring his meager possessions (the only items allowed according to the list he received, together with the acceptance letter from the basic flying school◦– a shaving set, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a change of underwear) into the top shelf of the communal closet, when a tall youngster appeared in the door.

“Heil Hitler,” he offered with uncertainty, outstretching his arm slower than prescribed, as though probing the air itself with it.

“Heil Hitler,” Johann replied with the same lukewarm enthusiasm.

“Are you Brandt? They told me we are to be roommates.” The newcomer grinned tentatively; waited for the acknowledgment and only after that advanced into the room. “I’m Rudi. Rudolf Wiedmeyer.”

“Johann.”

They shook hands.

The newcomer was of Johann’s age, about eighteen, only at least a head taller and with a head full of raven-black hair, smoothed back in the most meticulous manner and shining with brilliantine. His eyes were just as black, two bottomless pits full of darkness like a well at noon, in which it’s impossible to recognize anything, but one’s deceiving reflection. Johann’s were bright-blue; hair◦– nearly white, bleached out in the summer sun to striking platinum. Both sported the same golden-bronze tan and calloused palms, despite their young age.

“Compulsory Labor Service?” Johann demanded, revealing two dimples in his cheeks as he smiled.

Only several decent months’ worth of work in the fields for “the glory of the Fatherland” could award one with such a tan and with such callouses. Rudolf’s grunt, in tandem with his expressively rolled eyes, confirmed Johann’s guess.

“You too?”

“I would have preferred to spend summer at the seaside with my parents but nobody asked my opinion, eh?”

“No, they don’t ask anyone anymore, it appears.”

The two exchanged quick glances after those first probing remarks. Rudolf’s eyes darted back to the door, which he had left open so recklessly. At last, the tension on his face broke as a few moments passed, and no one burst inside with the sole purpose of reporting him and doing him out of flying school before he even got a chance to report for duty. Johann thoroughly pretended not to notice his fearful, almost instinctual, over-the-shoulder glance; in Germany, it had become the norm lately.

“Did I hear it right that we’re supposed to be issued our new uniforms today?” he inquired of Johann with a ghost of a smile, as though craving encouragement.

“I think so. To be honest, I can’t wait to get into the new one.” Johann pensively touched a braided cord extending from his breast pocket to a center button on his shirt.

He didn’t care one way or another for his current Hitlerjugend uniform. Despite it being blue◦– the Flieger wing◦– and not the usual brown, he still wore it with the tolerant disdain of a non-believer. He despised what it stood for, that is. It was very well-tailored and looked so very befitting to his boyishly-handsome face; the only problem was that on the day he had to join Hitlerjugend, having finally succumbed to the pressure of the teachers, his best friend Alfred◦– Alf, as he had known him from kindergarten◦– threw him such a glare that Johann nearly died from shame.

“They told me I’d never be admitted to the flying school if I didn’t join; you heard them!” His own voice sounded like that of a criminal in a futile effort hoping to worm his way out of a court’s sentence. He searched Alf’s disappointed face and realized with eternal horror that he was as guilty as sin, that he himself wasn’t exempt from that collective madness fueled by hatred and fear, to which his country had succumbed, no matter how much he was trying to persuade himself in the opposite. He might have donned it for a very sound reason, but in Alf’s eyes, it only signified one thing◦– the first step to becoming a future Nazi.

And so, Alf only shrugged dismissively and kept walking, grim and forlorn in his regular clothes.

“Jew!” someone shouted behind their backs.

Alf ignored a small rock that hit him in his back and kept on walking; Johann didn’t. Always too sensitive to the slightest injustice, ever the protector of the weak ones, he got himself into a fistfight with two boys in the same uniform and for the very first time received a first-class dressing down from his Oberkameradschaftsführer during the meeting that was organized on his account that very evening.

The following day, Alf didn’t appear at his door according to their custom and didn’t walk with Johann to school; neither could he be found at his usual seat, which he occupied next to his best friend. Instead, he sat at the very back, together with two other mischlinge along with three full Jews and refused even to acknowledge Johann’s presence with a single look. When the latter confronted him during recess, all Alf said was, “go back to your seat and don’t talk to me, Johann. Don’t you see, I’m only getting you in trouble. Your comrades are already throwing you glares; go back, please. You can’t get thrown out of the Hitlerjugend. Think about your flying school.”