My Brother's Secret Read online

  ‘Submit!’ he laughed. ‘Submit!’

  ‘I submit,’ I said.

  When he released me, Martin put his arm around my shoulder once more. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’m starving.’

  As we went inside, I glanced back at the losers to see that Johann Weber was still not moving. He was just lying on his front in the dirt.

  ‘Are they letting girls into this group now?’ Axel was shouting as he approached him. ‘Get on with it!’

  The boys who had finished their punishment were standing now, laughing as Axel Jung kicked the tip of his boot into the ground, spraying a shower of gravel into Johann’s face.

  Johann recoiled and wiped a hand across his mouth, then put both palms flat on the ground and pushed himself up, but his head hung down and he was breathing heavily. His whole body looked as if it was wracked with some kind of seizure.

  ‘Maybe you hit him too hard,’ Martin said beside me.

  ‘I hardly touched him.’

  Either the effort of trying to do press-ups or the shouting was too much for Johann, because his arms gave in and he collapsed into the gravel once more, his whole body shaking.

  Axel Jung grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him to his feet and ordering him to stand on one leg while the others stood about laughing.

  ‘Stop your snivelling or I’ll make you eat this.’ The group leader scooped a handful of gravel and held it in front of Johann’s face.

  ‘Is he crying?’ Ralf looked at him. ‘What the hell’s he crying for?’

  ‘Someone said his papa’s plane was shot down,’ Christoph said. ‘He flew Heinkels or something. They got his death notice this morning.’

  ‘And he’s crying?’ Martin said. ‘I’d be proud if my papa died for the Führer.’

  ‘Me too.’ Ralf looked at me as if waiting for my opinion.

  ‘Mm, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘And me.’

  ‘Come on,’ Ralf turned me away. ‘We don’t want to miss lunch.’

  ‘Yeah.’ But as I went into the school building, I glanced back at Johann Weber, standing on one leg, and wondered what he was thinking. Why wasn’t he proud of his papa?

  Lunch was some kind of soup, though no one was quite sure what. There were small pieces of meat and vegetables floating in the murky liquid, and we joked about it, but were all too hungry to complain much.

  The dining hall was noisy with boys – the girls had their lunch before us – and we ate surrounded by army recruitment posters and front pages from Der Stürmer newspaper which mostly had cartoons of big-nosed Jews on them. At the very far end of the hall, from a large frame, a picture of Hitler, the Führer himself, watched over us.

  As I ate, I looked down at the badge pinned to my chest. I was so proud to have earned it; even though the divide and conquer idea hadn’t been mine, I had been the one to take the flag. Except, I couldn’t help thinking about the way Johann Weber had done nothing to defend himself. Maybe I wouldn’t have beaten him if he hadn’t been feeling so bad.

  I glanced round when the losing boys came in for their lunch, but Johann Weber wasn’t among them. Nor had he come into the dining hall by the time we had finished our soup and left the room. He was in the classroom after lunch though, sitting at the back, staring straight ahead. His eyes were still red, but now his face was covered in small scratches and angry marks.

  I wanted to go and speak to him, to ask him what had happened to his papa, but none of the other boys would go near him and I knew it would look bad. Weakness was not allowed. Instead, I sat between Martin and Ralf, with Christoph and Felix in front.

  ‘Why do you keep looking at him?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You keep looking back at Johann.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for him,’ Martin said. ‘He should be proud, not crying. There’s no crying in the army.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, turning back to face the front just as Herr Kappel came into the room.

  We learned about trajectory that lesson. Herr Kappel set up a sand trap in a large box and used a miniature field gun to fire steel ball bearings at it. We took turns angling the gun to see if we could make the ball bearing land on a marker, and I was pleased with myself for being the first to hit the target.

  ‘Must be your day today,’ Herr Kappel said, nodding towards my proficiency badge. ‘And I understand it’s your birthday tomorrow.’

  Thinking about the badge reminded me of Johann Weber, and I glanced over at him, standing slightly apart from the rest of us as if he were somehow different.

  Racial Science came after the lesson on trajectory, then we were outside again for more physical training. Axel Jung was waiting for us in the yard, flanked by the same two Hitler Youth boys who had been with him earlier. His uniform was still pristine and he stood tall and straight. He waited for us to form into lines, then called out for Johann Weber to come and stand in front of everyone else.

  ‘Have you stopped crying?’ he asked.

  A few boys sniggered but Johann nodded and kept his chin up and his shoulders back. He stared straight ahead as if there was nothing in front of him.

  ‘We don’t cry.’ Axel Jung raised his voice over the growing sound of laughter as he marched along the line of boys. ‘There’s no crying in the army. What are you? A Communist? A Jew?’ His words were thick with disgust.

  Tears began to well in Johann Weber’s eyes and it made me feel worse than it should have. I was supposed to be as hard as Krupp’s steel – on the inside as well as the outside – but I wasn’t laughing like the others. I felt sorry for him and had to tell myself not to be so weak.

  I took a deep breath and held it in. I had won a medal today. I was going to join the Hitler Youth in two years. I had already learned the oath by heart. I would be like Axel Jung. I would make my family proud.

  Jung stopped in front of Johann and looked down at him, staring until the other boys fell silent. ‘Your papa gives his life for the Führer, and you cry about it? How do you think that would make him feel, knowing how weak you are? You should be proud. If you want to be a soldier in the Führer’s army, you have to be strong. Maybe we need to do something to toughen you up.’

  Johann lifted his arm and wiped his face with his sleeve. He wasn’t standing so straight any more. His shoulders had slumped and his head was hanging, and when he took his arm away from his face, a string of snot stretched from his nose to the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘Disgusting,’ someone said from behind me, and a wave of laughter rippled through the ranks.

  Jung stepped away from Johann as if he might catch some kind of disease from him. ‘Shirts off everyone. We’re going to have a boxing tournament. Johann Weber against the rest of the class.’

  KNOCKOUT

  We stripped off our shirts and stood bare-chested, with the sun warming our backs. When ordered, we formed a ring around Johann Weber, then Axel Jung stepped into the middle holding a pair of old brown leather boxing gloves in each hand.

  He threw them down onto the gravel and turned around, inspecting the boys standing shoulder to shoulder around him. Already some were jostling others, trying to push forward, hoping the group leader would pick them to fight first.

  Johann stood with his head bowed as if he didn’t dare look up.

  ‘Why don’t we have today’s champion up first?’ Axel Jung had to shout to be heard over the boys begging to be chosen, and when I looked away from Johann, I saw that the group leader had his eyes on me. ‘You’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  I must have hesitated without realising because Jung furrowed his brow. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t want to fight?’

  ‘Course he does.’ Martin put his hand on my back and pushed me into the ring. ‘Go on, Karl.’

  ‘Yeah, go on, Karl!’ Christoph repeated, and then more of them joined in until most of the boys were chanting my name.

  ‘Ka-arl! Ka-arl! Ka-arl!’

  I looked round at them, fee
ling their admiration and excitement, then bent over to pick up the gloves. They were a little too big, but Ralf came forward to tie them for me, then he slapped me on the back and wished me luck.

  Turning to face Johann Weber, though, I didn’t think I was going to need much luck. He had picked up the gloves and put them on, but his arms were hanging by his sides, the laces trailing past his knees.

  Axel Jung held up a hand, signalling for everyone to be quiet. ‘One minute round each,’ he said. ‘Everyone will get a turn.’ Then he stepped back, saying, ‘Begin!’

  I took up my boxing stance, left foot in front of right, fists raised in defence, but Johann just stood there.

  ‘Put up your block!’ Jung shouted at him.

  Johann looked up at me and I saw something other than sadness there. Anger, perhaps.

  ‘Put up your block!’ Jung shouted again. He came forward and took Johann’s wrists in his hands, dragging them up into a boxing defence.

  Johann’s eyes narrowed a touch and he snatched his arms away, holding them in place. His lips tightened and the muscles at the side of his jaw bulged.

  ‘Just hit him,’ Jung said to me as he moved back. ‘Hit him hard.’

  I kept my block up and shifted to one side, watching Johann with a strange mix of sympathy and fear. I knew he was upset, and I knew he would be black and blue by the time he had fought everyone, but something was building in him. He stood with his chin tucked under, his fists up and his shoulders heaving as his breathing became heavier and heavier. His face turned red, snot rattled in his nostrils and his eyes clouded over with tears, but he kept his fists up.

  Around me, the others watched with interest. ‘Hit him,’ someone shouted from the ring of boys, and suddenly they all found their voices again and began chanting, ‘Hit him! Hit him! Hit him!’

  I edged forwards, testing Johann’s reaction, but he did nothing.

  The boys continued to shout.

  I circled one way, then the other.

  ‘Hit him! Hit him! Hit him!’

  Johann didn’t react to any of my movements. He just stood there, with his hands up, breathing heavily as the tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

  ‘Hit him! Hit him!’

  ‘For God’s sake hit him!’ Jung shouted.

  That’s when Johann moved. It was as if all of his emotions had reached boiling point and he opened his mouth to let them all out in one go. ‘HIT ME!’ he screamed, then lunged forward as if to attack.

  Almost without thinking, I sidestepped and threw a hard straight punch at his jaw. My fist connected with a jarring thud, snapping Johann’s head to one side, and his legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed into the gravel, and for a moment, everything was silent.

  I stared down at him, lying there with his eyes closed, then they blinked open and he looked up at me as if he didn’t know where he was.

  Around me, the other boys erupted in a volley of whoops and cheers, but all I could do was watch poor Johann Weber. With my teeth, I unfastened the glove on my right hand and shucked it off, offering my hand to help him up.

  It was the second time I had knocked Johann Weber to the ground that day, and I didn’t feel good about it at all.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ Stefan said, almost as soon as I walked into the kitchen.

  My brother was four years older than me and we were complete opposites. Me with my uniform and my short hair; him with his long hair and his unruly friends and his terrible attitude. Mama was always telling him he should cut his hair and that his friends would get him into trouble if he wasn’t careful. He’d already been arrested once for fighting with boys from the Hitler Youth.

  ‘For achievement in the Deutsches Jungvolk?’ He laughed and flicked at the badge pinned to my shirt. ‘How many times did you have to salute to get that? Or did you just have to jump over a few crouching boys?’

  ‘That’s not a game,’ I said, ‘that’s for fitness.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Mama told me. ‘He’s just trying to make you cross.’

  I was already feeling cross, though, because Axel Jung had shouted at me for helping Johann to his feet after I’d punched him. He’d said it was weak and made me look bad in front of my friends.

  Mama came over and put her arms around me and I half hugged her back.

  ‘I thought they told you not to be so attached to your parents,’ Stefan said.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Mama whispered and kissed the top of my head before going back to preparing supper.

  ‘So what did you learn about today?’ Stefan sat down at the kitchen table and turned so he could drape one arm over the back of the chair and look at me. ‘How to click your heels? How to parade up and down the yard? Or maybe …’ he helped himself to a piece of bread and pointed the corner of it at me, ‘… maybe you learned about something really important like how people with big noses should be—’

  ‘That’s enough, Stefan,’ Mama scolded him and gave him a stern look before smiling at me. ‘What did you do today, darling?’

  I watched Stefan for a moment, the way he slouched in his chair as he chewed the bread, and I wished he wasn’t such a pain. ‘We had war exercises in the morning with the Hitler Youth—’

  Stefan tutted.

  ‘—then we learned about trajectory in class.’ I told her about the miniature field gun, and that we had talked about how to aim it and how we could use a real one on the battlefield.

  ‘And that’s what you want to do, is it?’ Stefan brushed his hair from his eyes. ‘Bombard the enemy?’

  ‘Leave him alone, Stefan.’

  ‘Of course that’s what I want to do,’ I said.

  ‘Well, they’ve done a good job on you.’ My brother shook his head and looked me up and down, sneering at my uniform – brown shirt, black trousers, black scarf and black hat. ‘Deutsches Jungvolk,’ he taunted. ‘More like an army of half-sized soldiers. The sooner you leave school the better.’

  ‘Papa’s a soldier,’ I said. ‘Brave and strong, like he should be – fighting for the Führer in Russia, like he should be. I want to be like him. Not like you. I want to be a good German.’

  ‘You don’t have to wear a uniform to be a good German.’

  ‘You only left school so you could get out of the Hitler Youth,’ I said. ‘Because you’re a coward.’

  ‘One of those things is right,’ Stefan said, but he wasn’t bothered by my accusation. ‘D’you know what, though?’ He smiled. ‘Despite everything you just said, and despite what you’re turning into, you’re still my baby brother and I still love you.’ He popped the last bite of bread into his mouth and stood up. ‘You are going to have to pay for it, though. Say it.’

  ‘Never.’ I took a step back.

  ‘Say I’m the cleverest and the best.’

  ‘You’ll have to catch me first.’

  ‘Easy.’ He grinned.

  As I dashed from the kitchen, with Stefan right behind me, I heard Mama calling after us. ‘Be careful, boys! Don’t break anything!’

  BAD NEWS

  The next day was my twelfth birthday. The day Papa died.

  When I came downstairs, there was a small present in the middle of the kitchen table, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. Mama and Stefan were smiling, but then there was a knock at the door, and when Mama answered it and returned to the kitchen holding a letter, my birthday was over and my present was forgotten.

  Instead, Mama sat and stared at the piece of paper as if she would never blink, then went to her bedroom where she was quiet for a while before she started screaming.

  After that, she screamed and screamed and screamed.

  It was the most horrible sound, as if someone was murdering Mama in her room. I froze.

  Stefan was quick, though. He was at the top of the stairs in just a few seconds, hammering at the locked door and calling, ‘Mama! Mama!’

  Then other noises came from inside the room. Smashing and banging and crashing. It was the sound
of the world falling apart. My whole body was shaking with fear and I had no idea what to do.

  Stefan stepped away from the door when the commotion started. His eyes were wide and he was just as afraid as I was. I crept upstairs and we looked at one another, but before we could do anything, the sounds died down and it grew quiet in the room once more.

  ‘Mama?’ Stefan asked.

  When she didn’t reply, he braced himself and took another step back.

  He barged his right shoulder into the door with a solid thump that rattled the whole frame and shook the wall. There was a sharp crack, then he stepped back and did it again, splintering the wooden frame and smashing the door open.

  It flew back into the room, slamming against the wall with a bang.

  Everything was a mess. Mama had overturned the bedside table and shattered the mirror that had been on the chest of drawers. The wardrobe door was hanging from one hinge and the chair was on its back, one leg smashed.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, with her head in her hands, Mama looked wild. Her hair had come undone and was hanging about her face like a madwoman’s. She didn’t look up at Stefan when he went in. She didn’t react when he sat beside her and held her.

  ‘Help me get her into bed,’ Stefan said to me, but all I could do was stand and watch as he pulled back the covers and encouraged her to lie down.

  ‘It’s just us now.’ When we went back downstairs, Stefan spoke quietly and there was a distant look in his eyes.

  I picked up the letter. It was just a single sheet of thin paper with Papa’s name on it. Oskar Friedmann. There were other details too, but all I could think about was that he had put on his smart uniform and marched away to Russia to fight for our Führer, and now he was never coming back.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.

  Stefan squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he bit his lower lip and looked at me, shaking his head. ‘We have to take care of Mama.’ His voice caught in his throat as if it didn’t want to come out. ‘We have to be strong.’ And then my brother hugged me.

  He’d never done that before but I didn’t try to stop him. Standing in the middle of the kitchen with my cheek pressed against my brother’s chest, I wanted to hold back my tears but they came and came, just like Johann’s had done, no matter how hard I tried or how pathetic it made me feel. So I buried my face into his checked shirt – the kind Mama told him not to wear because it was too colourful and could get him into trouble again.