My Father Would’ve Been a Nazi
Summoned by her high-pitched whistle, the boys, carrying brooms and burlap sacks, marched single-file into the school’s courtyard behind the stern figure of first-grade teacher Fräulein Lise Jhort.
They had completed their duties: swept the neighborhood streets and stopped at butcher shops to collect animal bones which would later be crushed for oil to lubricate the planes of the Luftwaffe, Germany’s mighty air force.
In short pants and a white short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up, my father lined up in tight formation with the rest.
The boys watched four officers march in. The heel taps of their high black boots struck the concrete floor filling the courtyard with beating metallic echoes. From all the photos hung in shops, lampposts, hallways and people’s homes, my father immediately recognized one of them — Adolf Hitler.
“Sei ruhig!” Fräulein Jhort yelled, shushing the boys.
My father nestled the broom handle between his jaw and shoulder, looked down, and opened the heavy sack hoping his cache of bones would please the Führer. He winced at the stench of marrow and blood.
While few years shy from joining the ranks of the Hitler Youth, the boys — standing squarely in two short lines with their brooms and sacks — were beginning their march towards becoming…
