In the first half of 1941, while Liesel went about the business of concealing Max Vandenburg, stealing newspapers, and telling off mayors’ wives, Rudy was enduring a new life of his own, at the Hitler Youth. Since early February, he’d been returning from the meetings in a considerably worse state than he’d left in. On many of those return trips, Tommy Müller was by his side, in the same condition. The trouble had three elements to it.
A TRIPLE-TIERED PROBLEM
1. Tommy Müller’s ears.
2. Franz Deutscher—the irate Hitler Youth leader.
3. Rudy’s inability to stay out of things.
If only Tommy Müller hadn’t disappeared for seven hours on one of the coldest days in Munich’s history, six years earlier. His ear infections and nerve damage were still contorting the marching pattern at the Hitler Youth, which, I can assure you, was not a positive thing.
To begin with, the downward slide of momentum was gradual, but as the months progressed, Tommy was consistently gathering the ire of the Hitler Youth leaders, especially when it came to the marching. Remember Hitler’s birthday the previous year? For some time, the ear infections were getting worse. They had reached the point where Tommy had genuine problems hearing. He could not make out the commands that were shouted at the group as they marched in line. It didn’t matter if it was in the hall or outside, in the snow or the mud or the slits of rain.
The goal was always to have everyone stop at the same time.
“One click!” they were told. “That’s all the Führer wants to hear. Everyone united. Everyone together as one!”
Then Tommy.
It was his left ear, I think. That was the most troublesome of the two, and when the bitter cry of “Halt!” wet the ears of everybody else, Tommy marched comically and obliviously on. He could transform a marching line into a dog’s breakfast in the blink of an eye.
On one particular Saturday, at the beginning of July, just after three-thirty and a litany of Tommy-inspired failed marching attempts, Franz Deutscher (the ultimate name for the ultimate teenage Nazi) was completely fed up.
“Müller, du Affe!” His thick blond hair massaged his head and his words manipulated Tommy’s face. “You ape—what’s wrong with you?”
Tommy slouched fearfully back, but his left cheek still managed to twitch in a manic, ch
eerful contortion. He appeared not only to be laughing with a triumphant smirk, but accepting the bucketing with glee. And Franz Deutscher wasn’t having any of it. His pale eyes cooked him.
“Well?” he asked. “What can you say for yourself?”
Tommy’s twitch only increased, in both speed and depth.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Heil,” twitched Tommy, in a desperate attempt to buy some approval, but he did not make it to the “Hitler” part.
That was when Rudy stepped forward. He faced Franz Deutscher, looking up at him. “He’s got a problem, sir—”
“I can see that!”
“With his ears,” Rudy finished. “He can’t—”
“Right, that’s it.” Deutscher rubbed his hands together. “Both of you—six laps of the grounds.” They obeyed, but not fast enough. “Schnell!” His voice chased them.
When the six laps were completed, they were given some drills of the run-drop down-get up-get down again variety, and after fifteen very long minutes, they were ordered to the ground for what should have been the last time.
Rudy looked down.
A warped circle of mud grinned up at him.
What might you be looking at? it seemed to ask.
“Down!” Franz ordered.
Rudy naturally jumped over it and dropped to his stomach.
“Up!” Franz smiled. “One step back.” They did it. “Down!”