Helga: Growing Up in Hitler's Germany

PROLOGUE

I met Helga in 1977. Slim, brown hair and eyes, she was the librarian in an elementary school east of Seattle. I was working for the Head Start program, traveling between schools, checking the hearing and eyesight of four-year-olds. I visited Helga’s school once a month. We became immediate friends and had lunch together every day I was there.

Helga had a heavy German accent but never mentioned growing up in Germany. One day my curiosity led me to ask how long she'd been in this country. She told me she met her American soldier husband in Germany, shortly after the war. They moved to the United States in 1948.

A month later, when we met for lunch, I asked her to tell me about what she experienced during the war. She hesitated a moment, then announced, not proudly, I was Jugend.

"What’s a Jugend? I asked.

She looked me in the eye and said, We were his child army, trained to revere and obey the Fuhrer.

"Did you want to be in his child army?

Not at first.

Then, how did they persuade you?

Clever seduction.

This is Helga's story.

"My program for educating youth is hard. Weakness must be hammered away. I want a brutal, domineering, fearless, cruel youth. There must be nothing weak and gentle about it. That is how I will create the New Order."

Adolf Hitler, 1933 speech upon creating the Hitler Youth organization.

ONE

Hitler's Invitation

On a Wednesday afternoon, the year of my tenth birthday, a letter from Adolf Hitler was delivered to me at our Berlin apartment on Schillerstrasse. My mother and I were standing at the kitchen sink preparing vegetables for supper while we hummed tunes coming from her radio. We were interrupted by the sound of the mail dropping through the front door slot and landing on the floor in the front hall. Mutter, always expecting letters to bring good news, smiled and dried her hands on her yellow, cotton apron.

I wonder what happy surprises the mail has brought us today, she said, and hurried down the hall. When she returned a few minutes later, she walked slowly, staring at an unopened envelope. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, took a deep breath, and slowly tore it open. She read the letter to herself, then switched off the radio and sank into a kitchen chair. Patting the seat next to her, she said, Come. Sit beside me. She took another deep breath. This letter is for you.

A letter for me! Is it a birthday greeting?

... in a way.

What do you mean, ‘in a way’? Who sent it? Let me see. Suspicious she was teasing me, I reached out for the letter. But she held it away from my hand.

It’s from Adolf Hitler, she said with a weak smile, We’ll read it together.

Adolf Hitler! He is an important man. We have a poster of him at school.

I’m sure you do. There are pictures of him everywhere.

Why is he sending me a letter?

All children at least ten years old by April 20, Hitler's birthday, must join his child army. Now that you are ten you are to become a Jungmadel, she said, and read the letter aloud. It told me to buy a uniform and report in one week to an address a few blocks from our home.

What’s a Jungmadel? I asked.

A Jungmadel is a member of Hitler’s Youth group. All youngsters your age are invited to join.

When I asked her what Hitler’s Youth Group was, she put her hand on mine and said, It’s a special club.

A club? What do we do? I asked.

She said she didn’t know. Maybe sing songs and march.

I asked if she had been in his special club when she was little.

She said, No. There was no youth group then.

Do you want me to join?

After a pause she said, I...of course.

Why?

So you can learn how to be a good German.

Can’t you and Vater teach me?

Yes, she said. But Hitler wants it this way.

You said it was an invitation. Can’t I just say, ‘No thank you’?

She pushed her chair from the table and walked to the window.

No...it’s an order. She stood with her back to me, the light shining on her slim silhouette and reddish brown hair.

I followed her to the window. He’s not my Vater. How can he tell me what to do?

Because he’s the German leader.

I moved closer to her so I could feel the warmth of her body. What if I don’t want to join?

Still facing the window, she said, You have no choice.

But, Mutter, you’ve told me I always have choices.

She hugged me close, a gesture that always gave me comfort. But this time the tightness alarmed me.

Now Herr Hitler makes the choice for you.

Pulling away, she looked down at my shoulder and smoothed a wrinkle from my sweater. I’m sure there is no need for my little girl to worry... and who knows? You may have fun.

The look on Mutter’s face was the same as when she told my Vater not to worry about something. Don’t worry, Friedrich, she would say. Everything will be all right. You’ll see. Then she’d take his hand and hold it next to her face.

Now, I felt sure there was something to worry about. I pulled away and made a grab for the letter.

Mutter, let’s tear it up and pretend we never got it.

She held it out of my reach. We can’t do that. There can be no excuses. And it would do no good. They would send another one.

But why, when I don’t want to? I begged.

Because, Helga, it’s an order. We...you have no choice. She touched the yellow hair bow on top of my head, but did not look into my eyes.

It doesn’t matter what you want. You have to obey.

But, Mutter...please...

I hear your sister calling for me. She must be awake from her nap. She turned and walked from the room.

Mutter’s name was Mathilde Rose. My Vater called her Rose. My lovely long-stemmed beauty, he said. I plucked the most beautiful rose in the garden.

Half-Danish, she was taller than average. Her thick, brown curly hair framed her pale, oval face. Her green eyes were slightly slanted. She always carried herself with shoulders back and head held high.

Rose has a regal stance, I once heard my Grossmutter say to my Vater. I can’t blame you for falling in love with her.

My favorite story was about when they first met. I often asked Vater to tell it to me when he sat on the side of my bed before he tucked me in at night.

What story tonight, Helga? He’d ask.

Tell me again how you met Mutter.

But you’ve heard that story so many times. Aren’t you tired of it?

No. Please, Vater.

Then he’d smile and tell me again about when he was twenty-two and vacationing in Denmark and first saw Mutter. I saw her walking with friends in Copenhagen. She was laughing. The most beautiful, full laugh I’d ever heard, he said. And, it was an odd thing. I’d always been shy with the ladies. I still am, but that beautiful laugh gave me a surge of courage I’d never had. I followed her for a bit, and when she turned I pretended to trip and bumped into her. Right then and there, I fell in love and invited her to have a coffee with me.

This was my favorite part of the story. He’d look at me and wait for me to ask, What did she say, Vater?

Ah, I remember it so well, he said. A happy twinkle in his eye. She said, ‘A quick cup, I guess.’

And I bet that made you happy. Did it Vater?

Yes, very happy. Then he would tuck the covers under my chin, kiss my forehead and say, Good night, my dear little Helga.

Vater, when will you tell me about the first time you kissed Mutter?

Some day, when you’re older. Now go to sleep.

Good night, Vater.

Good night, little Helga

I loved Mutter’s laugh, too. It started low and sudden, as if she were surprised, then climbs up the scale until it sounded like bells.

She read to me often. I’d nestle beside her on the sofa, and she’d read aloud from one of her books she kept beside her chair in the front room. Or the one she had waiting in the kitchen, so she could read while she cooked. They were about famous people or events in history, which might have been boring if someone else read them aloud. But Mutter made every page exciting. I liked it best when she read a funny play. She’d take all the parts so perfectly I could see each character in my mind. Sometimes she’d sit on a high stool in the kitchen, imitating Marlene Dietrich reciting poems. I admired Mutter fiercely and thought she should go on the stage so everyone could listen to her recite and hear her laugh.

But on this day, after reading the letter from Hitler, she wasn’t laughing. She would not laugh for a very long time.

After dinner Vater and I performed our evening ritual. I carried the matches to him as he sat in his big, black leather chair. I stood beside him, waiting. He struck a match, lit his pipe, and held the match close to me. When I blew it out he said, as if I’d never done it before, You’re very good at that, Helga. We’ll have to do it again sometime. He winked at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. We both laughed.

After I climbed on his lap and snuggled down, where I could sniff his comforting tobacco smoke on his clothes, I asked, Vater, what is a Jugend?

His body stiffened as he frowned and said, Why do you ask, Helga?

Because Hitler wants me to be one.

And how do you know this?

He sent me a letter. Mutter has it. Shall I get it, so you can read it?

No need. I’ll see it later.

Vater, who is Hitler?

He looked at the ceiling for a moment, He’s...a very important man.

How can he make me join his club?

He’s powerful. We must obey him.

What happens if we don’t? I asked.

...Nothing. Nothing for you to worry about. And being a Jugend will only be temporary.

That’s what Mutter said...but...

Helga, it’s time for your school studies.

But, Vater...

Go on now. We’ll talk about this another time. I climbed down as he picked up his newspaper.

That evening, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I heard Mutter and Vater talking in hushed voices. Isn’t there something we can do about this, Friedrich? Mutter asked.

No, Rose. Herr Hitler always has his way.

How do you know for sure we can’t ignore it?

Melchior’s daughter got a letter last month.

What did they do? Mutter asked.

They kept her home from the first Jugend meeting. Then another letter came. They tossed it away and kept her home again.

Then what?

Then some arrogant bastard in a black suit paid them a visit and told them, ‘No excuses!’

Oh my God. What did they do?

They were scared. They sent her to the meetings. There is no way out of this, Rose. We’ll just have to hope it doesn’t last long.

The next morning, confused about the man named Hitler, and angry with my parents for not tearing up the letter, I looked for my two best friends, Agatha and Emma. When I told them about Hitler’s invitation to join the Jungmadel, they told me they also received letters.

Everyone ten years old received them at the same time, Emma said.

I asked if they would obey.

Oh, yes. We have to do it, Agatha said. My Mutter says we must.

My Mutter was happy, Emma said, She said I should be proud, and that Hitler is a good man.

Do you know what a Jungmadel is? I asked.

Not exactly, Emma said. But I guess we’ll find out.

Maybe it won’t be so bad if we can do it together, Agatha said.

If Agatha said it wouldn’t be so bad, I believed her. She was our leader. The tallest, smartest and, I had to admit, the most daring, after I saw her leap off her Tante Magda’s second story porch, holding an open umbrella. When Emma and I tried to stop her, she said, Don’t be silly. The umbrella will catch the air and I’ll float down.

She landed hard on her knees, without a whimper, in the middle of the rose garden. She got right up, folded the umbrella and said, I guess it doesn’t work.

I considered myself to be courageous, too. I proved it at the last school picnic, when we were sitting on blankets under a shady tree. When I looked up and discovered a large beehive directly overhead, I announced my discovery and everyone scrambled away. I walked slowly, as Vater had instructed me.

You should never run from bees, Helga. That will anger them, and they’ll chase you. If you sit still they will soon go away.

In this case, Vater was wrong, and I was rewarded with ten painful stings. I wanted to cry, but with everyone watching I had to sit still as my teacher removed the stingers and applied cold water.

Oh, Helga, how can you stand it? Emma said tenderly. It must be just awful.

I gritted my teeth and smiled. No. I barely feel anything.

It was almost worth the pain when everyone wanted to sit next to me on the bus going home.

We saluted Hitler’s photo at school every day. His picture was posted everywhere. But I was much too busy playing dolls and running races to ask about him.

But our fifth grade teacher, tall, stout, gray-haired Frau Agnes Schmidt, made sure we all paid attention when she talked about Hitler. Every morning she stood, her body stiff as one of Vater’s shirt collars, her face stern, beside her poster of the Fuhrer. Her folded hands rested on her large stomach Without moving her head, her eyes turned slowly to each of us, her words distinct.

You are the chosen ones. The great Fuhrer loves you. Be happy.

How could I be happy and proud of being loved by a man I didn’t know? A man who had ordered me to do something I didn’t want to do. I didn’t feel honored at all. But I reminded myself so long as I had my lucky wooden bird Grossvater had found for me, nothing awful would likely happen.

Grossvater and I often walked in the woods together, near his home in the country, watching and listening for birds. He had white whiskers, not much hair and wore wire glasses that always slipped to the tip of his nose. During our walks he sometimes hopped or skipped with me, his long white whiskers bobbing on top of his three-piece, brown suit as he held his matching fedora from falling off his head. And the best thing about him was that he giggled. He didn’t just laugh or chuckle, like other Grossvaters. He giggled.

A few days before my eighth birthday, he I were walking in a quiet, darkly-shaded section of the woods, when a sudden breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. I grabbed Grossvater’s hand and buried my face in the folds of his coat. He peered over his glasses at me with a gentle smile. Then, looking down at the path, he said, Look here, little Helga, a piece of wood shaped like a bird.

He bent down and picked it up. Wooden birds are good luck. His eyes twinkled. Put it in your pocket and carry it with you. You’ll always be safe. He looked up at the trees for a second, then at me with a broad smile, and said, Have you heard this one? I knew he was about to recite another of his made up rhymes.

Helga is the girl who has the boys in a whirl. When she goes walking, her hair goes flopping, and that’s how she gets all her curl. He kissed the top of my head, and we both giggled.

Grossvater’s library desk had piles of bird books that he studied at every opportunity. As a carpenter who built his home and furniture with no help from anyone, he had an eye for good wood. To my knowledge, he never told me something that was not true, so I believed him about the bird being good luck. As soon as he placed the wooden bird in my hands I felt protected. After receiving the letter from Hitler, I made it a habit to slip the bird into my pocket each morning, hoping it would keep the Fuhrer away. I think if I hadn’t had my wooden bird, I might not have had the courage to survive the next five years.

"We want to awaken in the German youth free, righteous and noble national pride so that at the thought of Germany’s past, their hearts will pound and their eyes will gleam. That is the first foundation of National Socialist education."

The Educational Principles of the New Germany, Nazi magazine for women (1936/37)

TWO

Treats and