Prologue
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1920
Petite-Rosselle, France
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"How could they do this?!" growled father, slapping the newspaper onto the oak table.
The year was 1920, January 10, to be exact. The Treaty of Versailles was signed today, turning Father into an animal of rage.
"We didn't even start it! It was those damn Serbians. Why aren't they getting punished instead of my country?!"
He already knew the answer to that. Germany had lost the Great War and had to conform to the victor's demands. Even if that meant undeserved war guilt, a crumbling military, a devastating debt of 132 billion gold marks, a terrible loss of thirteen percent of the European land (which included one-tenth of the country's original population), and the distribution of the once German colonies between European superpowers like Great Britain and France.
"I don't know, mon chéri, but I do know one thing," soothed my mother, stopping my father from creating a trench with his pacing.
Mother and Father live in a quaint townhouse on the edge of Petite-Rosselle in north-eastern France. There was a gravel pathway flanked by shrubs and flowers leading up to the cozy cottage-like home. It was two-toned: light-lemon adorned with dark wooden shutters and two inviting dark wooden doors, and a blue-grey roof with three elevated windows. The inside was just as beautiful. Alined with the same light-lemon walls that traced the outside and layered with hardwood floors. Three potted ferns speckled the floor near a staircase that led to a second story. There were potted flowers on the window sill of the kitchen, which smelled like cardamom. The home served as both a living space and an emotional refuge for the young couple.
Mother is from France, while Father is from Germany. They met in college when Father was a transfer student from Germany. Mother asked him out before their holiday break during their second year and the rest was history. They were married in 1919 and moved into their new home less than a year later.
"What is it?" asked Father.
"Things will get better, we just need to have faith."
Father let out a small smile, for his love for Mother was stronger than his hate for the Treaty.
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April 1933:
Hugo
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The new upstart German Chancellor Adolf Hitler crackled through the radio, with his 'promises' of a better Germany and revenge against the Allies. When I first heard his claims, I shrugged it off as just what any other politician would say to gain popularity. However, when repeated enough times, even a fool's words can become a revelation.
The station I was listening to suddenly died, and my focus turned to the culprit: my brother, Peter.
"Hey!" I snapped.
"Listen, Hugo. We need to talk, ok?" sighed Peter.
I huffed but reluctantly agreed. Whenever Peter said something like that, it meant something serious was up. I think I know where this is headed.
"I'll get straight to the point: you need to stop listening to the German news."
And, there it is. Until recently, I had refused to listen to the German news, simply because I wasn't interested in politics. Sudden and extreme peer pressure got me to listen to one of the speeches that Hitler was broadcasting, and from there, I was hooked like the Chinese to opium back in 1839. Both Mother and Peter have told me multiple times to stop listening to his 'empty promises', but I couldn't. My country was almost on the brink of dissolution. These speeches are the only hope line I have for my country returning to power, even if they did talk about the Jews a lot, which was a bit fishy. What did a country's well-being have to do with the Jewish? It didn't make much sense, come to think of it.
"Why's that?" I asked nonchalantly.
"You know why."
That's true, I knew that listening to too much politics could brainwash the way someone thinks, like hypnosis. I've witnessed some of the effects at school. Some of the students were being bullied a lot more because they were Jewish. Then, a few years later, in 1936, the Jewish people in my school disappeared. The teacher later explained that their presence was a 'distraction to the class'.
All of the classrooms had replaced the flag of the traditional black, red, and gold tricolor accompanied by an elegant black eagle with a new one. This flag had a cherry red background with a white disk in the middle, like a reverse Japanese flag. In the middle of the white disk is a black symbol they call a 'swastika'. It resembled an '✕' with arms sticking out 90 degrees clockwise to each of the branches, looking like four connected right angles. Oddly enough, there were rarely any protests about this. Even the name of my country changed. Before, it was the Weimarer Republik. Sounds beautiful, right? Like some kind of democratic utopia. Now, they call it Das Dritte Reich. Not as majestic, I know.
Germany had two empires before: The Holy Roman Empire, which was the first of the German empires, and Imperial Germany, or the second of the empires, which existed from 1871 to 1919. The new name is some kind of revival statement.
I had almost fallen into the trap of acceptance. This, what I was doing, right now, was wrong. I need to snap out of it, before I lose myself and what I hold dear.
So, instead of rolling my eyes, as I usually do, I nodded. "You're right."
"What?"
"You're. Right. I need to snap out of it. But to do so, I need your help."
Peter smiled, saying, "Now there's the brother I know and love."
To say it was a challenge would've been an understatement. There were plenty of tears, but, in the end, I finally plucked up the courage to destroy my radio beyond repair using Peter's old football cleats, and buy a new radio with Peter in France. Peter had me swear on the family Bible that I would only listen to the French stations, and never go near the German ones, news or otherwise. I shall admit, there were many times I just wanted to turn the knob, just once; but I had to purge any possible corruption with the constant stream of the French language.
You must have a lot of questions by now, so I'll back up.
My family and I live in France, right next to the border to Germany, in a tiny village called Petite-Rosselle. I was born in Cologne, Germany, where Mother and Father were spending a vacation, whereas Peter was born in Petite-Rosselle, where we live now.
Although I lived and went to school in France, Mother started teaching me German as a second language. She told me that it could be important later since we were so close to the border.
Everything was nice and calm. Every so often there might've been a small dispute about a rise in bread prices, but it never really got bad.
Jumping forward a few years: on September first, 1939, Germany and the USSR started to invade Poland.
The invasion was all anyone talked about for around six weeks straight. People everywhere were in panic and outrage. France sided with the Allied Forces with Poland and the UK. Germany took to the Axis Powers along with Italy, the USSR, Slovakia, and the Empire of Japan.
Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did.
On the tenth of May in 1940, German troops stormed into northern France with a blitzkrieg, a term I would get all too familiar with.
After the invasion of Northern France, something about Peter changed. He seemed more restless and secretive than usual. Before, he would try to speak some German around me to pass the time, but now, he only used French, and once snapped at me when I asked him to play soccer with me in German. One day after coming back from school, I noticed a French flag hanging over Peter's bed. When I asked him why, he insisted he "was just stating our nationality."
When I would go into his room sometimes, I saw some weights in the corner. Was he weightlifting, and why? As far I could tell, Peter was never interested in sports other than football, and that was more of a hobby. At night, I would see his room light on, and sometimes I could hear him opening his fountain pen to write. I knew he had a diary, but I never looked in it, out of respect for his privacy; but what would he be writing about almost every late night? I was tempted to ask him about it, but I didn't want him to snap at me again.
Then, October 24, 1941 rolled around. When I woke up that morning, there was a feeling I couldn't shake. Something seemed off, but I couldn't figure out what. After coming home from school, I soon found my answer. A sack filled with apples was sitting on the kitchen table, along with Father's old jacket.
"He was German!" accused Peter.
"Still, he was your father," reasoned Mother.
"He was one of them!"
"Not if he were still alive. Please, your father would've wanted to see you in his jacket even if it could be the last-" Mother let out a cry.
Peter hugged Mother, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped."
"Damn straight. I am your mother after all," Mother smiled sadly.
After a few seconds, Peter looked at me, "Oh, hey, Hugo. Didn't see you there."
"What's happening? Why are you leaving?" I asked.
"Hugo, there's something I need to tell you. I'm joining the resistance. I can't keep sitting around as the Nazis tear mercilessly at our country and culture."
"But why? Isn't your life here enough?"
"Like I said, I can't stand by anymore. You can either be part of the problem or the solution. I have simply chosen to be part of the solution."
"But what about us?! We're your family!" I choked up.
Peter put a hand on my shoulder, "Hugo, look at me," when I met his gaze, his calm blue eyes pierced me with determination, "I will get back to you. When this is all over, I will find my way back to you."
"When will that be?" I asked.
"As soon as I can."
"Promise me you'll make it back," I demanded.
Peter left for a moment, and returned with the family Bible. Placing his right hand on it, he stated, "I, Peter Fynn Goldberg, solemnly vow to Hugo Walter Goldberg and our mother, that once this war is over, I will return to you alive and healthy."
"I'm holding you to that, now," I smiled sadly.
"You better," he chuckled.
"Peter," I called.
"Yes, Hugo?"
"Je t'aime."
Peter let out a small smile, "Je t'aime aussi."
After kissing Mother and I on the cheek, he grabbed his sack and walked out the door, turned to wave at us, and disappeared.
Life was a lot more boring without Peter. I frequently had friends over for a football match to keep busy, but I had a lot of down time. At night, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Peter and what he's probably doing right now. I got used to the odd silence after a good month.
Then, about three years later, in late-September of 1943, I got a letter stating that the German military had drafted me into the army in desperation for more soldiers.
"I thought I was taken off the birth records in Germany!" I exclaimed.
"You were. They must've gotten really desperate to draft you. You don't have to go, you can go on the run," Mother pleaded.
"I wish. Even if I did, they would find me. I could be killed in the blink of an eye for not serving."
"There's got to be a better way. You can't just join. It's against your morals and your brother! You'd be fighting your own brother."
"I know," I sighed, "but it's no better than risking both our lives by running away."
"So, you're going?"
"I'm sorry, Mother, but I'll have to."
Mother sighed, "then, please come back once this thing is over. Please, I can't lose both you and your father."
"Don't worry, Mother," I reassured, giving her a hug, "you can't get rid of me that easily."
"Good. Now, you best get going. Don't want to be late," replied Mother, wiping the tears from her eyes.
I grabbed a brown duffle bag from the kitchen table and placed a few of my shirts, a picture of the family, and an empty canteen for water into the duffle bag.
"Wait, where is the nearest training camp in Germany?" I stopped in the doorway.
"I think there's one in Offenburg."
"That's quite a hike," I sighed. Offenburg was over 28 hours by walking.
"Well, get going. The sooner you get going, the sooner you'll get there."
"Right. I promise, I'll come back."
After a quick kiss on the cheek and a huge bear hug, I parted ways and headed for Offenburg.