Of Knights and Dogfights

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Johann politely thanked the uniformed, young man, of about his own age who gave him a short tour around his new living quarters and glimpsed the time on his wristwatch◦– his father’s parting gift before Johann’s departure for Vienna. Eleven hundred hours; military time. Only a few years ago he’d say that it was eleven in the morning, but then again, a few years ago he would greet the grocer with a smile and a Guten Morgen instead of a rabid shout of Heil Hitler and a click of the heels which was demanded of Germany’s youth nowadays. His younger brother Harald had no difficulty in embracing the new ideology as soon as he came home holding out his new Jungvolk dagger, with the words “Blood and Honor” engraved into it.

“I had to jump into a swimming pool from the three-meter diving board,” he muttered without tearing his eyes off the dagger. “For our Mutprobe...” Test of courage.

“Congratulations,” Johann said in a flat tone. What else did he expect? Our banner means more to us than death, they sang at the top of their lungs daily. Der Führer was all Harald knew. It was easy for him to like him. Johann envied him at times.

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