The Willow Wren by Philipp Schott (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📕

“Yes, son, you may.” He didn’t lower his newspaper.

“I have the first volume of Winnetou. I have read it twelve times. May I have the second volume? There are four in total.”

“Yes, you may.”

It is probably difficult for the modern person reading this to understand the impact of that answer. To get a book now is a simple thing. My sons had scores of books, possibly even hundreds. And it is not that we were poor then — we were easily in the upper middle class — it is more that proper parenting was believed to rest on a foundation of discipline, consistency and the extremely sparing distribution of praise and gifts.

I am sure that my mouth fell open with delight and surprise.

“Thank you, Papa! Thank you!”

“You are welcome.”

“Mama and I went by the bookshop yesterday and I saw that it was four Reichsmarks.”

Papa made a “mm hmm” noise from behind his newspaper and then turned the page.

“And she said we can go and look again tomorrow.”

Another “mm hmm.”

I waited, my legs trembling slightly. Feeling unusually brave, I plunged ahead. “So, Papa, could I possibly please have the four Reichsmarks now in case you leave for work early tomorrow and I don’t see you then?”

Papa slowly lowered his newspaper and looked me in the eye over his silver rimmed glasses, which sat low on his nose. He was wearing one of the pale grey suits he favoured, accented with a yellow tie and pocket square. He always considered himself a snappy dresser. The stylish effect was somewhat spoiled though by the fact that his hair was thinning and he insisted on cultivating a comb-over. I always found it hard not to stare at this. But this was a serious conversation, so I tried to hold his gaze.

“Ludwig, I said that you were permitted to have this book. I did not say that I would pay for it.”

This sort of disappointment is a physical sensation, like your soul acquiring the weight of a lead cannon ball and dropping out of you right down through the floor. I did not have four Reichsmarks. I did not even have one. We did not get pocket money and I was too young and inept to earn anything with chores. I tried very hard not to cry, but I am sure my lip was trembling.

“Oh.”

“But I do approve.” Papa had raised his newspaper again. “Karl May is a fine influence on young people. Even the Führer admires him. Winnetou is very much like our ancient Germanic heroes. You can learn from him about courage and loyalty and toughness.”

Eventually I would get the next in the series as a Christmas gift. The others I read when I was a university student in Kiel. I did so secretly then because it seemed childish, but the attraction was still there for me. May created a world I could submerge myself in that felt as complete and real as the damp grey streets of Kiel and the chalk-dust-smelling lecture halls. Perhaps more complete and more real.

I do want to clarify for you though something regarding my father’s comments. I did not know better when I was a little boy, nor did any political angle seem remotely interesting or relevant, but after the war I found out that Hitler’s admiration of May was misplaced. In some of May’s other works, he wrote very sympathetically about Jewish people and racial minorities generally, and despite the presence of violence in his Winnetou stories, Karl May was a confirmed pacifist.

Chapter Four

September 1, 1939

Two important things happened at the beginning of September 1939. I started Kindergarten and Germany invaded Poland. I could actually have gone to Kindergarten the previous year at age four, but as I was already reading and doing simple sums and, perhaps more importantly, as I was amusing myself well and staying out of trouble at home, my parents did not see the need. The Kindergarten was on the way to Theodor’s school, so he took me, both of us with our hair slicked down, wearing our fresh school clothes and our leather backpacks. Theodor was going into grade four, and thus seemed impossibly mature to me. I was so proud to go to school now as well.

We knew precisely when the war began because columns of tanks and armoured personnel carriers started rattling over the cobblestones of the main streets. It started at night and went on day and night for the better part of a week. As we lived on a smaller street and the way to school was not on a main street either, we only heard them in the distance, a couple blocks away. They were that loud! Theodor asked Mama if we could make a detour on the way to school to see them, but she said no. She told us that when she was a little girl, at the start of the First World War in 1914, it was very different. Then everyone turned out to watch the soldiers march off to the front. People shouted, “Hurrah! We’ll see you boys at Christmas when you have brought peace to the world again with your bravery!” She recalled women running up to the soldiers to kiss them and put flowers in their helmets. Others stood and cheered and threw flowers. The sidewalks were crowded with well-wishers of all ages and social classes. In contrast, she said, nobody was excited this time. No kissing. No flowers. No cheering. The tanks and trucks just rumbled past quiet people who looked away. The mood was tense and sombre. It was not worthwhile for us to see that. She said that the First World War taught people what war really was all about. I did not understand what she meant by that, but it nonetheless made an impression on me.

I also noticed that Papa was even quieter than usual and did not seem excited. We could have slipped off on