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Unlike most biographies of people from big families Klenzendorf was used to from literature, Freddy was neither the oldest nor the youngest child. His parents were farmers, and he was sixth or seventh out of nine, or maybe ten children — Klenzendorf didn't really remember, but Freddy didn't seem to care. He said his father's idea was to sire as many as possible in order to keep the farm going, and his wife's opinion was never something he'd take into consideration. There were their own children, and also several orphans the Finkels would take in, as if to be kind and look good in their community's eyes, but in fact to toil in the fields and stables since the young age.

They were all working units, and no one ever cared about what any of them were as a person. Father didn't even notice it then Fritz started asking people to call him Freddy, which for rural Germany sounded so fancy, American-styled and special that it made his siblings wonder.

He was always the one to spare the girls of the job to braid the horses’ manes before going to the local fair, putting in pretty flowers and ribbons and the one to play the flute, attracting buyers to the stand at the market.

His sisters, Freddy said, were upset then his time came to go to the army. His brothers, though, thought it to be good riddance as he was never that useful in doing man's work.

In the beginning, then Klenzendorf kind of struggled to make his troop look neat like proper German soldiers have to, he would always take notice of how prim and tidy Finkel always was, and would point this out to other soldiers as a pattern to follow. The way this praise made the guy blush and shine with pride, though, made Captain pay some extra attention to his looks and manners. The boy's shy smile and his fervour to please led Klenzendorf to the simplest and probably the best decision in his life — he sat down and wrote a letter to his commanders, thoroughly explaining why he needs a personal attendant and why this certain soldier is the most suitable candidate for the job. And it worked, because every word he wrote was true — Finkel had brilliant ability to serve loyally, keep in perfect order both documents and rooms, uniforms and arms, and remember very precisely every important thing that was there to do for his Captain. He was respectful, classy, and knew very well when to keep his mouth shut, which is, most of the time.

If Klenzendorf did not mention the boy's tantalizing hips and soft honey-colored locks, it has nothing to do with the business. The first time they stayed alone in a room, curtains closed, two doors shut and locked, their first kiss felt like kissing your bride at the altar.

He had frequented Kit Kat club in Berlin, taken multiple lovers — back then, in the other life. He thought he was happy then. But he never had anyone settled, someone to hold on to. A glorious death at the battlefield looked so easy and perfect those days. And now then the whole country's gone mad, and the best they all could do was die, he met his one true love.

Klenzendorf didn't want to die anymore. Neither in battle nor in any other way — he was not ready. They were to live, to love, to open a custom tailor shop and dress up the biggest artists. And yet they had to perish.

There was no place for them. Neither in Germany, submitted to the violent fanatics for the sake of power, nor in the Soviet Union, wrapped into red banners and ran by the utmost cruelty to its own people. Not even in the US, calling itself the land of the free, yet persecuting their kind all the same.

Where was no time for them, and who could tell if it would ever come.

Finkel tended to him all the way back home after the wound on the shaky train travelling through the endless plains of Russia. He helped the nurse with other patients, yet always kept his captain in sight.

“What is all this black over there? I don't see clear enough yet,” Klenzendorf asked, already knowing what the answer will be, and fearing it.

“Burned Soviet fields, Captain. The Reich's strategy is not to leave a single grain to the enemy!” Finkel reported too loudly, too positively, and surely quoting some propaganda.

“We’re retreating, then,” Klenzendorf mumbled, turning to his other side. He found it hard to care if he'd be heard, “Wouldn't be burning these crops if they were to become ours.”

Finkel silenced his words by moving medical tools on the bedside table. He was just too schooled at hiding what they two really were.

A weirdo. Since he was a kid, Klenzendorf was a weirdo. He lived in his head too much and was too scared to go out to the street to other children, always fearing what they'd say of his worn cheap clothes he had to mend by himself because his Mom worked double shifts and never had the time to. Boys his age would play ball in the yard, and he would sit with Rosie, the neighbours' little daughter, and play dolls with her. Tell her fairytales of knights and princesses he'd invent right there on the spot.

“And why wouldn't the princess fight the ogre by herself?” Rosie asked, “Because she wasn't brave enough?”

“Because she's a girl,” Klenzendorf wanted to answer but stopped himself. That seemed impolite. He didn't want to offend Rosie. Who would he play with then?

“No, no, she was very brave! But she had no sword, no armour. You can't fight the ogres with no armour, you know.”

“Bullshit,” Rosie stated, “When I grow up, I’ll find the way to fight the ogres. One just has to use his wit!”

Three weeks after Klenzendorf got wounded, he and Finkel returned to his hometown of Falkenheim, there he was to run local Hitlerjugend chapter.

Finkel loved the place immediately, the embankment, the old paved streets, the forest and the vale by the outskirts of the city, there the camp was to take place.

He silently picked flowers while they walked by the gravel road to the old cemetery, and arranged a small but nice bouquet.

Birds sang around them, the sky was clear blue, and the warm wind played with Finkel’s hair, as if there was no war, and many kilometers away in the East Wehrmacht’s operation Zitadelle wasn’t choking on itself.

“I see you were a late child, K,” Finkel said, putting his bouquet down on the humble dirty-white tombstone.
“Strange thing I even got to be born at all. She was considered to be ugly, my mother. Lame-legged and stoop-shouldered from her work at the factory, and pale of face. But my father was a soldier, so what did he care,” he fell silent for a bit, surprised by his sudden urge to confess, “I saw him three times in total. He was always away in the military. Lived there and perished there, somewhere in the fields of Verdun.”

“And yet you wanted to be like him,” Finkel noted.

“I did. Mother would tell me such beautiful stories of glorious battles the mighty German army led. I would draw him riding a white horse in my Maths copybook instead of doing the exercises. That's how I got my thing for guns. Not that I've lived up to my own ideals, anyway.” he added bitterly.

Finkel looked at him with loving eyes. Not judging, not laughing at him, just listening. The nice and pretty girl Mother always wanted him to find turned out to be a boy. Oh, the irony of that. Even the simplest task of finding a partner he could not cope with properly.

“What was I born for, Freddy? I don't know what my place in all this is anymore.”

He didn't really expect any answer. What answer could be there for a gunman without one eye, a hero who failed to die for his country, a soldier serving the state which hated the mere existence of the likes of his?

But Finkel smiled at this.

“What was this lark born for, K? Or these flowers? We all come to the world to have one sweet moment and then die. We don't have too much left for us, I know. So let yourself just live and love. And the end comes, we'll meet it together.”

Next day Klenzendorf sat alone in his new study at local HJ headquarters. Shitty boring room, to be honest. Nothing interesting to set your eyes on. Well, one eye, from now on, he smirked sarcastically to himself.

There was a portrait of Hitler on the wall, of course. After ten years he's got so used to this that it now seemed no more than a boring, by default part of a boring interior. He had to call Finkel. The guy knew how to make a place look nicer while still unsuspiciously filled with Nazi attributes.

He looked at the picture again, then at the map in front of him at the table.

Played it smart, he thought, managed to assure the world the that communists are more dangerous than Nazis, then in fact they are fruits of the same tree. The monsters are fighting now. Their steel jaws are clenched on each other's necks.

I saved you, Klenzendorf used to think about every Russian soldier he killed. Now you won't have to suffer under your country's terrible regime. Neither will you suffer under ours. These are the times, brother. Only death can bring you freedom nowadays. Mercy, thought Klenzendorf, firing his gun. Mercy, mercy, mercy.

Now Soviet troops were breaking out to the Dnieper river. How long will it take for them to get to Falkenheim? How long was there left to live for one coward Wehrmacht captain and his cute attendant, whom he loved more than he could afford?

Curtains of Klenzendorf’s bedroom were closed, two doors shut and locked. He and Finkel lay together on his single-sized bed, his fingers toying with the boy’s soft locks.

“When I was eight,” Finkel began suddenly, “I once caught my elder brothers trying to sneak away from the farm late in the evening. And so they had to take me with them lest I would tell our father. We took the hay cart and went to the nearest town, and there got to see the movie. The cashier didn't want to let us in, but my brothers bribed her with a big jar of milk. It was The Blue Angel.

Klenzendorf smiled. He loved The Blue Angel.

“I might have sat with my mouth open throughout the whole movie. We all were very excited. And on our way home my brothers asked me if I liked Lola-Lola. Yes, I said, I wanna be like her when I grow up! They laughed at me then.”

“Oh boy. I'd love to see you all dressed up… But to me, you're prettier than Marlene Dietrich.”

Finkel's cheeks turned pink at the praise, though he waved his hand in a poncy manner.

The rumour was that Dietrich denied the Nazis. They offered her thousands of reichsmarks to star in their movies, and still she refused.

But for one who said no to this much, there were millions who said yes for a lot less.

“Hey ya, loser! Hanging out with girls again? Where is your skirt and pretty ribbons?” the group of boys burst with howling laughter. Klenzendorf wasn't even sure they all really found that joke this funny. It felt more like they wanted to crowd and frighten him.

Rosie stood up before he could think of something smart to answer.

“So what, you idiots? He's a good friend!”

“He's weak! If he's friends with a girl I bet he fights like a girl.”

“Ha! He can shoot your ass off. He's made me a slingshot all by himself!”

Oh shit. That's not gonna end well. If his mother learns about this…

“Show them!”

And he did. That day he became the most popular guy in the neighbourhood. He shot the rusty cans set out in the forest near the the city, and every local boy wanted to be like him. He turned out to be a good swimmer, and fine runner, and also great at table tennis. He found out it's not that difficult to have these guys wrapped around his little finger. Just put on a little show for them, do something "brave", break a bit of rules, say something that'd sound cool and sassy — and here they were, working-class children, catching his every word, waiting for him to lead them to their next adventure. He'd spend less and less time with little Rosie, but she wasn't sad about it — she grew up too, found new friends.

Uncle Henrich, a retired hunter who never seemed to care about his nephew before, suddenly noted that the boy had “amazing hand-eye coordination”, taught him to shoot a gun, and his stocks among the peers went up to the skies.

There was Hilde, of whom everybody said she was the prettiest girl out there. She had that fair judgement that the most popular girl should only date the most popular boy. Klenzendorf kind of agreed. Though, to be honest, somehow he did not find her particularly attractive, while still beautiful.

They’d hold hands and sit together, and make everyone jealous. But deep inside he knew she was the most fake part of his being the coolest game.

The night after she tried to kiss him he made his decision to move to Berlin. And join the military or something. The less women the better.

Finkel, by the way, would be a perfect housewife. He washed the windows, took the curtains to launderette, and even planted flowers at the balcony. Which faced the grim brick building of the the Gestapo headquarters. An ominous metaphor of life in Nazi Germany — Gestapo’s office in the backyard of Hitler Youth’s one.

“What will these be?” Klenzendorf asked, pointing at the thoroughly watered pots. He could see nothing but soil yet.

“Fuchsias,” Finkel whispered, “they’ll blossom bright pink. Next summer, or maybe even in May.”

He took Captain by the hand and led him back inside.

“I stole these,” he confessed, “they’re so beautiful, I couldn't help but save them.”

“Stole?” Klenzendorf wondered, “Where?”

“At the botanic garden in Minsk, do you remember it? Where were all kinds of pretty trees and flowers, big collection. There was an order to take everything down, and plant, like, potatoes and carrots instead. I stole the seeds before they burned down the lab building.”

Yeah, right. Out of all things to loot while in a defeated country, Finkel chose fancy flowers.

Klenzendorf’s past was coming back to him now. His childhood buddies, now all grown and settled people, came to sign their own children for the Hitlerjugend training camp. All of them. Klenzendorf knew they had no choice but to do this. Not bringing your child to HJ could get one into a lot of trouble.

Parents came and went, again and again bringing up the memories of the earlier days in the city. Some changed a lot, some not too much. Captain relaxed and nearly wondered where the Kaplans are. Kaplan brothers, children of the local shoemaker, whose workshop was around the corner… He stopped himself. They were not to sign their kids to Jungvolk. They were not to own their father's business, and not to live at all. They were Jews.

Hilde's eldest, Hans, a lanky lad with a look in his eyes too cruel for a seventeen year old, was to become a sort of assistant in the Jungvolk camp.

Hilde herself now looked sort of frightened and too old for her years. Her face which used to be so beautiful was now marred with deep wrinkles.

“We wish you all the luck in teaching the German youth the ways of the Party. Heil Hitler!” she said in a shaky, unfamiliar voice.

Only when she left, the realisation had downed on Klenzendorf. She was afraid of her own son.

“Hi, Adolf,” a voice woke him up from his thoughts.

He knew her immediately, even before he raised his gaze from his desk.

Rosie.

Their eyes met, but unlike his other former friends, she didn't even flinch looking at his deformity. He felt the urge to hug her, but she had a scrawny kid by her side, dressed in neat Jugend uniform. Who knows what he can tell his dad about this.

“Nice to meet you, Frau…?”

“Betzler,” Rosie said, “Frau Betzler, and this is my son, Johannes.”

“Heil Hitler!” the boy offered with genuine enthusiasm.

“Heil Hitler, kid.”

“Is your name really Adolf?” Johannes asked excitedly. God, he looked so much like his mother.

“Yes. Pure coincidence, though,” Klenzendorf grumbled, “the Fuhrer wasn't yet famous back then.”

“Wow, cool!”

“Run play with the boys, Jojo,” Rosie said, “We’ll set the documents.”

“What's the Iron Cross for?” she asked after a pause.

“The battle of Bialystok-Minsk.”

Rosie nodded, not expressing any feelings about the matter. Her gaze fell upon the young attendant meticulously filling the forms at the side desk.

“Sub-officer Finkel here,” Klenzendorf explained, “helps me with papers and stuff, you know.”

“At your service!” Finkel stood up at attention, then immediately sat down and went on with what he was doing.

“Nice choice,” Rosie noted. For a moment it felt like she knew exactly what the situation between the two in front of her was, “Neat handwriting was never one of your strengths, as I remember.”

“True.”

“What’s your place of work, Frau Betzler?” Finkel asked formally, “If you have a telephone there, we’ll also need the number in case of emergency.”

“The Falkenheim railway station office. It is my job to keep record of there the things are going, you know. Coal, oil, metal, wood, grit, wheat, meat, jews, all the stuff,” she counted casually, but Klenzendorf noticed the little strain in her voice, “I don't work with passengers though, so don't ask me for favours. Only freight-cars. Here's the department's phone number. Please don’t call me, I don't need any emergency to happen to the only child I have left,” she pressed, “Heil Hitler.”

If he got it right, Rosie told him that the Jews of Falkenheim and probably other cities were sent somewhere off on freight trains.

Humans. On a freight train.

He still thought of Jews as of humans. From what he saw from the younger generation of Germans, this idea wasn't that common already. In the beginning he thought that Hitler only used this idea as a populist rhetoric to get to power, but then he saw things getting very real — when it was too late. He thought the stories of horns and mind-reading were too laughable for someone to actually believe in them, yet it turned out if people wanted to believe, they would believe in any shit. Any shit that would seemingly give them the moral right to kill, and to take someone's property. You don't worry about killing innocents when you're poisoning rats, do you?

Could he believe what Rosie hinted at? Sadly, yes. Rosie was never a liar. As for Hitler, he pronounced it to be a great trait of character — being cruel to your enemies.

Klenzendorf cringed. This was not the war glory he used to dream of in his childhood. This was not an honorable fight, that was an extermination.

And God, no one's called him Adolf in a long time. Not since 1933. In the army he was only addressed to formally, and had no friends. The people he knew from his clubbing days in Berlin all dissipated, breaking the ties in their attempts to stay alive and covered. Some of them managed to do so, some were not so lucky.

Klenzendorf found his asylum in Wehrmacht, diving into the military duty and never raising his head for anything else. That worked for him, but he knew all too well he wasn't safe forever, just as no one was anymore. One day he was to be exposed and then dragged out to the square, beaten and pathetic, and hanged with a shameful plate on his neck to complete the humiliation.

He also heard whispers, the rumours about people being sent out to camps, there they toiled and lived in horrible conditions, but being in the front lines ever since the war began, he had no proof of whether it was true or not. Several times when they took a city, he'd see Jews and communist leaders executed — shot down by the SS — but not all of them. He never knew the fate of those not killed on the first days of occupation, but he had no illusions. Nothing good awaited for them, judging by the Fuhrer's blood-thirsty speeches.

Seeing what's coming for him, Klenzendorf preferred to die in a battle, a least maintaining his dignity. And he would like people to forget that his first name was Adolf, please and thank you.

The League of German Girls instructor set up to work with Klenzendorf was called Fraulein Rahm. The woman was capable of spurting cringy propaganda and cringy gossip both at million words an hour. Some of the things she said were straight up nonsense, but others — way fewer of them — had to have some grain of truth hidden in them. Unwillingly he found himself listening when she told Finkel about how Rosie's husband went missing in Italy.

Like many Nazis running around with their idea of being a pure race, Rahm looked plain stupid, but yet not harmless. It was super easy for Klenzendorf to envision her reporting him and Freddy to Gestapo, just like her numerous teaching manuals supposed.

“Hell, one week passed and I hate the bitch already,” he told Finkel one evening, curtains closed, two sets of doors locked, water running as they washed the dishes to silence their dialogue.

“I think she's just lonely, K. She needs someone to listen to her, so she keeps inventing exciting stories to share and desperately tries to fit in the club.”

“The woman is a damn fanatic, Fred!”

“Yes she is,” Finkel shrugged, “bathe her in your attention and she'll think you're a good Nazi too.”

“I’m tired of all this theater. I wish the Allies would come earlier than the damn Jungvolk training camp date.”

Klenzendorf took another swig of his cigarette. These days he drank and smoked a lot. Freddy frowned, yet never said anything, he got it. Staying away from bad habits for the sake of long and happy life would be just a waste of willpower in their case. Finkel never understood the point of smoking, yet he drank too. Drank to shush his fear of dying, his instinct to survive no matter what. He kept smiling, got himself busy with the mundane tasks, and tried not to think of the inevitable end.

“Promise me one thing, one thing only,” his beautiful sea-green eyes were serious. He never really asked for anything, all the gifts and pleasant stuff he ever received were all Klenzendorf’s own ideas, “Promise you'll let me die first. I can not bear the thought of seeing you die.”

“War is war, Freddy, you never know who gets shot first in the chaos of the battle.”

“Then kill me yourself!” Finkel cried.

Klenzendorf stared at him, terrified. The boy gasped for air and slid down to the floor.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry, K. I’d never make you do this,” he took a deep breath, calmed down. “I’ll have a knife on me then the time comes. If you die first, I'll stab myself in the heart.”

Fraulein Rahm told them a new story of a horrific Jewish conspiracy society working in Falkenheim undercover. Finkel made notable progress in making her believe that he believes her — he listened closely, gasped and covered his mouth in appropriate moments, and looked so-very-impressed. Somehow him being a thankful listener made Rahm promptly ignore the bond he and Captain shared and had some difficulty to cover. And ignore that huge-ass stuffed peacock Finkel set up in their study.

Klenzendorf, though, was more interested in finding out what was the molehill she's made the mountain of. The rumour had to have a root.

And yes, he learned about it the day he went to Gestapo office to report that every parent that was there on the list had signed their children up for the camp and therefore no one was to be investigated and prosecuted.

There, on Captain Deertz's table, lay a dozen of dusty flyers with short slogans printed on them.

FREE GERMANY — FIGHT THE PARTY

“These were found all over the central part of the city. Placed on benches usually. What do you think?” Deertz asked.

“Looks pointless,” Klenzendorf shrugged, “whoever wrote these might be going more for irritation then for a real threat.”

“Irritation in itself is a sort of a threat, too. If we allow this, bigger things are to ensue,” Deertz rose from his table, like a cobra from a sack, freakishly tall and intimidating.

“I'm sure you and your lads are perfectly able to stop the malice before anything substantial happens. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler, Captain,” Deertz returned with a fake smile.

Young Jojo turned out to have his mother's taste for adventure, though yet none of her precaution. Klenzendorf got demoted once again — but not like this time he cared too much. He honestly had no shit left to give.

Rosie, like a lioness mom whose cub got hurt, made a scene at the HJ office — and Finkel was the only one to politely pretend he didn't notice his captain being humiliated by a civilian lady. Even so, they managed to fix the matter, setting the little dude to work for them.

Which led to another stream of Fraulein Rahm going on and on about how hideous the boy looked after his injury and how people this disfigured had no place in perfect German society, but might be suitable for some medical experiments for the sake of German science.

Klenzendorf looked down at his Iron Cross and felt more and more regretful for what has become of the country he used to be so inspired to fight for.

Thinking about those people who had the bravery to go against the regime, print those flyers and spread them around, he finally understood what the point might be. Yes, he didn't lie to Deertz — he found this kind of resistance useless. But these people, unlike him, did not sit with their arms crossed and witness everything going to shit. They did what they could, and had maybe put some sparkle of hope into those who suffered in silence, hiding, scared and miserable. Cripples, mentally ill, undercover homosexuals, undercover Jews — he was sure there had to be some, artists and writers who were not given the voice, those of any other political beliefs than Nazi, and everyone, literally everyone tired of checking their every word before they speak out.

If they were consoling the oppressed, they must be doing something else, those people.
Suddenly he found himself thinking of Germany's future, which he didn't do since the long gone days of his naive idealistic youth. He thought of what his homeland could become if ruled by different kind of leaders. A strong and beautiful country, that will not break and hurt, but build and heal. A country to sail thousands of ships and grow millions of flowers, and not to enslave, but to unite the nations around itself.

How many times had their rulers convinced them that Germans are only good for war, and destined for it? No. Those to make the people see the strength of peaceful life — they are to rule, Klenzendorf mused. Their days will come.

By the evening he saw five people hanged at Hohenzollernplatz, shaming plate attached to the pole. One of the men had a familiar flyer stapled to his trousers, at the eye level of passers-by.

Klenzendorf heard a sad melody, but it was just in his mind. Old and near forgotten tune a fiddler used to play at this very square years back then. Under the Nazis all street musicians disappeared — and he had never even noticed this before.

Where was a sixth loop dangling spare. This one could be a place for me, Klenzendorf thought. If I had some real courage.

He and Finkel met Rosie again soon, this time in the beverage store they frequented. She was buying impressive amounts of wine. Klenzendorf wondered whether every more or less sane person had to drink themselves into oblivion those days.

“Nice shoes, Frau Betzler,” he noted just to say something.

“Thank you, Captain,” she answered, “I love these a lot. Got them made at Burgermeister-Hartmann several years ago, and they still look great. Sometimes they’d hand out free shoes at the station, but I still prefer mine.”

Somehow it sounded like she was hinting at something once again.

“You must be into gardening, Sub-officer,” she went on sweetly, turning to Finkel, “I see you greened up HJ balcony, didn't you?”

Freddy looked her right in the eye without flinching.

“Oh thank you, Ma'am. Just a war habit of camouflaging the blindage, you know,” he returned nonchalantly.

“Oh, I get it,” Rosie nodded, “Guess you've mastered this art to perfection. Heil Hitler, have a good day.”

“Heil Hitler.”

A couple of days after, Finkel stood in front of that very shoe shop at Burgermeister-Hartmann-Strasse and wrinkled his nose at the assortment of probably durable but really damn ugly boots displayed at the store window. Nothing resembled the elegant pair Rosie had. Kaplan’s big copper sign that Klenzendorf remembered from his childhood was gone, replaced with "Forsch Schuhwerk".

Other shoe shops in the city didn't have anything better to offer either.

Klenzendorf turned around just to take a look at people in the street. Most of them wore the same kind of fashion crime on their feet, and those with relatively pretty boots seemed to have theirs for a long time already.

Looked like cleaning out the leader of shoemaking in the city got the others rid of any proper competition and as a result dropped overall quality in the field.

“Now that alone would make you want to annex Italy,” — Captain mumbled.

Despite the hanging, after a short break flyers continued to be spread in the city.

Fraulein Rahm came up with a theory about Jewish pests hiding in the sewerage, like rats.

Jojo came up with some really weird questions about the Jews, which made ever-unfazed Finkel freak out, but thankfully he didn't say anything that would scare the boy off. Klenzendorf tried to answer as boring as possible to make him lose interest in the subject. Kids never like bureaucracy — they only fancy flashy fights and getting medals, but not going through numerous paper procedures.

“I know why Jojo stole that grenade,” Finkel said as they had late meal in their flat.
Doors were locked, and curtains shut, as usual, “I overheard the older guys talking. Hans and Cristoph tried to make him kill a rabbit in front of the whole group, but he wouldn't do it.”

“Jeez. I knew that Hans guy was fucked up.”

“They bullied him, and he ran away. When he returned, you know what he did.”

“Probably wanted to prove that he's no coward. I can't even punish these guys, you know,” Klenzendorf sighed after a long pause, “It's not like they did something forbidden by the Hitlerjugend rules. Might even have followed another damn manual on raising ruthless warriors.”

“You don't have to, though. Hans was conscripted, he left for the army this Monday. Christoph's gone to Hamburg with his parents.”

“Hamburg? I bet the rats will try to leave this sinking ship. Sail away to South America or somewhere.”

“He could be your son, you know.”

“Christoph? Why on earth?”

“No, no. I mean Jojo. If you stayed here. If you married Rosie and had children with her. She seems like the kind to cover up somebody... unfit for this current ideology.”

“I'd never make a woman unhappy so that I could cover my ass!”

Finkel smiled.

“And yet he resembles you a lot.”

“Went for battle glory, returned deformed and made himself look stupid. Yes, that’s a mini-me for sure.”

“He has a good heart, that little lad,” Finkel said, “I'd love to raise kids with you. In a different life.”

One day Finkel was tidying up the old closet in the back of their study and came upon a paper — well, not even a document, more of reminder someone has scribbled down for himself. It was entitled Camp inmate patch markings and had little downside triangles drawn next to a short list.

Jew — yellow
Political — red
Criminal — green
Asocial — black
Homosexual — pink
Jehovah's Witness — purple
Gypsy — brown

Finkel stood there, staring. Klenzendorf took a look over his shoulder and froze. Yes, he remembered Jews being forced to wear yellow stars on their clothes. He also remembered about homosexuals being reportedly sent to camps, when not executed.

Pink, it read. Pink triangles.

Freddy crumpled the paper in his hand.

“So be it. We'll take what you give us.”

Klenzendorf drew a sketches of uniforms for his dying day — fuck you, Hugo Boss, I know better. As flamboyant as it could be with the materials they had at hand. The supplies started to run short on everything from food to armour. Hitlerjugend was ordered to collect scrap metal for the Reich. Never a good sign for a country at war, but Klenzendorf was long past being surprised. The Allies have taken Italy, Soviets got the whole Belarus back. Klenzendorf imagined how angered the Russians would be by seeing their towns and villages in ruins. Their vengeance had to be unavoidable. The ring was closing, the clock was ticking. He kind of wished to be executed now. For pretending to be strong, when he never even tried to fight the real enemy. The sheep in the wolf's clothing will still end up being butchered.

Jojo seemed to acquire some strange kind of imaginary friend or something, who'd “tell” him whole lot of stories about the Jews — naturally following the most idiotic propaganda patterns. Apparently the boy's creativity drove him to write a book. At the wise age of ten, yes. And his mind sort of hired a consultant.

Weird? Yes. Comprehensible? Also yes.

Captain knew how it felt — he used to be a fatherless kid, too. All the dreams of being a hero, all the search for an example to follow, all the fear of not being accepted. And of course the boy would not complain then asked. To let somebody see his weakness would be the biggest nightmare.

Klenzendorf didn't lie when he told Jojo he used to have an imaginary friend — it was all true, including the bed wetting part. He didn't even care that Rahm also heard this. The more open he got about himself, the stronger he felt. He never expected it to be this way. Seeing your death at the horizon broke the heavy chains of the fears he had. If only he could have known this earlier.

“Are you really not angry at me anymore?” Finkel asked, taking his watch off.

The doors were locked, curtains shut.

“What? Ah, you mean that shepherds incident? God, never mind it. The city's doomed anyway, and several hours of Germany still holding it are not worth a single wrinkle on your face.”

What was the use of being angry? The guy grew up among German shepherds — German shepherds the humans — and the dogs were called, well, just "dogs", because there they knew no other breeds.

“Come, join me here,” — Klenzendorf patted his lap.

Finkel smiled sheepishly, still a bit unsure. He took down his suspenders — first left, then right — and unbuttoned his shirt. Soft blush colored his pale skin as if to make him resemble those American girls from pin-up pictures, so playful and tempting.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Klenzendorf wondered.

Next morning when Finkel went out to the balcony to water his fuchsias, he saw Rosie Betzler escorted to the Gestapo office, and Captain Deertz setting out to somewhere at the same time with four of his lads, smiling at her like a python at a rabbit.

“Give us two packs of propaganda posters, Fraulein Rahm,” Klenzendorf ordered in his army commander voice, meaning I take no objections, “Sub-officer and I are going to drop them at young Betzler’s house. The boy has to resume his duties.”

Every suspicion he ever had about Jojo turned out to be true and then even worse. Thankfully, Rosie was smart enough to leave no piece of evidence of whatever she was doing at her house, except for a person who he knew was supposed to be dead — unless this was not this person at all.

Because Inga Betzler's grave was right across the path from Ursula Klenzendorf’s. He remembered it well — a relatively new tombstone, the dates on it showing the girl died very young.

The book, the questions asked by the boy, Jojo's unfading interest in Jews — it was all explained now.

All those war heroes, snipers, pilots, strong men armed to their teeth — and yet the bravest person Klenzendorf's ever met stood in front of him, a lone Jewish girl holding a Jugend dagger. She was afraid, he could see it, but she still acted confidently and a bit aggressively just like a bothered host would.

Moved by utter respect he got for a girl whose real name he didn't even know, he played along with her.

And for a moment he was ready to die. Die at least knowing that for once in his life he tried to do an actual right thing.

But the fate was suddenly kind to him. Not for the sake of him, Klenzendorf thought, for the sake of these two children.

It looked as if the days got colder and darker in the direct consequence of shutting down the light of that little resistance they had in the city.

Every kid there was in Jungvolk was now conscripted to the army. The office was closed.
While they cleaned out, Rahm wouldn't shut up about latest hanging, saying those five were the last rebels there were.

Klenzendorf wanted to kill her, that hateful bitch who had every damn reason to be a common German citizen, maybe not a regime fighter, but at least not a fanatic — but she chose the worst.

And, he realized that moment, he wanted to kill her because her words hurt. Because this time she might have told the truth. Anti-Nazi flyers stopped appearing, and they've also caught a group of Jews hiding in the woods.

But he would not kill Rahm, or any other Nazi. Some Allies’ soldier deserved that joy.

Klenzendorf got charged with helping to plan the defence. If he ever really put an effort into this, it was how to give the bigger part of the city to the Americans and not to the Russians. He still took care that the way to the Gestapo office would be wide open for the Soviet forces, hoping they'll get their hands on as many documents as possible. Some crimes had to be punished by the harshest judges.

As weeks went on, the resources ran really thin, most things were bought and sold in the black market.

Finkel traded six tins of spam, which seemed like fortune now, for a sewing machine.

“I told the old lady I'm getting it for my beloved, to make us wedding outfits. She was quite touched. Not that I lied.”

“Fine dowry,” Klenzendorf praised, quite touched too, “Bring out those curtains you’ve never returned to the office after laundry.”

“I knew you’ve seen through my plan,” Finkel smirked, “I also happen to have that taxidermied peacock from there, somehow. We can dye the feathers.”

The city was being bombed. Looked like Americans loved bombing. The terrifying sound of Stalinorgels launching could be heard from the East, over the valley. That meant about a week left, maybe less. Freddy shined up the old gramophone, put on music and danced in the kitchen as he cooked. He didn't shut the curtains anymore, and no one around had the time or the energy to care and investigate into their behavior.

Captain got to sewing their uniforms — after so many years he still remembered the tailoring techniques his mother taught him. He put on sparkles and fringe, made scarlet cape for himself and regular for Freddy, which he demanded to be decorated with pink triangles, as well as his helmet. Finkel seemed to take that pink triangle sign very personally, ready to make it his last banner. One evening he sat with Klenzendorf himself and sewn a whole bunch of pink patches on his left chest pocket, just over his heart.

On April 30th, same day Adolf Hitler blew his brains out, Klenzendorf threw his Iron Cross into the river.

Allies entered Falkenheim on May the 2nd, early in the morning.

“Kiss me, K,” Finkel asked before leaving the house, “Kiss me like you did it our first time.”

As their mouths touched, Klenzendorf tasted faint salt on his lovers lips. Tears. Must have cried when he didn't see.

“I’ll remember this till the rest of my life,” Captain joked, “all these five or six hours.”

Freddy laughed and picked the gramophone up, checked the dagger in his boot.

“Let’s go, war hero.”

“Yeah. Time for us to come out.”

They walked over the ruins, music sometimes barely heard over the sound of explosions. Klenzendorf smoked a cigarette and fired his fancy gun up in the air as if it was a party-popper. He genuinely wanted those American soldiers to return home to their wives and girlfriends. Some of them might even have boyfriends, he thought to himself, smiling.

He saw those shepherds Finkel brought going into battle. Fairly, they were more useful than dogs would ever be in this situation.

He saw Hilde firing a bazooka with a robotic expression on her face. She lost her son to this war, most likely. The son she used to be scared of. God knows how she felt.

He even saw Jojo in the midst of all the pandemonium, overwhelmed, not bearing any arms.
Their eyes met, and Klenzendorf winked.

Freddy got shot at Weberstrasse, next to the bakery. He fell, dropping the gramophone, and the music stopped. The bullet hit him in the chest right next to the bunch of pink patches — a shot like this takes a very good sniper and some good aiming.

“Beloved,” he called, choking on his blood, but calm and unafraid.

Klenzendorf leaned over him, holding his hand, covering them with his bright cape. He knew with a wound like this it only takes less then a minute to die. Good.

The sniper did not shoot him, for some reason. Maybe he moved up the street, maybe Klenzendorf just didn’t deserve a nice death like this.

“Beloved,” Finkel repeated, “They'll blossom pink.”

The grip of his hand weakened and his breath stopped, sea-colored eyes still staring at the smoked up sky above.

“Farewell, my love,” Klenzendorf whispered, feeling hot tears take down his make-up as he closed Finkel’s eyes, “Now you are free.”

He stood up to go, but then, unable to fight his urge, leaned back in and took Freddy's patched cape with him, then turned to the eastern part of the city. He had to be killed by the Russians. That should be fair.

Rasstrel. Second syllable stressed. Yeah, he knew this word in Russian. Shooting. Lead poisoning.

He sat with other German soldiers, waiting for his turn. Unexpectedly he marveled at the shining sun and fluffy white clouds up in the skies, young green leaves of ivy on the fence, that lovely May afternoon.

The fate made him another gift and brought Jojo to the same place. This way at least he could bid a sort of farewell to Rosie and to praise the little man for helping that girl they hid, his self-proclaimed sister.

But the boy should not be shot. He was not a Nazi, no matter what he might have thought of himself. The tables had turned, now being a Nazi was what got you killed. What got your life saved? Probably the opposite.

Klenzendorf tucked Finkel's cape into his pocket and took off Jojo’s hat carefully, unnoticed as the boy cried in deep sorrow. Captain wasn’t even sure the guy understood what was going on in this place right now. He had to act quickly.

Getting them up, he ripped the Wehrmacht jacket off Jojo.

“Get away, Jew!”

The boy protested, but Captain repeated it several times and loud — Jew, Jew, he is a Jew.

It worked — Russian soldier believed him and carried the boy out. That even got Klenzendorf an out of turn place in the line to be shot. Wunderbar.

No child will ever get named Adolf from now on, he thought as the bullets ripped through his chest.

But many will get named Freddy.