Free The Other Me by Saskia Sarginson Page B

stalls are abandoned, and there’s a crowd gathered around the steps of the town hall. Otto and I jump down and wriggle past elbows to get to the front. Men in brown SA uniform are taking down the German flag; we watch as they pour petrol on the twists of fabric. One of them drops a match and sets it blazing. Their polished boots reflect the glare. Farmers and townspeople shuffle and whisper.
    ‘They’ve got rid of the mayor,’ someone says.
    ‘Good riddance,’ another voice says.
    A thin stream of smoke catches in the bright air, smudging it. A group of Hitler Youth push up behind the SA. The boys are the only ones to react openly. They cheer. I look at their uniforms, the knives in their belts, their flushed, excited faces, and feel envious. As the flag on the ground writhes and blackens, Otto and I watch the SA men begin to hoist a different one. The men shout to each other, voices full of satisfaction.
    ‘Come along,’ Meyer tugs at us. ‘We’re here to work.’
    We resist him, craning our heads, staring up above the gabled roof of the town hall, eager to see the new flag unfurling. There is no wind to lift it. It hangs, drooping and stubborn as a dead thing. But we know that when it snaps open it will show a black swastika, a red background.
     
    We are German Catholics, living in a German Catholic family; but we have no official proof of our parentage, which is a problem. The organisation insisted on taking photographs of us from different angles and sent them off for verification of our Aryan physiology. The results came back in our favour. But still we must undergo a worse humiliation.
    Our section leader, Winkler, takes us into his office and makes us drop our pants. He has to check that we aren’t circumcised, he explains. Otto stands to attention, staring straight ahead, flushing scarlet. Cold air breezes around my private parts, shrivelling my balls. I nearly pull up my pants and walk out. I don’t want to play at soldiers that badly. I want the knife – a dagger that says ‘Blood and Honour’ on it. Only I’ve just discovered I won’t get it until I’m fourteen. But there are other reasons for joining, I tell myself, as Winkler bends to stare at my penis: nobody will be able to doubt the purity of our blood if we are in the organisation. And marching up and down with flags and drums will be more fun than toiling up and down the fields spreading muck. We’ll have the perfect excuse not to do all kinds of farm duties. There will be trips into the mountains to go camping, weekends away. And we’ll be the same as the other boys at school. Most have joined up now.
    Winkler straightens and nods. ‘With no birth certificates, none of the correct paperwork, we have to be safe. You understand? Yours are… unusual cases.’
    ‘Sir,’ Otto salutes. ‘We are Aryans, sir.’ His voice is tight, wrung out with fierce longing. ‘We want to serve the Fatherland. To serve our Führer.’
    The night we are sworn in, I feel some of that emotion too. I wasn’t expecting it. But it comes from the inside, a swelling pride, a sense that my blood is beating deep as the sea, beating to the same rhythm as the rest of the boys. Our hearts keep pace with our voices as we chant the words to a marching song. Torches blaze through the darkness, gathering us inside their jagged, fiery glow, and I glance across at Otto, watching him. His jaw thrust out, tightened to stop his mouth from trembling.
    We will be part of German Youth until we turn fourteen. Then we can join Hitler Youth. Otto is already angry that I will get there before him. All our lives he’s been trying to leapfrog me and become the older brother.
    Every week we learn to march in lines, like real troops. Sometimes Winkler drills us through the town holding flags. It’s a warning, he says. Important for people to understand that National Socialism destroys everything that stands in its way. The Führer tells everyone that the future of Germany is in the