You Are My Sunshine: A Novel Of The Holocaust (All My Love Detrick Book 2), Page 2

  All through the graduation ceremony, Manfred kept his eyes on Christa. She moved with such grace; her smile was so captivating. He wanted her more than anything in the entire world. His family was poor, his father hadn’t worked in a decade and they lived on the money from his mothers sewing jobs, but if someone had offered him a choice between a million dollars and a kiss from Christa he would have chosen the latter. She was unaware of him, and yet she was with him in his mind every moment of every day.

  Manfred would make good. He would prove that he was worthy. He had to. He refused to live without her.

  And so on the first Monday after graduation, Manfred took the streetcar into downtown Berlin. The sun burned bright in a silver blue sky on that fateful day in June that would change his life forever. He got off at Wilhelmstrasse and walked along the well-manicured streets until he got to a beautiful old building known as the Leopold Palace, which housed the offices of the Propaganda ministry. His hands trembled as he held the portfolio and for a minute, he thought about turning back. But then Christa’s face appeared before him and he knew he had to go forward.

  The palace was filled with people running this way and that hurrying along. Manfred’s voice cracked as he asked a guard where he might find the offices of the Propaganda Ministry. He was directed up a flight of stairs and told to turn left.

  A dark brown wooden door stood before him. It took all of the courage he could muster to raise his hand and knock.

  “Come in.” It was a female voice.

  When he entered, he saw a woman sitting at a desk. She had a pleasant smile, not at all intimidating.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, looking him up and down.

  “I would like to speak with someone about a job.”

  “I don’t think we need any help right now.”

  “Please, I need to see someone. I have some very unique ideas here.”

  She was a middle-aged woman, heavyset, with a ruddy complexion and a bun of red, wiry hair spiced with gray sitting at the base of her neck. He thought that she was looking at him with a twinge of pity in her eyes.

  “All right. Have a seat and wait here. I will get someone to help you.”

  He sat down and rubbed his hand over the leather of his portfolio. They might laugh him out of here. There was a good chance they would think him a fool. Manfred considered leaving, but before he could get up and go, a man stood before him. He was young and attractive, dressed in the neatly pressed black uniform of the SS. He reminded Manfred of the boys in the Hitler Jugend who teased him for being a poor athlete.

  “Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Manfred answered.

  “How can I help you?” The man asked obviously already bored by the conversation.

  “I am looking for work. I have a portfolio that I think you might be interested in looking at.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t need any help right now. You might want to check back with us in a few months.” The SS officer turned to leave. He’d seen so many of these pathetic job seekers come through his doors.

  “I see. But I am about to graduate from gymnasium. I will do anything, any kind of work at all. I am a quick learner. Please, is there any work that I might qualify for?”

  “I am truly sorry, but I cannot help you.”

  Just then, a gaunt man with dark wells forming deep eggplant colored crevices beneath his hawk like eyes came walking by. The skeletal man missed nothing, his eyes shifting around the room, surveying. He turned to look at Manfred, their eyes locked and a shudder ran through Manfred.

  Hawk eyes stopped. He stood, listening to the conversation.

  “Fritz, who is this boy?” His face was a death mask, but his tone-of-voice signified authority.

  “He is applying for work, sir. I told him we have no work right now.”

  “I am Dr. Joseph Goebbels,” the man said, turning to Manfred.

  Oh! I never expected to meet Goebbels! I should have run out of here while I had the chance!

  “My name is Manfred Blau. It is a real pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “What kind of work did you have in mind?”

  “Well sir, I would do anything, anything at all. But I think I have a rather unique idea and I believe it could possibly help our cause. I mean I think it might strengthen the Fatherland.”

  “Hmmm, are you a Party member?” Dr. Goebbels watched Manfred as he answered.

  “Not yet sir, I just graduated from gymnasium. I plan to join immediately. I want to be a part of this great movement. I can see Germany rising to her rightful place under the direction of our wonderful Führer.”

  “Of course you were in the Jugend?” Goebbels asked. Although he was a twig of a man, nevertheless he had an intimidating presence. Goebbels could see eagerness in Manfred that he’d once seen in himself.

  “Yes sir. I was. And it would be my greatest wish to work for the Party, in any way possible. I want to devote my life to bringing Germany back to the greatness it deserves.” Manfred enthusiastically repeated the phrase he’d heard so often in the Jugend.

  “Sounds to me like you are on the right track, you and I certainly share a common goal.” Goebbels studied Manfred. “I have a little time today. So I will take a moment to indulge a youth so intent on helping the Party.” He smiled. “Come, follow me to my office, and let’s have a look at your ideas,” Goebbels said.

  Goebbels limped dragging his leg towards the back of the building and Manfred followed.

  Once they were in the office, Goebbels motioned for Manfred to sit.

  “Now, let me see what this idea is that you have.”

  Manfred handed him the portfolio. He could hear the clock ticking overhead as the doctor slowly leafed through his work.

  “This is very good. You know our Führer is an artist… In fact, he is a very good one. But not as good as he is a leader. As a leader he is a God.”

  “Yes, sir.” Manfred looked around the office. Pictures of Hitler adorned the walls. A Nazi flag flew from the ceiling.

  “This is very good,” Goebbels repeated, running his fingers over his lips. “Effective, too. I’d like to include these in my publication. Have you ever seen my magazine, “Der Angriff?”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “And?”

  “It’s brilliant, sir,” Manfred said clearing his throat.”

  “I founded that periodical. It is like my baby, you know my special creation.”

  “Yes, I am aware of this.”

  Goebbels liked the boy. In Manfred, Goebbels saw himself as a youth. They shared willingness to work and an obvious need to overcome the obstacles of being less than an athlete. Neither of them had ever fit in, nor had they been accepted by their peers. Goebbels remembered how he’d suffered at the hands of his fellow students due to his crippled leg caused by infant paralysis. He wanted to help Manfred, not so much because of Manfred, but because Manfred’s success would be another blow to those athletic boys who had been born perfect.

  “Would you like to have your work in my magazine?”

  “Oh, yes. It would be a great honor sir.”

  “Hmmm.” Goebbels nodded as he studied Manfred “Let me make you aware that it’s highly unusual for me to hire a boy right off the street. Take him under my wing and bring him into the Party, especially directly into the SS. You do realize this? I mean this is what you are asking of me.” Goebbels had the power to do this, to take a boy, an underachiever, and give him the uniform, but until now, it had been unheard of. It was a rigorous road to be accepted into the SS, one Goebbels knew Manfred could not achieve without his intervention. Well, why not? That’s what power meant wasn’t it? He would take this boy and mold him.

  “Yes sir.” Manfred looked down at his hands they were trembling. He felt the sweat trickle down the back of his shirt.

  “But in many ways, Manfred, you remind me of myself, my old self. The way I was at your age. You see my leg? I am a cripple. I had infant paralysis. So, I know what you w
ent through in the gymnasium, and in the Jugend. I can see that you are no athlete.”

  “No, sir, I’m not. And the others never let me forget it.”

  “Ahhh, don’t I know how that can be? Those boys who are born with perfect bodies, yes, they can be terribly cruel. But you are smart. I can see that by these drawings. You know just what the country needs right now, and just how to give it them. In so many ways, you are just like I was.” Goebbels looked directly into Manfred’s eyes “So, since you don’t have the body, you have something better. You have the brain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I can see by your cheap suit that you come from poverty. I, too, came from humble beginnings... However, I was fortunate. I was able to attend several universities. I graduated from Heidelberg University, with a doctorate in Philosophy. Can you just imagine the look on the faces of all those boys who’d taunted me when I returned home with doctor in front of my name?” He laughed, and then indicated the degree that hung on his wall beside the picture of Hitler. “It was the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life. Except, of course, when I joined the Party and Hitler took me under his wing. The way I am going to mentor you, Manfred.” Joseph Goebbels reached over and patted Manfred’s shoulder. “This, my boy, is your lucky day.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will never be able to thank you enough.”

  “However…. If I do this, hire you, and take you as my own special project, you must be sure never to disappoint me. Do you understand?” Goebbels said smiling.

  “Yes sir. I will never do anything to disappoint you.”

  Chapter 2

  All the way home on the streetcar Manfred was in shock. In fact, he was so awestruck he almost missed his stop. It was hard to believe what had just happened. He, Manfred, the nobody, had actually met and spoken to Joseph Goebbels. And to further escalate his excitement Goebbels had offered him a job. It happened just like he’d imagined it in his daydreams when the other boys were making fun of him. Exactly the way he’d planned. Never before in Manfred’s entire life had he been showered with such good fortune.

  Manfred joined the Nazi Party.

  On Monday morning, he arrived at the Ministry for Propaganda, bubbling with excitement. Although he only had a small desk in the back of the secretarial pool near the coffee pot, he was thrilled to be a part of this large and important division of the Nazi Party. After the first several days, Manfred realized that his job was little more than errand boy, but still he carried it out as if it were crucial to the survival of the Fatherland. For a month, he brought coffee and strudel to the high-ranking officials. He sat quietly in meetings, not voicing any opinions, just supportive of whatever Goebbels found agreeable. It was through his constant perseverance, willingness to work late, and lack of complaint that he won the favor of the Minister of Propaganda. And in winning Goebbels’ acceptance, Manfred found that Goebbels was willing to take another look at his portfolio, a more serious look.

  When Goebbels ordered that Manfred’s ideas be incorporated by other artists who were higher ranking in the Party to create new and innovative ways of reaching the Aryan youth in the country, Manfred was flattered. Although Goebbels did not credit Manfred openly with the achievement, Manfred still felt honored to have come as far as he had. His salary also improved, along with several perks for his loyalty to the Party and to the SS.

  Late that summer Manfred’s father had a heart attack and died instantly. The Party rallied behind Manfred. The money for the burial, along with all of the necessary arrangements, was generously taken care of by the Party. Manfred was given two weeks off work, with pay, in order to resituate his mother in the new apartment the SS had given them. Although his mother was grief stricken, she found the new flat more than luxurious. They had lived in a tenement in the poorer part of Berlin, where children ran around outside the building hungry and dirty. Now they lived in a neighborhood where flowers lined the streets and shady trees covered the well-maintained lawns. Their lavishly-furnished new home had a plush sofa, a well-made table and chairs, and two bedrooms with large beds and dressers. Food had once been scarce, but not anymore. Manfred brought home a good salary, more than enough for his mother to stop sewing, and his skinny frame began to fill out.

  Every night before Manfred fell asleep, his thoughts still drifted to Christa. She was his dream girl. Everything he did, he did for her. Soon he would be ready to go and find her, to approach her, to win her, but not yet.

  By December, Manfred was more than well liked; he was a part of the inner circle. Goebbels often lunched with him, just to talk and get things off his chest. It became known that Manfred kept to himself, he never gossiped, and so secrets were safe with him.

  “Manfred, the Führer himself is planning a visit to our offices. I am a bit nervous. I want to be sure all goes well. Is there anyone here that you know of who might be a traitor?”

  “I haven’t noticed anything like that,” Manfred said, although he had. He’d heard other men talking in the lunchroom. They’d said things against Goebbels, even against the Party.

  “Watch, keep your eyes open, and listen carefully. Do you understand? We must weed out any enemies in order to be sure that our work is secure and safe.”

  “Yes, I will do as you ask.”

  The moral dilemma of spying on his colleagues never entered Manfred’s mind. Up until now, he’d spent his life friendless, an artist alone, scorned by his peers in school and in the Hitler Youth. Then when he’d begun working at the Ministry, most of the other employees treated him like a servant. They had no qualms about talking in front of the insignificant boy who sat quietly eating his bratwurst or schnitzel sandwich, at a table alone in the corner.

  “And of course the safety of the Führer when he arrives must be taken into consideration. So, although I know you are not one to ramble on about the goings on at the office, you must keep abreast of everything and everyone here. Am I making myself perfectly clear, Manfred?”

  “Yes, sir, indeed you are, and I will do as you ask. You can count on me,” Manfred answered. This was a big responsibility, one that he dreaded, but he did see the necessity for it. It would mean that he had to pay attention to all of the gossip that traveled through the workplace. And Manfred hated social involvement. He preferred to be off by himself. But if something happened to Hitler when he came to the offices of the Ministry of Propaganda, all eyes would turn to Goebbels. Goebbels had been good to him. Goebbels was his only friend, and Manfred would not allow that to happen.

  Nobody suspected anything. Manfred ate quietly as usual sipping his coffee, but now his ears were wide open. When he heard a derogatory comment about the Party, or Goebbels, or Hitler himself, Manfred rushed back to his desk to document the event, the time, the place, the perpetrator. He carefully wrote verbatim everything that he heard. Then he folded the paper and hid it under his artwork in the drawer in his desk.