Chapters:

Chapter 1-3: Camp Siegfried

Part One: 1938, Long Island, New York

Chapter 1: Camp Siegfried

        Max trudged upward behind the rest of the campers, stopping only when the group crested the hill and were lost from sight.  He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and wiped the perspiration onto his black shorts, where a sig rune insignia in the shape of two lightning bolts was sewn.  The New York sun bore down on him; his sweat, once only beading here and there, had made a trickling stream from his hairline to his ankles.

        At the start of the race, they were all in a line, one by one like good little soldiers.  But Max had fallen behind, as he often did in athletic endeavors.  No one seemed to notice when he began to trail the group, first by paces, his stride taking him from the front, to the middle, to the back, and then by yards as the pack of boys surged ahead, step by step.  He’d never catch up now.  The tall man with the dark eyes who yelled a lot made it very clear that every boy must finish the race.  He didn’t say, “or else,” but it was implied in his tone.

        Max cursed his father for sending him to this place.  He thought he could get away with lolling around the apartment all summer, wishing away the months until school began again—his senior year, finally.  But Herr Amsel had been adamant.

        “This camp was recommended to me by colleagues.  It will be good for you. It will teach you much needed skills in areas where you … are lacking.”

        In Herr Amsel’s opinion, Max was lacking in many ways.  Max looked like his Italian mother and not like his German father.  When Herr Amsel imagined his son, he’d hoped for one in his image.  Instead, Max, with his black curly hair and olive skin looked nothing like him. This disturbed the man.

        “This camp will teach you strong German ways.  End of discussion.”

          In Max’s case, those words were always final.  He was used to his father speaking to him this way. The man had to be so much more gentle with his wife, such a delicate creature, undone, as she was.

        Bastian spotted a dark-haired boy lagging behind the rest of the group. He didn’t seem to belong here. He floated while the others trounced; he faltered within himself and seemed overcome by the dust cloud at his feet.  Bastian himself looked like all the rest, a perfect German specimen with cropped blonde hair, square shoulders, and a long stride. Enough to make any father proud, except his own of course. Bastian smoked a cigarette as he approached with his usual saunter.  He never just walked.

        “Hey kid,” Bastian said. He typically reserved the endeared nickname for his baby sister, but the boy looked easily riled and Bastian lived to provoke.

        “Kid? I’m your age, looks like,” Max answered.

        “Oh yeah? How old are you?” He stopped beside Max and gazed down at him.

        “Seventeen. How old are you?” Max asked.

        “When’s your birthday?”

        “April fourth.” Max took a step back.

        “Ha! March twenty-eighth. So technically I’m older.” Bastian held out his almost-smoked cigarette, offering it over.

        “No thanks,” Max said, looking back up the hill.

        “You’ll never catch them now.” Bastian tossed the butt to the ground, stubbed it out with his boot and stuck out his hand.  “What’s your name? I’m Bastian.”

        Max shook Bastian’s hand and nodded, though he never took his eyes off of the hill. “I’m Max. I really should try to find them.”

        “I’ll show you a shortcut.  We’ll be able to join back up with the group. No one will even know we were missing.”

        Max was uncomfortable with Bastian’s liberal use of the word “we” but decided that joining forces with this blonde stranger might be the best option. If he were kicked out the first day for not finishing the race, his father would never speak to him again.

        They moved off the path and into the woods.  Long forgotten leaves from previous winters crunched under their feet.  Mosquitos buzzed their heads and landed on legs and arms, faces and necks.  The bugs were undiscerning, as long as there was fresh blood to be found.  Neither one of them said a word.

        It was all the same to Bastian. He was always happier in silence, to delve into his own thoughts.  His mind was on his aching feet. He’d had to hoof his way halfway across New York City from his apartment all the way to Penn Station to get to Yaphank and walk through the gates of this miserable place once more. He didn’t have the money to take a cab or train to the main terminal.  

The first day of camp was the same every year: A grueling, sweaty, and tedious six-mile race.  The boy who won was celebrated for the duration of the eight-week stay; the boy who came in last was chastised until picked up by his parents on the last day.  Bastian won every year.  This was his fourth summer of hell and by now he knew many of the tricks, most of the adults, and every kid who’d ever been there.  This boy who trailed behind him—he was new, fresh.  

        A light breeze echoed through the woods. Both boys inhaled it deeply.  It was a gift, this faint wind.  Hot sticky days and humid restless nights were not pleasant for anyone, but here the weather felt like part of the plan instilled by the rigid officers, meant to stiffen the boys’ constitution.

        Max watched Bastian ahead of him.  His black shorts hung at his hips and he wore no shirt. Where Max was thin and slight, Bastian was strong, muscular.  His stomach looked like it had two train tracks running up it.  He looked like a man, instead of a boy. Max imagined the two of them in a movie scene together, trudging up a hill towards battle, Bastian looking like Jonny Weissmuller from the Tarzan films, square jawed and full lipped. Side by side they’d fight for what was right.  In the end, they’d meet the president of the United States and he’d shake their hands.

        “How do you know about this shortcut anyway?” Max asked as he lagged further behind, his imagination running.  

        “This is my fourth year at the camp.” Bastian was there the day they hung the Camp Siegfried sign and opened the gates to its first initiates.

        “Does your dad make you come?”

        Bastian turned toward him, stopping mid-step.  “My dad is dead.  I come because it’s something to do and the city is too damn hot in the summer. Even hotter than this hell-hole.”  It was mostly true, anyway.

        “I’m sorry about your father,” Max said.

        “Don’t be.” Bastian turned forward and kept walking.  

        Max scrambled to catch up.  “How much further?”

        Bastian pointed to the right, a ways into the woods.  “See that dense set of trees over there?”  

Max nodded.  

“On the other side is the finish line.”

        “So we just find everyone and blend into the back of the crowd?”

        “Screw that. Haven’t you read the tortoise and the hare?”

        Max thought about this before he answered, trying to figure out what Bastian was hinting at. The sweat continued to pool in every available dip and crevice of his body.   Bastian looked slick with sweat too, but it didn’t seem to bother him.  “Yes.  The tortoise wins because he keeps going. Slow and steady wins the race,” Max said.  “I don’t think that applies in this case.  It’s the opposite of what we’re doing. The hare loses because he slacks off and falls asleep.”

        “Exactly.  But don’t you think the hare should have won?”

        “Not really,” Max answered.

        “But he was far stronger and smarter.  A mightier breed than the tortoise.” Bastian sighed, exasperated, as if talking to a child.  “It’s just a story, meant to teach a useless lesson.  In reality, strength and cunning intellect will always prevail. If you are smart enough to figure out how to cheat, you should—if it means you come out on top.”

        Max frowned.  All his life, he had lost, fair and square.  He excelled in his own way, in his own interests, but not in any arena that was considered worthy. Not by his father anyway.  What a surprise it would be for Herr Amsel to learn that his son had won at something.  

        Eclipsing a small hill, they were almost past the clearing.  They heard footsteps on the dirt trail in the distance.

 Before Max knew what was happening, Bastian grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the path and into the crowd.  They wove in and out of runners, gaining speed.   With all the jostling and excitement, no one noticed the boys join the race and wrench through.  Bastian ran faster, yanking Max behind him.  They knitted themselves into the fabric of the determined and exhausted boys until, somehow, they broke free of the pack, pulling ahead.  The finish line was in sight.  

        “Hey! Stop,” Max huffed in a whisper, attempting to jerk his arm free.  “We can’t do this.  It’s cheating.”

        Bastian yelled back, his grip strong on Max’s arm.  “We can and we will.  Come on Max. When was the last time you won a race?”

        He had never won a race.

        Max raised his head and saw the finish line ten yards ahead, a hunger swelling in his eyes. Bastian saw it too and a smile spread over his face. Max thought it made him look wicked.  With a surge of energy, he propelled himself forward to meet Bastian’s stride.  Sweat dripped down their faces and their feet pounded the dirt path.  Clouds of dust billowed from every footfall.  The boys looked at each other.  Together they ran, shoulders forward, the rest of the runners now on their heels.  

Never had Max been so close to winning something.  Never had Bastian shown another camper his shortcut.  

With one final swell of energy, they launched themselves across the finish line; Bastian’s hand found Max’s, gave it a tight hard squeeze, and—just as fast—let it fall.

        Within seconds, the rest of the boys had joined them, drenched and huffing.  A few of the boys, upset about losing, plodded forward, whispering and not looking back. Those who knew Bastian slapped him on the back and cheered him.  He grabbed Max’s hand again and thrust it into the air. Max’s heart flapped in his chest, a terrified bird confused by its newfound freedom.  

        Max looked around. His triumph, however undermined by the cheating, glimmered in front of him.  Older boys, bigger boys, cheered for him, reached out to touch him, to just get a piece of the glory.  He closed his eyes and thrust his arms higher into the air, yelping in delight.  

Bastian had helped Max do something he’d never thought he’d do.

Win.

The shrill screech of a whistle startled Bastian awake. Moonlight streamed in through the cabin windows.  All around Bastian, boys sat up groggily.  Hans Mandel, last year a camper and now a superior, wore a smug expression as he blasted the whistle into the boys’ ears and woke them from their sweat-soaked slumber.  Bastian watched, holding himself up in bed on his elbows, as Hans paced the room.  The young man wore a self-righteous grin that Bastian swore he would have him eating before the end of camp. The last three years Hans and Bastian marched in the same lines, raised the same flags.  Now, Hans had graduated from the camp and thought he had the right to boss everyone around.  

All over the room, the boys scrambled from their beds, throwing clothes they’d tossed to the floor only hours before over their half-naked bodies.  It was obvious who’d been through this before and who was afraid of the barking superiors.  Those who were new this year looked terrified.  Bastian scanned the room until he found his new friend, Max, looking panicked.  He flashed a smile and winked at him.  

        Hans appeared at Bastian’s bedside.  He kicked at the thin unstable frame, pulling his attention away from Max.  

        “Up, Bastian.  Don’t want to have to make an example out of you.”

        “Wouldn’t want you to have to do that.” He answered and he dragged his feet from the bed to the floor.  

        Those who’d been in camp last year pulled out their dress uniforms. Starched white shirts filled the room.  The newbies took notice and mimicked the action.  Bastian hadn’t even gotten out of the bed by the time most of the boys were dressed.  He saw Max give him a nervous glance as he pulled himself up.  He picked up his shirt and stretched a sleeve over each arm while the rest of the room fell into order, the boys lining up for Hans without being asked.  Bastian told himself this was the last year he’d be coming to the Camp Siegfried.  Screw all of the “good, like-minded German people,” as his father called them.  Screw politics and The Depression.  He was going to make something of himself.  

He wanted a cigarette, but had smoked his last one before bed.  If he’d thought ahead he would have raided his mother’s stash before packing his bag. But he hadn’t really planned to come back his year, had he?  In the end, he would have done anything to escape that house.  He only regretted leaving his younger sister again for the full summer.  She’d always been able to take care of herself, though.  It was better for him to be out of the house; away, where he could not incite anyone’s anger.

        Bastian glanced up and found himself face to face with Hans.  Why they’d given this shit-head a position as a supervisor he didn’t know.  Bastian was smarter, faster, more cunning and still, no one had asked him to join the ranks.

        Hans leaned into him.   “Come on, man. You’re making me look bad.  Get your shit together and fall in line.”  

Bastian smirked.

When Hans received no response he quietly said, “Okay, asshole, what will it cost me?”

        “Three packs of cigarettes.”

        “You know I can’t get my hands on that many.”

        Bastian began to fall backward, into his bed.  

        Hans grabbed his arm.  “Okay.  I can get you two.  Deal?”

        Bastian nodded and finished dressing, pulling on his heavy boots and straightening his tie.  He palmed a coin, his lucky penny, from under his mattress and slipped it into his pocket.  Instead of heading to the back of the line, he found Max and shoved his way between him and another boy.  Max wouldn’t look at him.  

        “The wind is good tonight, boys,” Hans said.  “It’s time to raise the flags.”

        A slow murmur spread through the crowd, chests exhaled and shoulders dropped down to normal heights.  The raising of the flag was a tradition which occurred on the first windy night.  In this case, it was also the first night of camp.  

        They marched, single-file, into the humid evening.  Bats swooped over their heads, and Max saw some of the younger boys ducking away from them.  Behind him he could feel Bastian’s body pressed lightly against his own. Max’s heartbeat pulsed through his body, his wrists, his neck, his gut, pulling him backward against Bastian but he quickly recovered himself.  

As Max marched he thought of his mother, Francesca. She had said nothing, nothing at all in the year of “Hitler this and Hitler that.”  While his father seemed to be living one reality, his mother lived a different one, totally separate from father and son and often separate from the world at large.  My demons, she’d say on the days when she couldn’t get out to bed.  They’ve taken over again.  She’d shove four pills into her mouth on those days, the bad days.  Only two pills were necessary to get through the others.

Hans’s shrill whistle sounded again, lasting longer outside as it echoed against the trees.  The further they marched into the woods, the denser the darkness.  Max was afraid he would trip and fall so he stayed close to the boy in front of him as Bastian stayed even closer behind.  

        “Pick those boots up, boys. This is a march.” Hans yelled.

        Why were they marching again?  For a flag? The more Max learned about the camp the less he believed he would last the full eight weeks. Two months of night marches, getting little sleep in a muggy room with boys who smelled far worse than he.  Day after day of physical competition and exertion.  Could the whole camp really be this excruciating?    

And what of this Bastian character—what did he want from Max?  Based on what he’d seen of the other campers, Max did not fit in.  Maybe Bastian was setting him up for a joke—pretend to be his friend and then, when the opportunity arose, humiliate him.  Things like that happened all the time at Max’s prep school.  High school was a delicate hierarchy, and this camp would be no different.

A few paces in front of them, the trees fell away to reveal a clearing.  The open sky, full of thousands of stars, beamed above them, lighting up the field.  Max smiled and reveled in the beauty, despite the marching boys surrounding him.  In the city, it was hard to find a night with so many visible stars.   He drew his face upward and closed his eyes to see if the starlight reflected in his vision behind his eyelids.  Another piercing whistle and an abrupt stop brought Max almost tumbling to the ground.  A hand gripped his elbow and he turned to see Bastian. Somehow there when he needed him.    

They’d stopped at the edge of the clearing.  Ahead of them, in the center of the field, was a tall flagpole.  A weak fire burned in a pit to the left.

A group of men stood in a semi-circle around the pole.  Bastian knew all but one of them.  Last year they’d brought in a special guest for the raising of the flag.  It upped the intensity of the ceremony and helped spread the word about the camp.  Bring in some hotshot officer over from Germany to impress the boys, who told their fathers, who, in turn, were equally impressed.  

Hans led the group forward, their knees reaching waist height as they marched.  When they stopped, he yelled a command and like geese they fell into formation, a semi-circle mimicking the adults.  Those who didn’t know what was happening caught on soon enough. The boys faced the men.  When the officer in the middle of the pack, the one Bastian didn’t know, made a motion with his arm—from his chest to the air, each man and boy mimicked the gesture in turn.

“Gentleman. I am Fritz Kuhn.” A quiet murmur spread through the crowd and he was pleased so many of the boys recognized his name.  It meant their fathers were acting as they should, educating their children about important figures in their movement.  “As many of you must know, it is a special treat that I am here tonight.  Though I am very busy, I’ve heard of the good work being done at Camp Siegfried the last few years.  This is one of our largest youth Bund camps and you should feel honored to have the opportunity to be here at this momentous time in history.”  He paused and the man beside him leaned forward and whispered in his ear.  “I now ask Maxwell Amsel and Bastian Fischer to step forward.”

Both boys did as they were told, Max with trepidation in his step.  They joined together in front of Herr Kuhn.  Max wanted to ask Bastian what was happening, wondered if he was already getting his due.  Bastian looked calm and collected; a slight smirk danced at the edge of his mouth.  

“I am told the two of you tied in this afternoon’s race.  Is this true?”

Bastian spoke first. “Yes, sir,” he said in a crisp voice Max had not heard him use before.

“And how did it happen that you both won?” Herr Kuhn asked.

“Neither of us pulled ahead of the other, sir” Bastian answered.

“Not even a step?”

“No sir,” Bastian said.

The man looked at Max.  Max could not swallow.  His throat felt unbearably dry, as if he would die of dehydration before anyone spoke another word.  They knew.  Max and Bastian had cheated and they knew and now they were going to make an example of them.  His father…what would his father say…what would he do?

There was an almost imperceptible nod of his head from Bastian.  Max took a shallow breath, forced himself to speak.  “No, sir,” he said in agreement.  Max wondered if too much time had passed; he didn’t know if his answer was still relevant.  “No, sir,” he said again, “not even a step.”

A smile appeared on Herr Kuhn’s face.  “Teamwork. It was how we Germans captured the most medals in the ‘36 Olympics.  It was how you won the race today.  Congratulations.”

Kuhn shook each of their hands.  Somewhere in the crowd a bright flash and pop of a camera went off, capturing the moment in the star-lit field.  

“To honor your victory,” Herr Kuhn said, raising his voice against the excited murmur, “the two of you shall lift our flags!”

Max and Bastian were each handed a pile of heavy fabric and led to the pole.  The men and boys made a wide circle around them.  Dozens of eyes set upon the two boys.  Max was thankful his shaking hands were buried under the heavy load.  Herr Kuhn looked on with a satisfied smile.

“Just do what I do,” Bastian whispered to Max.

He folded the flag over his arm so the metal grommets were accessible.  Max did the same.  In a fluid motion Bastian attached one end of his flag to a fastening on the halyard.  Max fumbled, almost dropping his prize.  He saw Herr Kuhn lurch forward then stay himself as Max regained his grip.  He tried to mimic Bastian but it was a struggle to get the grommet inside the hook, as both parts were rusted.  He jabbed himself in the palm and saw blood well up instantly.  Max felt himself waver as the blood pooled in his hand and dripped over his fingers. He hated blood. He glanced up, his face white as a sheet.  Everyone was staring at him, including Bastian whose own flag was prepped and ready to be raised.  

“Sir,” Bastian said in question to Herr Kuhn.

The man nodded his head.

Bastian went to Max, took the other end of his flag and fit the hook inside the grommet.  Buoyed by this action, Max tore his eyes from the blood and repeated the step. This time it slid in.  Max realized he’d been holding his breath and let out a sigh of relief.  The color began to return to his cheeks and once again he felt steady on his feet.  Bastian went back to his own flag.  He ran the two lines between his fingers and the flag began to rise.  Max did the same, thin smears of blood speckling the white rope with each pull.  Soon it waved above his head, its red background seemed to catch fire in the starlight, burning into the night sky.  The red matched the burnt flush of his cheeks.  The black swastika blazed against the white circle.

The flag that flapped gently in the wind on Bastian’s side was the grand old stars and stripes. Max wondered if they’d given him the Nazi flag intentionally. He was the new kid.  Were they testing his allegiance? He did not know. Though it was not the time to bring his feelings on Nazism to anyone’s attention, Max felt a burning rage inside. He’d avoided the talk in his household when he could. But when he was made to sit at the dinner table with his parents and his father’s colleagues, his mother drinking, eyes almost closed, he had to pinch himself under the table to stop from objecting to the disgusting language of the conversation.  It was as if the men at the table were born without morals, without empathy.  To hate one race of people so completely, it defied all logical thinking, felt more dangerous to Max than being lost in the wilderness.  During those dinners, he’d felt like he was lost, the cruel jokes and retold stories forming thick stands of trees around him, the meanness of the men’s words flung like a lion’s claw inches from his face.  Max had said nothing at the table, just as now, the fire hot against his skin, he would say nothing.

Herr Kuhn turned to Max and Bastian and brought his right arm into the air, giving a “Sieg Heil” first to the boys and then to the group.  Arms were thrust into the air on all sides and then the song began.  Max felt like he was in a movie. At home, he often pretended he was in a movie, either as the star actor or sometimes the director.  Each imagining was like a dream.  But this, this was a nightmare.  All around him the voices swelled in the night, singing Hitler’s national anthem.  Everyone seemed to know the words, even in German.  And everyone appeared to be staring at him, as if they knew his secret:  He was not meant to be here.  

He was not one of them.  

Chapter 2

        Max slept in fits and spurts that night.  When his body allowed him to drift off, images pierced his dreams: the flag being raised, the pooled blood on his hand, the firelight catching in the men’s eyes.  

Waking up the next morning, the first thing he felt was throbbing in his palm.  On either side of him boys slept, sheets kicked to the side, their legs sticking together.  The room was thick with sweat and body odor.  His own body was beginning to stink and he hoped there would be time to shower today.  

Max sat up, the night coming back to him. His breath felt sharp when he thought of Herr Kuhn, the way the officer looked at him as if he were an impostor.  

Max was an impostor.  

        He stood and dressed quietly, not wanting to wake the other boys.  Across the room, Bastian lay wrapped up in himself, his limbs looked too big for his body.  Lying there he looked like the other boys, blonde and muscular.  

Next to him was a narrow table with camp brochures spread across it, left over from the meeting at the clubhouse after the race.  The officers wanted the campers to take them and distribute them to friends when they returned home.  He opened one and read. Send your boy to learn how to camp, hunt, shoot, and learn his place in the order of the world. He will be taught the same ideologies you are teaching him at home. He will meet people who think like you. There was a photo of shirtless boys, smiling, with their arms thrown around one another’s shoulders, the Nazi flag waving in the background. Max tossed it back to the table with disgust.  Every moment in this place was a reminder that he didn’t belong.

His stomach churned from hunger.  He tiptoed through the room.  The door creaked when it opened, but he didn’t bother to look back to see if anyone woke up.

The air was cooler than it’d been in the cabin.  Less stagnant.  By noon the sun would bear down on them as if it were burning out.  In front of him loomed the oversized Clubhouse, adorned with a Nazi flag and an American flag, both fixed securely between windows. He’d seen the men in uniforms gather there the night before.  People from the town had joined them, drinking pint after pint of beer and talking loudly. Their words carried from one table to another in the light breeze that wove through the place.  

Max thought of his father, who had dropped him off only yesterday.  Herr Amsel greeted each of the officers while Max stood nervously by the car until his father commanded him to grab his bag and line up for registration with the other boys.  His mother had not joined them on the journey from Manhattan to Yaphank.  When Max left her, she was in their living room, listening to a record and smoking a cigarette.  Her gazed was fixed to a far off place only real in her mind.  It may have been a four-pill day.  On those days she didn’t even acknowledge him.

“I’m leaving now, Mother,” Max said, wishing beyond measure she’d snap out of her trance and ask him to stay.  To say, No darling, you can’t leave your mother.  You must stay with me and keep me company.  But she only offered up her cheek for him to kiss, never putting her cigarette down, never changing her gaze.  

“Have fun, darling,” she’d said and Max didn’t know if she even realized he would be gone for eight weeks.  Perhaps she thought he was just going out to a movie? She knew how much he enjoyed those.  He was always asking for extra pocket money to go see the talkies.  

 When Max heard voices, he slowed his step.  Some of the uniformed men were already sitting at the tables.   He kept his head down, fearing interaction with anyone, but when he approached no one bothered to look up.  He moved inside, a fly following him in and buzzing by his ear until he swatted it away.  

        In front of him was a long serving table with an older woman behind an oversized pot.  The bottom had char marks from years of use on an open flame.  The woman did not smile, and barely acknowledged Max at all.  If it weren’t for the bowl of porridge she handed him, he’d have questioned whether she’d seen him.  

        “Morning,” he said.

        She grunted at him and he left.  

        To get to his seat, Max had to pass by the men. Some were standing about, talking and smoking. Others sat and ate.  This time when Max sat, leaving as much space between himself and the group as he thought appropriate, he felt noticed.  When he looked up one of the older men was pointing at him.  The man spoke in a thick German accent.

        “You were one of the boys from the race?”

        Damn Bastian.  What had he made Max into by winning that thing?  He gulped and tried to answer, but the words stayed inside.  So he nodded his head in affirmation.  The man stood and came closer.  Max drew his body back, a natural reaction.  The man didn’t seem to notice, and leaned over Max to give him a pat on the back.  

        “Good job, young man.  Is this your first year?”

        Max regained his speech.  “Yes, sir.”

        “And your father, he is a good German man who understands our mission, yes?”

        “Yes, sir,” he answered again.

        “Good, good.  He will be very proud of you for winning, yes?  You must write him a letter.  Do it after breakfast and I will be sure he receives this news.”

        Max’s silent nod was enough to satisfy the officer, who went back to his group, sitting down heavily enough that Max’s body bounced up and down on the bench.  As he ate, he heard bits and pieces of the men’s conversation.

        “Kuhn is only staying on until lunch.  He wants to observe and then must move on.”

        “How many Bund camps is he visiting?”

        “As many as he can in the coming weeks.  All of the ones near here certainly.”

        Max had heard the name Kuhn before last night but could not place where.  He was someone important, that much he understood.  

        Several of the men laughed and Max trained his ears again, eating a bite of the tasteless porridge.  

        “You mean Franklin Rosenfeld? Him and his dirty Jew Deal.  We have come just in time to help stop this nonsense.”  The men were all nodding.  Max found himself staring openly.  Were they talking about The President?  He couldn’t imagine his parents speaking of their country’s leader in that way.  

One of the men caught him gaping and said, “Don’t worry son, win some more races and they will give you eggs too.”

Max realized the officer was talking about the men’s breakfast, which looked far heartier and well-rounded than his bowl of mush.  They had heaps of eggs, bacon and sausage.  More than they would be able to eat.  Before Max could respond, Bastian plopped onto a bench across from him.

“Morning,” Bastian said, a yawn in the back of his throat.  

“Morning,” Max answered back.

“How’s the hand?”

Max realized he’d forgotten about it. He touched his palm instinctively.  “It’s alright.”

“I meant to show you where the first aid was in the room when we got back last night, but with all of the singing and marching and Seig Heil’s I forgot. When we go to the cabin to change into our dress whites, I’ll show you.”

“Why do we have to change?”

“Rifle practice.” Bastian said.  “If you bleed, they want to be able to see it on you.”  He smirked at Max’s white-faced stare.  “Kidding. Kidding.  It’s their same old ceremony shit.  First time you shoot, they want you in your dress uniform.  Who the hell knows why, really.”  

Max’s face was still drained of color.  Bastian gave him one swift pat on the hand.  

He supposed that the kid had never shot a gun.  His father had given him his first rifle when he turned twelve.  Every boy must learn how to shoot to become a man, he’d said.  Target practice was something Bastian excelled at; he never missed a shot.  

Hans had shown up for breakfast and was chatting with the other camp leaders.  “Shit-head,” Bastian said, only half under his breath.  Hans looked up and strolled over to them.  

“Well, well, well.  If it isn’t the two musketeers.”

Bastian wanted to say, it’s the three musketeers you illiterate dumb shit.  But he held his tongue.  Though last year they were camp mates, Hans was now a superior and in front of the other adults, Bastian had to treat him with respect, veiled as it was.  

Max was staring at Hans.  “Yes, sir. Good morning,” he finally got out.  

Bastian puffed out his cheeks but said nothing.

“And how do we greet a superior, Bastian,” Hans said with a slick smile.  

The other men looked at the trio, silent.  Bastian knew what he must do.  “Good morning, Herr Mandel. I hope you slept well.”

“Oh very well, thank you for asking.  You don’t happen to have a smoke, do you?”

It was clear Hans had no intention of following through on his bargain with Bastian from the previous evening. He wasn’t going to get him those cigarettes.

“No.  Sir.  Sorry.” Bastian answered, tight lipped.

Hans smiled in a way Max did not understand, tipped his head to the other uniformed men and left.

Bastian swore under his breath.  “Let’s go Max.  I want to be there first.”        

Max looked down at his half eaten breakfast, still hungry. He gave in.  They cleaned up their bowls and headed for the cabin.  When they entered most of the others were dressed in uniform, somehow, just like Bastian, knowing what was coming next.  Each nodded their heads at Bastian and Max in turn.   Max liked the acknowledgement, liked that people noticed he was there.  He pulled his clothes from a trunk in front of his bed and changed while the other boys filed out for breakfast.  The room was quiet and then Bastian was behind him, his hot breath on Max’s neck.  Max was still, his own breath caught high in his chest, a choke.  

“What are you doing?” Max asked him.

“Nothing.” Bastian took one step back.  Something in his gut, just below his bellybutton had pulled him forward to Max. “Are you ready?  I want to pick out a good gun.”

Bastian took another step back and Max was able to turn around without stepping on him.  They exchanged a glance and set off into the woods, using the same path they’d taken on their night march. The mosquitoes were out in full force, armies of them swarming.

When they reached the clearing, they saw six or so uniformed men, already near the rifles, chatting.  One of the men was Hans Mandel.  Bastian’s face tightened.  He led Max to where the men stood and picked out a Winchester .22 for each of them. Both rifles looked new; the barrels glinted in the sunlight.  An officer handed them each a small box of bullets.  

Bastian swung his rifle over his shoulder and Max copied him, glad he had someone to mimic while handling a weapon for the first time.  The gun was heavier than he’d expected. Max adjusted and readjusted, attempting to make the firearm comfortable against his body.  Across the arena, a seemingly impossible distance away, stood targets.

Max looked nervously to Bastian as they walked through the field.  “We’re supposed to be able to shoot that distance?”

“It’s easier than it looks.  Trust me.” Bastian flashed Max a smile and then jogged the last twenty yards until he reached the middle of the range.  Bastian got down onto his belly and Max followed his lead.  They both leveled the Winchester .22’s, the barrels long, and looked into the sights.  Max knew there was no way he’d reach the target.  He’d never been good at sports, or anything that required coordination or aim.  What if he accidently shot someone?

Beside him, Bastian was at ease.  He leveled and re-leveled the gun, looking through the site. Then he pulled out his case of bullets and loaded the weapon.  His finger rested on the trigger. All the while, other boys took their places in line around them, loading their guns.

  There were footsteps in the grass behind them. Max was turning to see who it was when Bastian’s gun went off.  Max’s body jumped in surprise and their shoulders bounced against one another.  For a moment, he could hear nothing but a ringing in his ears. Next to him, Bastian swore and jumped to his feet so that he was face to face with Hans.

“Why did you do that?” Bastian said in a heated whisper.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Hans answered.

“Bullshit,” Bastian raised his voice and the other officers looked over at them. A couple took tentative steps toward the boys. They stopped when Hans put his hand up.           “You kicked my foot just as I was taking aim,” Bastian said.

Max didn’t understand why Bastian’s face was so red, why he was so angry, until he looked around him and saw the other boys were there too, chiding and pointing at Bastian and his missed shot.  

“Boys,” Hans said, addressing them all. “Do you think that maybe Bastian has lost his faithful aim?”

The boys nodded, not meeting each other’s eyes. Hans and Bastian were two powerful forces and no one knew whose side to be on.  From the ground, Max tugged at Bastian’s pant leg, willing him back.  Bastian obeyed, lying on the ground again.

Hans sauntered away. While the boys gathered their rifles, he came to rest against a fence several yards from everyone else.   He knew that he was testing his new power, but he did not care.  That asshole, Bastian, had humiliated him more than once in the years they were in camp together and this year it would be different. This year, Hans had the power to get even.  He grinned and waved at Bastian to taunt him.

Once everyone joined Max and Bastian, clambering to the ground, Bastian took sight at a target. If Max had noticed his friend’s gun was not pointed the same direction as everyone else’s, he would have stopped him.  Again Bastian’s rifle went off; again, Max’s ears rang.  This time, though, there was a splintering sound and a yelp of pain.  

All eyes were drawn to Hans, standing near the broken fence.  Blood trickled from his forehead down his cheek.  Bastian’s bullet had blown apart the fence, and splinters of it struck Hans on the face and arm. He licked the blood from his cheek.  The bastard had taken a shot at him.

Max stared at Bastian, open mouthed.

Bastian stood and said so everyone could hear, “There must be something wrong with this gun.  That’s the second time my aim was off.”   He looked at Max and gave him a quick smile. Under his breath he added, “Oh, stop it Max. The fence barely grazed him.  Now he’ll know how good my aim is for next time.”

Chapter 3

The boys ran toward the lake, Bastian surging to the front of the pack.  The rest fell back; no one could match his stride.  It had been a week since he’d shot at Hans and they either admired him or feared him. Either way, most were keeping their distance.

Catapulting from the dock into the lake, Bastian felt the sweat bead from his body and fly out around him.  When he crashed into the water the cold lake engulfed him in a way that brought him comfort; to be so encased felt safe.  All around him the other boys dove, cannonballed, or tentatively dipped one foot at a time until a friend pushed them in.  

Bastian wanted a cigarette so badly and cursed himself for smoking the last one from the pack he’d stolen.  The kid he’d taken them from hadn’t even noticed.  When he found the stash he counted at least ten packs.  He figured the boy must have stolen them from someone else so it was fair game.  But now he was out, and wasn’t sure if he could get away with pilfering another pack.  Of course, enough of the boys were afraid of him now he could probably just ask and they’d hand them over.

Bastian dunked his head under, soaked his hair, looked for Max.  There he was, fully dressed, making his way at a snail’s pace to the water’s edge.  The other boys had thrown off shirts and shorts as they ran toward the lake, or stepped out of them with ease before plunging in.  Bastian himself hadn’t even bothered to dress, donning only his jockeys as he ran from the cabin to the water.  He watched Max sit at the edge and remove his shirt, fold it, set it aside.  More than a week in, the kid still looked bewildered to be there, as if he didn’t know how he’d gotten to camp.  Bastian decided it was Max’s innocence that reminded him of his sister Ilsa.  Despite all they had been through together, she still believed in the good in people. Bastian didn’t know why, but he suspected Max was the same way.

Bastian had left his house the week before in deep bellowing anger.  He didn’t want to come back to camp and had told his family as much.  There wasn’t a choice, though; he had nowhere else to go.  He’d tousled his sister’s hair as he ran out, one single bag shoved under his arm.

“Be good, kid.  I love you.  I’ll see you when I can.”

Bastian leaned his head towards the water and eased onto his back, floating, then swimming.  With his fingers, he traced the faint, long, thin scar running up his right side.  The mark was a consequence of the first time his father used a belt on him.  Perhaps Herr Fisher didn’t realize the belt would cause more damage than his hand, though Bastian tended to think the man had known exactly what he was doing.  Still, the blood that trickled down his son’s stomach gave him pause.  He’d withdrawn from the room, leaving the child to cower.   It made Bastian wish the man drew blood each time.  Maybe it would shorten the beatings.

He flipped onto his stomach and dove under.  The water filled his ears with a comforting, rushing rage.  It reflected the chaos he always carried inside himself.  Bastian swam deeper, trying to reach the bottom.  It was too far down.  If he kept going, he may drown.  Not the worst thing, he thought.  When he rose to the surface he spotted Max across the way.  Something stirred in him, making him dive under again, trying to reach the bottom a second time.

Max looked around, uneasy about getting into the water with the other boys.  He left his shorts on and stayed at the edge. Maybe no one would notice him. Bastian was the first one in, Max saw, and was now doing backstrokes wearing only his underwear.  He watched as Bastian’s strong, muscled legs kicked in rhythm with the stroke of his arms.  Max thought he looked beautiful in the water; graceful yet somehow dangerous, a merman, a movie star.

The little bit of fame Max had enjoyed after his win faded by the week’s end.  Bastian was all they talked about now.  That shot had been amazing.  It made the boys fear him.  It made Max fear him.  He waited for Bastian’s game to be up and for him to quit paying attention, but each morning they had breakfast together, they walked together, had even begun to share pieces of themselves.  Pieces Max had guarded closely; like his mother’s decline into madness, his father’s ignorance of what was important to his son. Max didn’t talk about his family with anyone at school—he didn’t talk much with them at all. He never really had anyone over as a consequence.  

Bastian shared with him that he had a little sister whom he felt was his duty to protect.  From whom, Max was not sure. Perhaps more pressing, he still had no idea where Bastian stood on the topic of Nazi ideology.  They didn’t talk about it though it pressed in around them, the uniforms, the propaganda brochures, the anti-Jewish rhetoric that was not whispered.  He was afraid Bastian agreed with Hitler’s dogma.  Where would that leave the pair?

Max slid into the water, the cold shocking his limbs.  There was an area to the far right where some boys were talking quietly to one another, and Max swam over, figuring it would be his best chance to be part of the group without having to interact.  When he arrived they nodded their heads and grunted, but ignored him otherwise.  He dunked his head under and wished for soap, having not felt truly clean since coming to camp.  Max took comfort in cleanliness and appearances.    They were things he could control, how he dressed, how he wore his clothes, how he carried himself.  

A small pack of boys joined their group and began pushing and playing with one another.  One boy dunked another’s head under the water until Max was sure that he meant to drown him.  He resurfaced sputtering and slapping at his assailant in a playful way.  It made Max’s stomach turn. What if he were next?  As if reading his thoughts, the group looked his way.

“Hey kid,” one said.  

Max hated that everyone called him kid.  “Yes,” he said.

“You’re the one who won the race with Bastian, right?”

“Yes.”

The boy was sneering.  “How’d you manage that?”

Max shrugged his shoulders.  “I ran, I guess.”

The boy swam closer to Max and the pack took the cue, coming closer in turn.  “Doesn’t look like you’d be a very good runner.  Doesn’t even look like you’re German.”  He turned to look at his friends.  “You know boys, I think we have a dirty Jew in our presence.  Yeah, I think he’s snuck into our camp and is taking intelligence on all of us.”

“Is that true, you dirty Jew?” another said.

Max looked at them, confused by the onslaught.  What had he done to stand out?          

The boys moved in closer, and a few others swam over to see what all the fuss was about.

“This kid doesn’t look German at all,” one said, addressing the crowd that was forming.  

They eased closer to him still.  Somebody spat at him, the saliva landing and bubbling in the water close to Max.

“Come on you dirty Jew, give it up.”  This boy was two heads taller than Max and used his height to dominate him.  He shoved Max deeper into the lake so that water streamed into his nose.  Max pulled himself out, choking.  The boy was reaching for him again when they heard a voice in the distance.  

The crowd cleared and Bastian swam through until he was treading water beside Max, who looked gray. Bastian’s heart raced. Conflict exhilarated him.

“Who’s picking on my friend?” He moved toward the boy who’d pushed Max under. “You.  What’s your name? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“It’s Klaus,” he answered, steadying his voice.  “I’m new this year.”

“And what gives you the right to pick on my friend, newbie?”

Klaus looked around.  All of his friends were abandoning him; one by one they each inched away from Bastian and swam away.  

He was practically on top of Klaus when he said, “You’ve seen me shoot, right?”  Klaus nodded.  “Well, unless you want my gun trained on you, I’d better not see you near him again, unless you’re paying him a compliment about his fine German features.  His last name is Amsel, you asshole.  When was the last time you met a Jew named Amsel?”

Max watched all of this, hoping that if he didn’t move, they’d forget he was there.  Bastian had stepped in to save him once again.  While the boys swam away in opposite directions, Max made his way to the steep ledge and lifted himself from the water.  He was still out of breath.  Moments later, Bastian joined him, using his long arms to pull himself from the lake.  

“You didn’t have to do that,” Max mumbled.  Bastian didn’t say anything.  “Okay, maybe you did.  Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, I guess,” he answered.

“Why did he think I looked Jewish?”

“Oh, I don’t know, dark hair, darker complexion.  You don’t look German, that’s for sure.  I just figured you took after your mother who is…”

Max looked up.  “She’s Italian.”

“Oh, well that’s okay.”  Bastian looked to the water, where all the boys were swimming to the dock and pulling themselves out.  

“You cleared out the whole lake, huh?”

“Nah,” Bastian said inhaling sharply and coughing.  “It’s time for our next sport, kid.”

“What’s that?  And can you stop calling me kid?”

“Okay. It’s time for our next sport, Max.”

“More shooting?” His stomach gave another lurch.  He’d been terrible at target practice.  If he were to redeem himself it would not be there.

“No, even better.  Boxing.”

Max didn’t think he could feel worse, but here he was.  He’d almost not made it through being dunked into the water, now he was expected to take punches?

They collected their clothes, Max’s at the water’s edge and Bastian’s from the cabin.  Max took the opportunity to change out of his wet bottoms.

“Should I wear white again?” Max asked, attempting a joke. “So they can see the blood?”

Bastian’s face was serious.  “No, that shit will never wash out of your dress whites.”

        They were in another clearing, this one consisting of five smallish boxing rings made of dirt and one large ring of sand.  The boys surrounded the biggest circle, most wearing only their black sig rune shorts, while the rules were explained.  Max could see sweat beading on their chests.  Some of the boys were smaller and thin like him, but most were built more like Bastian, thick shouldered and tall.  The fights would take place in the smaller rings first and each winner would fight another winner until one was championed.  Each match only lasted three minutes and the person who came out still standing—or, if both were standing, was better off—was the winner. Max hoped he would not be beaten too badly in the first fight, but badly enough he would not have to move on.  

        The rings around him filled and the boys jostled one another. They were having more fun and landing fewer punches than Max expected.  Perhaps this part would not be so bad. The two officers who had explained the rules walked away together, bored by the lack of blood.  They gave their stopwatches to a couple of the older boys to keep time.

        Bastian joined a ring with another boy around his size.  They bounced from foot to foot, throwing a few punches.  When there were fifteen seconds left, Bastian punched the boy in the nose, causing it to bloody and knowing it would be enough to move him on.  The crowd cheered.  Max felt like he would vomit.  What would happen if he were placed in the ring with Bastian?   They stepped out of the ring and someone threw Bastian’s hand into the air in victory.  He winked at Max.  He was laughing, enjoying himself.  

At the far end of the field, a man in uniform walked towards them.  When he was closer, Bastian saw that it was Hans.  He was smiling in a sick sort of way as if he knew something they didn’t.

        “Doing a little boxing, boys?” He said, addressing no one in particular. Hans moved toward Bastian.  The boy who’d been holding his arm up in victory let it drop and stepped away.  The three stitches on Hans’s forehead were almost healed, but the incident with the fence would leave a scar.

        Instead of stopping in front of Bastian, Hans moved forward into the big sand ring.  He gestured to Bastian, welcoming him into the pit.  They locked into a dead stare while the other boys shot cautious glances to one another.

        “Come on, Bastian,” Hans said.  “Don’t I get a chance to get back at you for the cheap shot?”

        “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bastian said in a quiet voice.  He stood stiffly, not looking at Hans.

Max didn’t understand why Bastian didn’t just fight him.  He was bigger than Hans and far stronger.  Hans was built more like himself, not quite grown.  Max looked at Bastian in question and then watched him step into the ring.  All around him voices and gasps exploded like tiny firecrackers through the crowd.

        “What?  What is happening?” Max asked the young man next to him.

        “Don’t you know?”

        Max said, “Know what?”

        “He can’t fight him.  We’re not allowed to fight a superior unless we want to get kicked out. Technically, officers aren’t allowed to challenge campers, but sometimes it happens.”

        “So? He gets kicked out? What’s the big deal?” Max asked, wishing he could be booted himself.

        “You don’t know anything about Bastian, do you?  If he got kicked out—that would be the end of him.”

        Before Max could ask another question, Hans took his first swing.  Bastian’s arms stayed limp at his side.  Max wove his fingers together, prayer like, and felt his pulse beat steady against his palms.  He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Bastian was looking at him and smiling, a small trail of blood already dripping from his nose.

        Bastian turned his attention back to the ring and smiled instead at Hans.  It infuriated Hans and he swung again, this time striking Bastian in the eye.  

        “Come on, Herr Mandel.  You can do better than that.”

        Hans hit him again, harder this time, and Bastian’s lip split open.  The blood swelled and dripped onto the sand, congealing with the tiny particles and creating a lump.  The pain was blinding, but he forced a smile, knowing what got to Hans the most—the impression that his beating was doing nothing.  At each hit, Bastian heard the crowd suck in their breath in unison.  He knew some of them had never liked him and were enjoying the show, and that made him smile all the more.

        Bastian had learned to take a beating from his father, a connoisseur of the belt.  He knew which ones cut and stung the most, a lesson Herr Fischer had been taught by his own father.  Bastian carried the beatings on his skin, day to day, as the scars faded but did not disappear.  To take a beating was nothing.  Early on, he’d found smiling both angered his father and took some of the joy out of the act. And it made Bastian feel like eventually it would be over and he would be on his own again, in his room, safe.  

        A kick to the stomach brought Bastian to the ground. He sat on all fours like a dog and took two more kicks, the first to his abdomen and the second to his side.  He waited for the next, hoping it would finish him so he could be done with the show.  

        A pair of shoes appeared in his vision, not Han’s large clown-like feet.  He heard a voice, familiar, but it sounded like it was coming through a thick fog.  If he could only see the person, he could identify him.

        “Stop it,” Max screamed, protecting Bastian’s body with his own.  

        “So you’d like a beating too?” Hans said.  His face was slick with sweat and he was enjoying himself more than he thought possible.  Beating Bastian was like a dream. He was exorcising every aggression that’d built up over the years against the young man, against the population at large.

        “I just want you to stop,” Max said again.

        “I’ll make you a deal.  I get to take three shots at you and then I’ll be done with him.”

        Bastian gripped onto Max to help pull himself up.  His body was covered in blood and cuts and his right eye was half-closed so he had only partial vision.

        “Max, go.  This is not your fight,” he managed to say.

        Max stepped in front of him again, not even covering half of Bastian’s body with his thin limbs.  He spoke to Hans through clenched teeth.  “Take your three shots.”

        “No,” Bastian half-whimpered behind him.  He was clutching his side.  Trying to concentrate on something other than the pain.  

        The first swing hit Max so hard that he stumbled backwards into Bastian who tumbled back to the ground with a groan.

        “Stand up,” Hans yelled, his voice echoing through the field.  “I still have two more to go.”

        Max managed to get to his feet, only to be knocked off them again with a blow to his jaw.  His molars loosened in his mouth and his body slammed against the sand.  He looked over to Bastian who had succumbed to the pain and passed out.  Max was aware of the crowd of boys knitted around them, covering them in a blanket of shadow.  No one spoke.

        Max rolled over onto his side.  “Bastian,” he said, hoping he would wake up.  Hoping when this was over, his friend would be okay.  

        In the distance, he heard the pounding of boots, running.  Max said Bastian’s name once more before the final blow came.  The kick landed so hard into Max’s face that there was a flash of hot, bright white light before he passed out and there was nothing.