do you spell engineer, and what was the date of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. And every time I see him he has more questions for me. I try to keep out of his way as soon as he shows up.
Almost worse than this fellow Schnorr is a girl of the neighborhood called Marion Michalski. This girl Marion pesters me wherever I go. She will never believe what I say about anything and even doubts my church jumping record.
The worst part about it is that Marion is three years younger than me and is really just a little child. But she won't leave me alone. She has pigtails and a silly laugh and always thinks she knows better. But there are some things in her favor: she's the daughter of the burgomaster for instance and he can give orders to the police, which can be a great advantage.
When I go on to secondary school this man Schnorr is my form master. Which is bad. For now I can no longer keep out of the way when he shows up, and he keeps on asking and asking and asking questions. But soon I learn always to give him some sort of answer, even if, according to Schnorr, it isn't always the right one. “That son of yours isn't much of a scholar," Schnorr tells my father. This worries my father very much and he starts drinking heavily; and Schnorr is worried too and drinks even more heavily than my father. Then a glassy look comes into his eyes, his speech thickens, he dribbles and slobbers and slips off his chair. “He’s not feeling well," says my father heavily. “Take him home." And I take my sledge because there's snow outside. We load Schnorr on to the sledge and I drive off into the park, where I put him down beside the war memorial. In my view it's the business of the police to take him on from there.
From that day on Schnorr asks me many fewer questions than before. Sometimes he acts as if I weren't in his class at all. But he doesn't keep this up for long. I notice he pays more and more attention to my written work. Just before I'm due to be moved up to the upper second, he finds seven mistakes, underlines them in red, and writes at the end: “Poor." And this puts paid to my chances of a move. But I find some red ink and underline two more mistakes—where there aren't any of course—and then go up to Schnorr and say: " Excuse me, sir. There are nine mistakes marked here, but I've only made seven." Schnorr says: "Impossible," counts them up again, blushes almost as red as the ink, and then says: “You’re quite right. It's wrong. I'm sorry." And then he crosses out the two extra marks. “Excuse me, sir,". I continue. " If I got ' poor' for nine mistakes then surely I must get a better mark now that I've only got seven, or isn't that right?" And of course I do get a better mark and I'm moved up after all.
The church becomes our stronghold. I've had extra keys made for every lock in it at the verger's expense. I caught him one day trying to pinch the Communion wine, since when I've been able to do what I like with him. And we squat there on the carpet talking of God and the world and of life, particularly the latter, and drinking a great deal. Until this bitch Marion Michalski comes and forces her company on us. What is it she wants anyway?
“This man Ley is a filthy pig," I say in front of the whole class. So Schnorr can't overlook the remark but has to go to the headmaster about it. The headmaster runs to the local education authority. A commission is set up to investigate the matter. But I say: “There’s absolutely no doubt about it, this fellow Ley is a filthy pig." “Remember now, Feders, you're talking about one of the leaders of the Reich!" shouts the school inspector. “I’m talking about a filthy pig," I say. “Because this man Ley pissed out of a car as it was passing a whole group of Hitler Youth, who had to jump aside to avoid getting wet. I saw it with my own eyes!" “One doesn't say things like that," declared the inspector decisively. “No true German boy would believe such a thing!" This is the year in which I am not moved up, ostensibly because I'm weak in history.
The best thing about Schnorr is undoubtedly his wife. She always smiles when she sees me, and her smile grows warmer and warmer each year. When I'm in the upper first, she's particularly friendly. “You’ve grown into a fine young man," she says when I bring the exercise books to the Schnorrs' apartment. “Let’s see if you've any muscles." “Quite a lot," I say. “All over." And she feels them for herself. She has plenty of time for this because Schnorr is teaching that afternoon. Her voice grows husky and her eyes grow large. She seems to lose her balance for a moment and I catch her and lay her on the couch. “Stay with me," she says. And I do because she shows me everything I want to see and teaches me a lot of things I know nothing about as yet. Then she says: “What are you thinking about?" “About the written work for the matriculation," I answer. “Can’t you find out what the questions are going to be?" “I’d do anything for you," she says. And she does it.
“Shame on you!" says Marion Michalski indignantly. “How can you do such a thing! And with her of all people! Shame on you 1 I never want to see you again. Never! "
“You make me ashamed of you," said my father. “It can't go on like this. You need to have some order and discipline knocked into you. You must go into the army."
In 1935 I volunteered for the Wehrmacht, with the intention of becoming an officer. After the usual two years' basic training I passed out top from the Military Academy in Potsdam and in 1938 was promoted second lieutenant.
It's all quite simple: I have useful muscles, a strong heart, and my lungs would outdo a pair of bellows. I can run faster, jump further, march longer than most men. Nothing tires me.
It's all quite easy, so long as one remembers one simple basic principle: stupidity is trumps, the stupid represent the norm. The most primitive oaf of a ranker has to be able to understand what's going on—everyone else has to adjust their point of view to him. Even in his sleep the soldier must be able to shoot effectively or do whatever else is demanded of him—then everything's fine. For a convoy always proceeds at the speed of its slowest vehicle. An army is as good as its most half-witted private. This has to be understood if life is to be tolerable. You have to appreciate this standard if you are to achieve a corresponding sense of superiority. Soldiering is based on the lowest common denominator—its highest peak is represented by a slick mediocrity.
Practically speaking, that is all you need to know. The soldiers among whom I find myself remind me of a patient herd of cattle—useful material for the slaughterhouse of war. The non-commissioned officers above me who bellow and nag, bluster and bully, are simply, either by inclination or instinct, the leaders of the herd. The officers I'll be mixing with, who spend their time organizing, planning, supervising —they're simply the designers, the engineers, the switch controllers for large concentrations of human machinery. Ah, my friends, a man who has grasped all this isn't going to be impressed by anything.
But it's only the Wehrmacht which functions along clear, simple, predictable lines like this, not life itself. That's a complicated business even if it doesn't always seem so. An example of its complexity is provided by Marion Michalski. She's there when I get home. She follows me around even if I don't want her to. She bothers me whenever she can. “What is it you want from me?" I ask her. "I want anything you want," says Marion. And she says this as we're walking through the park on the way to the cinema. There's a full moon above us. I can see her face very clearly in all its details—her eyes, staring at me, her lips slightly parted, and the whole framed by her long loose hair which reaches below her shoulders. And then there's the smell of chestnuts in bloom, and growing stronger and stronger, the scent of Marion's skin as she comes closer and sidles up to me. "I want anything you want," she repeats. And I say: "I want to make love to you, here, on the grass." “Then do," she says. “It’s time you did!"
Everything would be easy, child's play; one could cope with everything with one hand tied behind one's back, if it weren't for this girl Marion. One's military duties—barely more than a primitive way of enjoying oneself. Preparing to become an officer—ridiculously easy, kindergarten stuff. The various exertions on the barrack square, on maneuvers, on the ranges—all child's play to Feders. Even as a corporal I know more than any lieutenant. And
