Joining the Jungvolk

The day was bound to come. Ever since Franz had left, it seemed there had been a mental countdown of the days before young Ernst should be forced to leave home. Each year left to remain was a treasure, each moral discussion a memory for a lifetime. As his father had hoped, Ernst held true to everything that was taught him, while under his father’s roof.

As the years crept ever closer to the time of going away, Ernst began to feel the tug of the HJ on his arm, every time he so much as ventured out into the neighborhood. Boys everywhere were nagging the younger boys to join the Jungvolk. Why was it they had to pester him about it, knowing he had but one more free year before forced participation?

“Are you a German boy? Join our Jungvolk!” Their signs were posted down every street. Now, those who did not put their ten-year-old boys in the camps were thrown into prison. The Führer announced on the radio that the children would be put in orphanages unless parents sent them to the HJ. As Ernst’s tenth year was coming to an end, he became more and more depressed, weighed down by the vicious persistence of the boys and the open threats of Hitler. Why could he not spend his last year at home in peace? That devil would not let him rest.

It was now the boy’s eleventh birthday—the beginning of his fifth month before he should leave home. He was already a part of the Jungvolk, and went to the weekly meetings—but it should be far worse to have to go to the summer camp. Painful as it should be to be sent away, Ernst could either go to the camp, or spend the rest of his life drifting from home to home.

That night, Ernst was given anything he wished. One of his presents was his very own Bible. His father had kept it well hidden from the Nazis, locked away in a hidden compartment of his wardrobe. To present it to the little boy carried with it both the greatest honor, and the gravest responsibility. If anyone were to find it, Ernst knew he should be shot, or sent to the concentration camp.

“It’s small, Ernst—something you could fit in your pocket,” his father said. “Only pray the guards don’t find it.”

Ernst regarded the book with the genuine affection, solemnly sliding it into his pocket, smoothing his shorts to see that it did not bulge. With the gravity of a sentinel, he paced before the cracked mirror in the bathroom and sighed his approval.

Mr. Bergmann knew the last few months should speed by. There would hardly be time for good-bye then, with his son’s paperwork to be filled out, the forms to be signed…school to take up the majority of his days… Accordingly, he spoke with the boy on his birthday, giving him his final instructions before a total change of life.

The two were seated in the wing-backed chair, as before, with Ernst on his father’s knee, and the old man staring into the fire. The grey hair was beginning to show more, the wrinkles to deepen around his watery eyes…but the fire was still there, the passionate hatred for Hitler as strong and raging as ever it had been in his breast. He bid the boy face him, his frown line firm, his lips set. “Ernst,” he said solemnly, “this is your last night in the world, as you know it. So far, I have done my best to protect you from what lurks outside these walls, from the evils that run rampant through our streets in broad daylight. Now, the time has come for you to be a man in the world and to hold to the goodness and virtue I have taught you. My son, do not forget the solid years you have stayed true to your God, and to your father. Do not be swayed by the voice of the masses. Even if everyone else is against you, and no one believes the way you believe, stay true to the straight path you have chosen. Turn not from it for any reason…You will see the strongest fall, good young men shattered by a world of lies thrown at them before they were ready. You will see all manner of wickedness and vile abominations that I dare not even speak of—but Ernst, promise me you will not cower to them, that you will not walk the way to eternal darkness. If you do, I promise you you shall never sleep again without recurring visions of the horrid acts you have performed, until it drives you to the very brink of Hell. Be strong, Ernst. Do not tear down the weak—don’t exalt the strong for their strength’s sake—but judge everyone according to their works, and their moral reverence toward God. Do not keep in bad company, and above all, do not drag the name of Christ through the dirt. I am counting on you, my son. I know not when I may see you again…so I say this to you, now, that you may be prepared for what lies ahead. I love you, my son. I am proud of you.”

The boy’s father hugged him tightly, wishing now there were ten more happy years he could spend with the boy to further instruct him. There were so many things forgotten, things he had never anticipated the boy having to know—and yet, even if given more time, he should never be ready.

Young Ernst cried against his father’s neck, knowing he might never see him again—or at least, not for a long while. He determined that the five years of instruction his father had given him would not go to waste. He loved his father dearly and hated to part with him for any reason. Yet again, Hitler must have his way, at last, as the boy was of age now.

Early the next morning, the two set out, the elder Mr. Bergmann in his overcoat and hat, his grey beard testifying to his years of wisdom, and the young eleven-year-old boy Ernst beside him, lugging his bag, while muttering over to himself the oath he must take upon arrival at camp. How he wished he could simply stay home, and never have to deal with all the training, all the endless songs of praise to the Führer. The second great war had been waged, as was expected. It had only been a matter of time before it was sure to break out. It was the Fatherland and her allies against the rest of the free world. The boys would be trained, and eventually utilized, if the war were to last until they were eighteen and older, but that was such a vague and uncertain possibility that it appeared there could be no use in fretting about it. The only thing for Ernst to dread was life at camp under a drill sergeant and the sudden realization that he was about to be cut off from his father indefinitely. This, more than anything, made the boy hate the prospect of camp life.

At the station, Mr. Bergmann checked to make sure Ernst’s luggage was in order, and that his ticket was paid for—trifles, compared to the actual good-bye. On the platform, as the train came rolling in, the father knelt down before his young son, and put both hands on his shoulders. His eyes looked all over the boy’s features, treasuring his image to remember long afterward.

“Ernst,” he choked, his voice hoarse and dry now. Big tears were standing in his eyes so that he could hardly see. “Ernst, this is good-bye, now. Promise you will write me often, and tell me how you get on. I know I can depend on you for that. If there is anything wrong, do not hesitate to write to me, and I will do everything in my power to support, defend, and protect you. You have my blessing, my son. May God keep you in his care and guard your heart from all wrong and deceitful workings.” He kissed the boy’s cheek, the two clinging in one last embrace, wishing they should never have to let go. But the whistle was blowing shrilly now. The passengers were mounting the steps. Reluctantly, the two parted, the little boy with his large bag, plodding toward the train, the old man looking on, trembling with emotion, waving to the his last son, torn from him by his Führer. There was nothing happy in having to be separated from the boy. No lies of the monster could comfort him nor deceive him into believing that all would be well, and his son should return unscathed by the world. “God bless you, Ernst,” he whispered to himself, as the whistle sounded once more, and sluggishly, the train began to chug down the tracks. “God, keep him safe, I pray.”

Within the train, little Ernst ran down the aisles to the window, leaning out of it, and waving to his father, his own eyes brimful with tears. He knew not when he should see his father again, but already, it seemed as though it should be a long while before then. The rattle of the cars made him remember what his father had said to him, as a little boy, that his hand would always be with him, and the warmth of his love would be his constant assurance. Ernst sighed at the memory, sinking down into his seat alone. The passing scenery was like a swiftly passing life, escalating into a new and very different one, so strange and uninviting that he was repulsed by it. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown and the insecurity of leaving home that made the boy look on his surroundings as a caged animal. Several boys were scattered throughout the train, probably his own age, on their way to join the Jungvolk, he mused.

With a depressed look, Ernst took up the note his father had given him. On it was written the location of the camp, and what he should do upon arrival. The camp was nearly ninety miles away from Berlin, far enough away from home to feel lonesome, but not so far that the boy could not sneak back, if he wished to. In the back of his mind, he held a vague idea of an escape plan, even daring to weigh the balance of whether it should be worthwhile to abandon the camp, and risk the orphanage.

Ernst was startled to hear a sudden burst of laughter erupt from one of the seats behind him. Instantly, he grew even more reserved, sinking down lower in his seat. The laughter was not a happy sound, but a cacophony of screeching voices in mockery of something. Shouts followed, mingled with the discordant screams of several smaller boys, apparently struggling to stand up in their seats to belt out a song. The words were lost to Ernst’s ears, drowned out by the acclamations of several eager listeners, but after a moment or two of straining to catch what was being said, the boy was able to hear more clearly.

Just as the cheering waned, one of the younger boys, standing atop his seat like some eager patriot, shouted out a verse of the song, “Yes, when the Jewish blood splashes from the knives, things will go twice as well!” after which, a violent cheer soared up and down the aisles of the train car, making it echo with the vile chant of that verse, over and over again. Ernst peered around his seat in consternation, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks at the insolence of the boys. He spied the youth that had so eagerly started the chant, a small boy with soft, almost babyish features, and the last person he should have expected to be leading the song. The boy glared back at him, eyeing him like a snake, seeming to mock Ernst for his disapproving look. In disgust, Ernst turned back around in his seat, sliding down into a slouching position, feeling miserable in his surroundings. He wanted to mash his fingers in his ears and drown out the hateful words that it seemed every boy on the car was singing now, but he could not.

At length, when the words had been exhausted, the boys put the song to rest and joined in loud conversation and gleeful shouts about what they perceived camp life should be like, repeating all the stories they had heard from the older boys and recruiters, and speaking admiringly about their sergeants and lieutenants. To young Ernst’s mortification, a tuft of blonde hair poked out from beside his seat, the head of which belonged to same boy who had so passionately sung only a few moments before. Coolly, Ernst regained himself, avoiding the intruder’s menacing gaze and interrogative expression.

“Who are you?” the young Gestapo-in-training questioned, at the same time, deliberately taking a seat beside Ernst and peering up into his face in the most grotesque manner. Ernst pretended not to hear him, merely glancing out the window instead, and gripping the handle of his bag tighter.

The boy repeated his question, getting even closer to Ernst’s face. “Didn’t you hear me? I asked, ‘Who are you?’”

Ernst turned stiffly, his lips a firm line, his eyes desperately attempting not to betray the annoyance and agitation he felt. “I’m Ernst,” he said shortly, staring blankly ahead of himself.

“Ernst,” the little boy repeated, lifting himself up on his hands, then dropping back down on the seat, making Ernst bounce. “My name’s Arthur,” he smirked. He turned back to Ernst, staring hard at his face, his eyes dancing with some mischief. “Why didn’t you sing with us?” he asked, twisting his head around like a snake. “Do you not like to sing?”

“I don’t often,” Ernst shuffled uneasily in his seat, attempting to look casual, as he slid his hand into his pocket. His face turned deathly pale, as he did so, for in it, he felt his fingers touch the small Bible. An image of decapitation raced through his mind, and the chill of death ran down his spine. He jerked his hand out of his pocket and sat on it, his frame tingling with fear. It was as though a bullet had been shot through his head. “Why are you so jumpy?” the fiend at his side asked, still twisting about and staring back at him with those inquisitive eyes roving over him.

Ernst felt his heart leap into his throat; his breathing grew constricted, as he turned back to the window, hoping his eyes did not betray his thoughts. “I don’t know the song you were singing,” he said quietly.

“Oh, well that’s fine,” Arthur smiled, nudging his arm. “I can teach you it. It’s an easy song to remember—“

“Maybe another time,” Ernst said shortly. “I’m going to sleep most of the way. I’m sure I’ll learn it quickly at camp.”

“All right then,” the other nodded, still looking suspicious. “I’ll see you later.” With that, he slipped off back to his own seat, just as stealthily as he had come.

Ernst tried to sleep, but was so distraught, his eyes would not close. They were always popping open again, wildly staring everywhere at once. His mind was racing, and so many images of execution were haunting him: the feeling of cold metal against his forehead, a knife twisting between his ribs into his heart, a blade sliding like a paper cut across his throat. As he rolled over in his seat, he felt the hard book in his pocket press into his leg, a constant reminder of its presence. It seemed at any moment, he should be jerked out of his seat, a strong hand gripping his throat, a gaping hole ripped in his shorts, where his pocket had been. He slipped his cold hand back into its place there, clutching a corner of the book as tightly as he could, and shutting his eyes tighter still.

Then, slowly, the tragic images faded from his vision, as a scene from the past rose before him. He could see himself standing in his pew, as a little eight-year-old boy, with his hymnal in his hand. His father was standing beside him, tall and handsome in his dark suit and somber appearance. A hymn was being sung, but he could not remember which one it was. He could only remember the reverence with which the words were spoken, the peace it seemed to bring him, as he recalled. His father’s hand had been on his shoulder, warm and tender, as it always was.

Suddenly, the service was disrupted by a loud shriek, and the great doors were being thrown open. His father had grabbed him, and told him to crawl under the pew. From his place of concealment, he could see the brown shirt of a Nazi Hitler Youth, a gun in his hand. The sharpness of his accent still rang in Ernst’s ears, as he conjured up this scene from only three years before. The next moment, the gun went off. Piercing screams rose all around him. The rush of feet stampeding to evacuate the church resounded in his ears. He felt his father grab his arm, jerking him out from under the pew, sweeping him up into his arms with a grip that crushed him.

From over his father’s shoulder, Ernst could see the minister in his white robes, lying dead on the floor before him, his brains spewed over the floor, a ghastly wound in his head, where the blood was coagulating. Then, the two were swept into the mob of the congregation. The noise was terrifying, with women shrieking, men vehemently cursing the Nazi regime—but amid it all, there stood the Hitler Youth, the hatred in his eyes a witness to the Führer’s terror, the blood-red banner on his arm the same color of the stains that now marred the church floor.

There had been no more services held since that day. The church had been disbanded by the HJ, no longer to uplift the name of the Creator above. Instead, a Nazi flag was draped from its cathedral, a symbol to all other churches that their time was soon to end. And yet, the Bible was there in Ernst’s pocket, in daring opposition of Hitler’s agenda. With a shudder, the boy drew his head down to his knees, his heart throbbing against his chest at the fearful memory. “Oh, God, protect me!” he pleaded, shuddering in his sleep, the tears forced from his eyes.

Ernst was jerked awake, as the train came to a screeching halt, sending him sprawling to the floor. He struggled to his feet again, clutching his bag, staring confusedly about himself. All the other boys were shouldering their luggage, laughing and jeering at each other, jubilantly taking up the song again. Ernst felt small and alone, as he dejectedly sauntered through the crowd of eager boys, casting a frequent glance up at the adults, who were still seated. Some were parents, he knew, who had already been forced to send their boys away. They looked on these ignorant youth as the scoundrels they were, reckless and unbridled in their speech and actions. The boy read in their faces the grief and anguish it caused them to watch these fine young boys marching off to their moral destruction, all at the hands of their Führer, Hitler. All the good in them should be stamped out, leaving only harsh, militarily minded imps, whose only will was to unreservedly live and die for their Führer, even rejecting the loved ones they had once called their fathers.

By the time the train reached its destination, it was so dark the boy could hardly see his hand in front of his face. Ernst floundered through the crowd of hurried boys, glancing up to see a huge gate above which was written “Camp Forty-seven.” It was a fleeting image, but it only added to Ernst’s sorrow. He should no longer live in a cheery home with a loving father to watch over and protect him. Now, he should reside in a rigorous army camp with no parents, no one to keep him from harm’s way.

The boys kept shoving Ernst further and further into the camp, past several barracks, where faint light shone through their windows. These would be the boys’ quarters, from now on. They all looked the same, cabins with few windows, and through these, one could see rows upon rows of bunk beds, with hardly a stitch of sheet upon them. On and on the boys went until they were somewhere near the middle of the yard. Then, as by a wave, they all stopped, awaiting the rest of the boys in the rear to reach them.

The shouts and clamor rang through the night air, splitting Ernst’s ears with its ring. He tried to lose himself in the mass, but was continually being pushed forward the front of the crowd. Louder and louder the current swelled, circulating through the horde, until, all at once, it stopped, and a hush of death reigned in its stead. Indeed, Ernst should far rather have preferred the shouting to the somber silence that followed. Not a voice rose, not a twig snapped, not a single cricket chirped out its music. It was as though one could feel the silence, its thick, humid blanket oppressively lain on the boys’ backs, coiling around them so that even their breath was stopped. Ernst glanced furtively about himself, fearing some strange new thing was about to appear, that even a turn of his head should make all eyes latch on him, demanding why he dared to disturb the tranquility of the moment.

At the far end of the barracks, a flashlight began flickering, accompanied by the uneven tramp of feet. Several muffled voices were conversing in harsh tones, one gruff and overbearing, and the others of a higher pitch, in feeble mimicry of the former. They were coming closer, swaggering up the line of boys. Ernst caught a glimpse of a tall swarthy figure of a man, stooped in scrutiny of the new troop of boys, and followed closely by three HJ boys, about the ages of sixteen and seventeen. The boys were in their brown shirts and blood-red armbands, drawing themselves up as thought they thought themselves men. The man, in stark contrast, had nothing to prove with his large, sinewy muscles and a strapping physic that needed no enhancement. The little Jungvolk boys straightened to their maximum height before the man’s inspecting eyes, puffing out their chests and standing to attention. At the man’s approach, Ernst did the same, turning to stare blankly ahead, inwardly wondering what sort of person this was.

As the tramp of feet grew louder, and the tense breathing of the boys beside him led Ernst to believe the man was nearing, he instantly smoothed out his pocket and stood firmly. It was then the sharp, piercing gaze of the sergeant met his own, a hardened, intimidating face that should strike fear into any boy’s heart. His dark brows were knit tightly against his smoldering eyes, a thick mustache curled down over his firm lips. He was not blatantly hateful in his look. It was the kind that started out as almost admiration, but as his eyes continued to mesmerize his prey, they began to flash hypnotically, began kindling into a fire that captivated one’s attention.

Then menacingly, what at first appeared to be respect was revealed to be rebuke, and the proud bearing was turned to that of scorn. “I own you,” he seemed to whisper… His nostrils flared like a spirited horse, challenging his victim to drop his gaze, and cower at the sight of him. But Ernst, though his heart was leaping within his chest, his stomach sick with fear, looked full into those hateful eyes, unwittingly clutching his pocket under the pressure.

Somehow, the eyes moved off of him. The weighted tread was heard far down the line of boys in a matter of seconds. Perhaps it had been only a moment, only a raindrop in the waters of time, but to the frightened boy, it seemed like an age.

When the man had made his way down the entire line, he stopped, turning on his heel, took a step back, and straightened himself. Like a spring, his arm flew up, his eyes staring out into the night sky. All the boys repeated his salute, holding it, breathlessly awaiting his next command. “Heil, Hitler!” the deep, guttural voice shouted, echoing against the barracks, his voice reverberating till it rang out clearly.

“Heil, Hitler!” the boys screamed in answer, swelling with enthusiasm. Then, like a trap, the sergeant’s arm fell back at his side, as he cast another sweeping glance over the boys. “I am Sergeant Hoffmann,” he said thickly, his eyes maintaining their bold mien, captivating the boys by his powerful voice. He did not speak quickly, but as though he had all the time in the world on his hands, and he meant to use it. “This is a military training camp…we are at war, we Germans against the inferior world. We are strong, you and I, you strong in passion, and heart—I in physical strength, and tactics. It is my duty, and privilege, to bestow on you the knowledge and wisdom that my Sergeant placed in me. You are no longer boys, but men, and will be treated as such. In one respect, I know what that means to a boy—a feeling of power and respect, that the world is beneath you, and you above everything—but that is not what I am here to make you feel. As men, you must be strong, both physically and mentally. Men do not cry at pain, nor fear the sting of death. They are invincible to any outside forces. With the proper training, and the willpower to do the impossible—you can do anything. This is what I shall be instructing you in; this is what you must learn, before you are ready to fight on the front lines.”

Not a boy made a sound. There seemed to be whispered words, “You must await your orders. You must not speak, except you be given orders.”

Already, the constraint of the military was beginning to prevail over the young minds of the new recruits. As Ernst had known, camp was not merely a place to dream of war, and perhaps sing songs around a campfire and go swimming once in a while. This camp was designed for one purpose—to raise up superhuman Arians, unstoppable, impenetrable—or at least, so Hitler meant them to be.

The sergeant continued, “Every morning, every evening, and whenever I should choose, you will be expected to snap to attention, to salute our Führer, or whatever military discipline you require. Tonight, you shall swear the oath, as a pledge to your Führer.”

Ernst gulped. He had heard his brother swear this before he left for camp, four years ago. He had been repeating it over and over to himself before he boarded the train. Now, he must say it, though he did not believe the words nor the meaning they carried with them.

“In the presence of this blood banner which represents our Führer,” Ernst moved his lips, hoping the voices of those around himself should be enough to satisfy the Sergeant. “I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the savior of our country, Adolf Hitler,” the voices continued. “I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God.” They all lowered their hands with Ernst staring hard at his sergeant.

“This oath will be repeated often, throughout each day,” the man continued, his eyes roving toward Ernst, making the color come to his face. “And now, we will recite the anthem, Farhnenheid.”

The anthem was sung, droning in Ernst’s ears, sickening him not only with its patriotic feel, but its diabolical words. He kept his hand extended the entire time, not daring to let it waiver; the sergeant was standing directly in front of him, eyeing him like a hawk. The boy kept gasping in his breath, so that he could hardly sing the song.

When all was over, the sergeant gave one last command. “I am going to give a roll call,” he said sharply, holding up a piece of paper, the gesture of his hand making his muscles tighten. “When I call your name, you will follow one of these boys,” he pointed to the HJ members. “The boy you go with is the boy in charge of your barrack throughout the day. He will report to me. You are to obey everything he says, without question. Those who fail to comply will be sent directly to me.” He paused, giving such a look as to imply that death should be the consequence. Then, sharply, Sergeant Hoffmann shouted the names, and the boys scurried off to join their respective instructors.

The line rapidly dwindled, with the first troop of boys following their instructor to the first barrack, and so on. “Ernst Bergmann!” the deep voice barked as, instantly, those piercing eyes were locked on their victim.

Ernst caught up his bag and dashed off, only too happy to get away from that monster. He found himself to be assigned to a tall boy with broad shoulders, not nearly such a build as the sergeant commanded, but equally keen. He could not hold a candle to the fear Sergeant Hoffmann could strike into a boy, but certainly had his fair share of strength behind his look.

“Attention!” he shouted, commanding silence over the boys. He waited a moment before he spoke again, confidently folding his hands behind his back, leaning over one of the smallest boys in the group to stare down at him. “I am Hugo Wagner. I will be your instructor throughout the day and night, showing you how to fire guns, load ammunition, scope out the enemy, and other procedures. Anyone reporting late or not staying up with the group will be severely punished. I am not one to give second chances. Anything I see, I will report…Follow me.”

The boys followed their new instructor to the third barrack and into a sprawling room lit by gas lamps. Immediately, the boys scrambled to claim their bunks, each excited to be by his friend and finding the best spots near the light, or those that were near a window. Ernst waited quietly, standing aloof, as he watched the proceedings. He did not feel comfortable running down the long hallway, shoving his way through the throng of boys, and diving into a bunk bed, only to be thrown out by someone else who had already claimed it. He sauntered down the hall, glancing over the boys, many of whom were already busily unloading their bags and organizing their things. Down the rows upon rows he made his way, his large bag draped over his shoulder, insecurity beginning to rise in him as some of the boys began to stare. Most of the bunks were taken now, and despite his fear of being trampled, he almost wished he had made a race for one of them long before now. At last, he found one, the last one left, at the very end of the barrack. Apparently, no one had wanted it, as it tended to sink in the middle. It was a bottom bunk, the top already holding an occupant, who was peering between the bars in the most aggravating manner. Ernst tried to ignore the imp, as he shouldered his bag, and dropped it on the bed. He began going through his things, and taking out what he should need for the night. Still, there was that strange, eerie feeling one gets when another is staring hard at him. He knew it was the boy above him, overly curious to know just what he was doing. Ernst sighed to himself, still pretending not to notice, but beginning to grow agitated.

“I forgot your name,” a strangely familiar voice above him said in the tone of a meddling interrogator. At once, Ernst recalled the train ride, and the boy who had so animatedly sung the song about killing the Jews. In dread, Ernst looked up to see the same boy staring back at him, his eyes dancing with some new mischief. “They called your name, but I don’t remember it,” he continued boisterously. “I’ll bet it’s nitwit.”

“What’s your name again? I don’t remember yours either,” Ernst said evasively.

“It’s Arthur—Arthur Schubert,” the boy smiled, bouncing atop his bed, in danger of bringing it down. “Now what’s yours again?”

“Ernst Bergmann,” Ernst said quietly.

“Well, it looks like I ran into you again,” Arthur smirked. “And it looks like we’ll be sharing bunks, too.”

“It looks like it,” Ernst agreed, much as he hated the idea. If the boy enjoyed singing murderous songs, and instigating others to do the same, what other evil things did he indulge in?

“Well, goodnight, Ernst,” the boy nodded happily, bouncing one more time, as he landed in a heap on his bed. “See you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“You the same,” Ernst sighed, staring down at the floor. This should be his first night away from home, the first night in a long list that should continue to grow for the remainder of the war. Horrid!

When the lights were turned out, and the call had been given to go to sleep, Ernst closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer to himself. “God, help me through the day tomorrow,” he muttered, his voice hardly audible. “I need You, Lord. I can do nothing without You. Please, give me strength and wisdom. Help me to influence those around me. In Your name, Amen.” He rolled over, facing the wall, several scenes and words of the day racing through his mind—the song about the Jews, the sergeant’s glare, the anthem, the sworn oath—was this what every day would look like now? Were all the glories of early childhood forever past?