Private homes are not the most important places now — the meeting-hall comes first for the members of the family. Love of the Führer, faithfulness to his State — the Nazis jealously watch over the fulfillment of this highest commandment. The man who takes his home life seriously, spending much of his time there, feeling himself a family man before he is a Nazi, is an outsider. He is suspect. He does not realize that decisive events take place only in the meeting-hall.
Torn between authorities, the Hitler child is pulled by the school and Hitler Youth Movement on one hand, and home on the other. The child feels the duel for the possession of his soul; he hears his teachers’ hidden objection when the Hitler Youth takes too much of his time, he sees his parents’ hidden frown when there is no time for home. But he also notices that the authorities over him are afraid. Fear is the general motive. Grown-ups lie out of fear, and bear false witness against each other. Since they fear even little children, they lie to them.
It is hard to find any connection between this and the heroism they always praise. The child must think: “I don’t know, I’m not afraid at target-practice, with its accidents. But suppose I don’t listen in to Goebbels’ speech? I’m afraid my teacher will know about that in the morning, then I’d be punished. The teacher could denounce my parents. Father could lose his job and be expelled from the Party; that would be the worst thing possible. I am afraid, horribly. And that’s true of my parents, too. And so we do listen to most of Goebbels’ speeches; if, somehow, we miss one, we lie about it. I tell lies in school; Father, in the Fachschaft; and Mother when she goes marketing. We all lie, out of fear.”
The child will only dimly suspect that most people have this fear, although the German populace is glorified as “heroic.” Perhaps parents have it most — the children feel this — for they are held responsible for their children, and at the same time have lost all influence over them.
Lack of time, lack of trust! No, family life is no longer gemütlich. It has lost all tenderness, all the past mutual thoughtfulness; and parental care is dead.
“The lives of all German youths belong solely to Hitler,” shouted Baldur von Schirach, now Reich Youth Leader. If a child asks its mother, for reassurance, “Am I yours?” the mother will have to answer, “No. You belong to the Führer.” And if the father breaks in, impatiently, “Don’t teach the child nonsense, dear… Of course you belong to us,” trouble begins. Something forbidden and punishable has been let slip; a quarrel is the mildest consequence. If the child is too young to go and denounce them, the father must still watch out, servants can hear. Besides, the kindergarten teacher asks what is said at home, and the baby is sure to tell the truth, he is too little to lie.
If the child is a big boy and a member of the Jungvolk or the Hitler Youth, he will rebel with all his might against tenderness. He resents emotion — even his own, which sometimes makes him throw his arms around his mother, and cry. It will destroy him in the eyes of those from whose judgment there is no appeal. He has been taught: “Those who shirk their duties just because they are tired are ‘mothers’ boys.’ Mothers’ boys cry when they are hit. Mothers’ boys run home when it is raining; they are afraid of thunder. They don’t know what a night march or war-play is. If they are tired after their daily work, they do not manage to be fresh and ready for service. Mothers’ boys don’t know the ruggedness of mountains and woods; they do not know dusty country roads, or life in a tent. Mothers’ boys rest their heads on soft pillows and sleep under silk covers. Jungvolk youngsters are hardy.” ( Morgen, organ of the Jungvolk.)
To be a mothers’ boy — ah, that would be the most terrible thing that could happen. So, after marching all day, he clenches his fists, the little soldier; and when his mother tries to give him a kiss before he goes to sleep, he turns his head away. This kiss, he feels, might have cost me my dignity. I might have become soft and affectionate. And he goes to his room, stiffening in the most manly way.
His mother looks after him, perplexed. To pass the time until her husband returns from his meeting, she opens the pamphlet on the table. She catches the word “Mother” and a few lines of poetry:
Upon his breast, shot through, they found