“What do you mean, we?” René asks, leaning on the window sill next to Bruce, half a head taller than the American boy, but slighter and less firm. “Who’s we? ”
“We Americans,” he says. “We, the people.”
“What about your government?”
“The government does what we want,” says Bruce. “If it doesn’t, out it goes!”
Till is delighted. But René looks a little startled at all this audacity. Bruce is going on, enjoying himself, declaiming:
“…Our government is here to serve us. We chose it ourselves, and we obey it because we think it’s right, and not because we’re afraid. It’s there to make us a happy, rich, and peaceful people. We don’t want anyone to attack us, but we don’t want war. And we won’t stand for injustice anywhere—” he checks himself, embarrassed, and modifies, “that is, too much injustice. So if I shoot you I get punished; but I couldn’t, anyhow, because there’s no night practice, and there aren’t any leaders, and besides I haven’t got a rifle.” René doesn’t smile. He accepts the assurance.
We’ll send “the family” a line before the boys leave. “ You write,” I tell them. My long, detailed report will be made later. Till writes in English, drawing in a confused mixture of German letters and the Latin ones he is learning here. When he finishes with “Much love, from your dear son, Till,” René sits down, and fifteen minutes of phonograph-playing passes. We listen to the records while he writes, and at last I read;
“Dearest Mama, “Today was a fine day, I think I’ll get used to it here, but please come whenever you can. Everything here is very different, I can’t explain just how. We are learning a lot, not so much about world theory and less about war. I like school pretty well. I’m practically never afraid any more. I have a friend, that’s why I have to learn English fast now. It is dark outside already, you can see stars over the skyscrapers, but they are a little pale. Please come soon, “to your son “René”
There is a sudden scene before Bruce has his turn. The armband has been lying beside the dagger on the table, and the American has put it on. He throws his arm up. “Heil Hitler!” he cries, at attention.
René goes dark, then very pale. “Stop it!” he shouts. “Take it off, please, Bruce, take that off!”