A slightly cloudy sky greeted August on the morning of the last day of June 1942. He pushed open the shop door and jumped enthusiastically down the three steps into the open air. He began the anniversary day in good spirits. Would his father, whose name he bore, have been pleased with his eldest son’s plan to transition from being a craftsman to a merchant? The Lenz lamp shop directly opposite looked at him sleepily, mirroring his image in its large window. He was proud of his bright green eyes, oval face, almost wrinkle-free forehead and narrow, high-bridged nose, which gave him the appearance of an intellectual, despite his working-class background.
He opened his pocket watch after fumbling for it in his trouser pocket; he had exactly eleven minutes until the shop opened at seven o’clock. He stretched his arms down close to his body; it felt good, and he looked fine doing so. Then he turned around. In the early morning light, he was appalled by the dirt on the two-by-three-metre shop window. The black lettering that read “Butter and Cheese” was barely legible. He armed himself with a duster, nimbly climbed the man-sized stepladder, and conscientiously cleaned the window and the metal sign above it bearing his name with soapy water. During this daily ritual, he reflected on the criticism he had received from his party comrades when the business opened.
They had said that August’s business appearance was utterly inappropriate and that the Sütterlin script was not suitable for a merchant. People might draw the wrong conclusions from it. A German tenant using this Jewish script? That was simply unacceptable. But Brigitta was among the last pupils who still needed to learn it, since she had just started school. However, after the supposedly Jewish script was abolished, the students switched to the Latin alphabet. At least replacing the metal sign was worth considering, after he had reluctantly reflected on it and dismissed it as a minor issue.
August vaguely remembered the discussion about this script, introduced by Mr Sütterlin a good quarter of a century ago, aimed at making handwriting easier to learn. Ironically, foreigners struggled to master it; the letters were hard to decipher, which became a problem for the NSDAP. Naturally, rallies, decrees and bans needed to be understood by everyone. That was undoubtedly the true reason for the return to the Latin alphabet.
But it was not worth letting the matter rest. The party office was right next door in the adjacent building, and functionary Albert Bohrmann never abandoned his obtrusive political behaviour. ‘Everybody has to cleanse everything thoroughly of the bacillus’, he would say, using one of his favourite unpleasant sayings. August preferred not to question it, aiming to maintain the balance between him and Bohrmann. He had likely made a positive first impression on Bohrmann because of his well-groomed appearance, which he maintained even in his private life.
However, there was one downside to his success story. Thoughtfully, he looked up at the two-storey building and fondly remembered the previous owner, the Jewish grocer Rosenbaum. August used to buy his cigars from him and had confided in him. The Nazis had offended Rosenbaum too deeply, prompting him and his wife to decide to emigrate to the Netherlands. Would Mr Radke like to take over the building, or at least the ground floor? He held August and his abilities in high regard. August felt honoured but declined the offer, expressing his regret that Jewish shopkeepers had suffered such immense damage as a result of the boycott in April. Out of consideration for his large family, he had refrained from attracting attention by making any purchases at a Jewish shop. The party-commissioned thugs from the “Sturmabteilung” (SA) and “Schutzstaffel” (SS) would arbitrarily beat up and arrest potential buyers, making any discussion about the store impossible. These men were nothing but hooligans. Despite this troubling environment, August’s financial resources were far from sufficient to purchase real estate. Mr Rosenbaum had been understanding, encouraging August to take his time thinking it over. ‘Go for it’, he had said. ‘Specialise. How about dairy products? The dairy is just a stone’s throw away’.
Two weeks later, the Rosenbaum family succumbed to political pressure and were forced to give up their property, parting with it with heavy hearts. After lengthy proceedings and exorbitant costs, they purchased tickets for their departure, ultimately impoverished by emigration.
August frowned as he considered the history of his store acquaintance, which was certainly not a glorious one; yet, no one ever talked about it. Empty business premises were common, and people seemed uninterested in them. However, August found himself particularly fascinated by the friendly recommendation from businessman Rosenbaum. His approval of the project meant a form of validation to August, which is why he felt so drawn to it.
Just like today, during the midst of the war, the weather on the day of the viewing was beautiful and summery. Bohrmann had previously probed him, even grilling him with questions. The conversation had degenerated into a veritable interrogation. Perhaps the Goldfasan was testing whether August was capable of lying without hesitation; why else did he want to know what Mr Radke’s original profession was? August suspected Bohrmann of being deceitful with every question, but he did not let his uncertainty show, fully aware that, as an emotional person, he found it difficult to hide his feelings. For this reason, August had been concealing his emotions behind carefully crafted little stories since his youth.
His father had never tired of trying to make the carpentry trade appealing to his sons; an honourable task that even Jesus Christ pursued. Unfortunately, he frequently lamented to anyone who would listen that this desirable profession, much like that of August’s grandfather, a master blacksmith, had not provided sufficient income for his growing family after the war.
In front of Bohrmann, August had kept to himself the fact that hardly any new housing had been built, as the rapidly increasing numbers of young married couples sought suitable places to live. The sluggish economy had affected everyone. August’s brother Alois had been living overseas for what felt like an eternity and regularly sent money to Leonhard. The cash injection made a significant difference. Leo, smaller and stockier than August, leased a seventeen-hectare farm in Krojanke, which had previously been a Prussian estate. He had been determined to complete this arrangement long ago; before the change in government, before the Nazis took over the country. August had kept this information from the party official, along with the fact that the brothers, August and Leonhard, both Centre Party voters, preferred by Catholics, wouldn’t have considered the National Socialist Party capable of forming a government. They would have mortgaged their house and farm against it. As firmly as they held this belief, they were thoroughly mistaken. After taking office, the Nazis quickly began to boycott Jewish self-employed individuals, triggering a wave of emigration that affected August’s Jewish acquaintance, Rosenbaum.
August had been thinking about what he would offer in his proper shop, whether he should listen to Rosenbaum’s advice. He made his choice and rejected the idea of selling milk, as it was widely available. Butter, delicious butter, that had to be it. There was not a single retailer in his area that specialised in it. He had repeated this to himself over and over again. Night after night, ideas had haunted him about expanding the distribution of his modest agricultural products.
August grinned to himself. Even today, incredible mountains of butter still surrounded him in his dreams. Wearing a flowing white coat, he used an oversized knife to cut endless brick-sized cubes from the cream-coloured, man-sized walls, as people with outstretched arms craved the precious fat. Wonderful fantasies. Trading in butter was the most sensible and even perfect solution, an absolute stroke of luck that enabled him to feed his family properly. He thought that such an opportunity would never come his way again. With this in mind, he had given his best to the party official nine years ago, kept his calm and beaten the competition.
Today, on his anniversary, the sun warmed him as intensely as it had when he first took over the shop, filling him with a zest for action. He loved his tranquil Schönlanke in the Netze district, part of Pomerania for four years meanwhile and near the Polish border, even though it was not his birthplace. It felt like the right choice to seek his fortune there, just as his parents and brothers had done after the end of the Great War and his discharge from compulsory military service.
With great difficulty, the family was granted sufficient state subsidies in the German Reich before hundreds of thousands of Germans followed them, after which financial support for those displaced from the border regions was cut. His father, Otto, was enthusiastic about the Prussians, who had recaptured their beloved homeland from Polish rule towards the end of the 18th century. After their renewed defeat and the loss of his adopted homeland, it seemed logical to him not to want to remain in what he considered enemy territory. It was inconceivable for Otto to learn Polish. After all, his government had referred to it as a seasonal state in those days; a memory August held well.
His father, a law-abiding Prussian, had no intention of tolerating the Polish economy. His father spoke of it with disgust, telling everyone that he would never, ever become a Polish citizen. August had found that anecdote useful as a strategic tool during inspections of the premises, and Bohrmann had listened with interest. Although the facts were not new to him, he kept in mind that the Poles had quickly seized the initiative and expanded their network remarkably quickly.
August found great comfort in the fact that his mother, Margarete, who passed away before the Treaty of Versailles was signed, did not have to endure the turmoil that followed. The worry of having her three sons at the front and the hardships of farm life had taken a toll on her health. His father also died after the resettlement, consumed by grief. Ironically, while the sons survived the war, August’s beloved sister, Angela, died just a few years after marrying Konrad, following the birth of their daughter, Gertrud. August’s wish to visit the area they had lost towards the Poles, despite his parents’ home farm being only a few kilometres to the southeast, had been tempered by these painful memories.
The pocket watch on his wrist showed exactly seven o’clock. A customer, Mrs Grabowski, approached at a brisk pace, her heels clicking on the uneven sandy path, causing her to stumble from time to time. August greeted her respectfully with a bow, as he did every morning. Her train to Schneidemühl wouldn’t wait for anyone. Like him, she had been called to serve as a guard for Hitler, the “Führer”. He knew each of his customers by name and was in top form; selling had always come naturally to him and was a pleasure. In his freshly starched white linen coat, he felt more alive than ever before, exuding charm to young and old alike, handing out homemade caramel sweets to the little ones, and bite-sized pieces of cheese and fruit to the older folk. He swung his axe to cut up the game, whose strong smell mingled with that of the spicy cheeses. He sometimes enjoyed telling the younger ones a few anecdotes from his childhood, such as the fact that he was fond of potatoes and buttered bread, despite having eaten them every day since his youth. The fact that modern achievements had long been around. For instance, the Stoewer company in Stettin has been manufacturing sewing machines and typewriters. The fine people in the German Empire wore hats and roamed the countryside by car and bicycle. He had vivid memories of boys his own age who had just outgrown their nappies, wearing leather shoes, while he roamed barefoot, which to this day prompted him to ensure that each of his children wore neat, clean shoes. From week to week, month to month, year to year, the number of customers and the turnover had increased accordingly, not least because the number of unemployed in the Empire was declining.
Thank goodness people had started consuming again. How often had he sent this prayer of thanks heavenward? In the district of Netze, close to Poland, at the edge of the world, in dreamy Schönlanke, the long-standing dispute between the Poles and the Germans had raged for an eternity. It was an endless topic. Press reports had frequently circulated, detailing how vast the people destroyed the fields here and there. He would never forget the sight of grain burning a bright red.
The harassment by the Poles during train journeys had been particularly problematic, as reflected in countless reports across regional and national newspapers. They stated that Germans were subjected to constant insults and attacks while travelling through the corridor from Berlin to Königsberg. The atmosphere was tense, and the political climate was heated.
August had once boarded a train in Schneidemühl, where he had experienced this hostility firsthand. After the Great War, the Poles had gained access to the sea by acquiring most of West Prussia, which separated East Prussia from the German Empire. This shift had only intensified resentment among the Germans.
Today, Germany was at war with half of Europe. Yet, here in his shop, there was no trace of war cries. People were asking for butter, not bullets.
As August’s business approached its ninth anniversary, he reflected on his achievements: good sales, satisfied customers and high-quality food. He had managed to set aside the memory of the miserable barn in his backyard, where he once sold his goods. However, he found it more challenging to forget his neighbour, Bohrmann, who attracted attention every day. Bohrmann was punctual as clockwork, with a stony expression and an inscrutable gaze that unsettled August. Unlike Bohrmann, August’s emotions were evident on his face. Slightly nervous, he checked every minute of every morning to see if the Goldfasan was in sight.
August glanced at the party’s white enamel sign, prominently displayed on the building’s exterior two metres above the ground, featuring bold black capital letters. His children often expressed their fear of the men in brown uniforms. Whenever they walked past the NSDAP office, they kept a wary eye on the entrance door and felt a surge of fear whenever the handle moved or a uniformed party member approached from the street. August remained alert but often engaged in dialogue. He anticipated potential verbal assaults directed at him and relied on his empathy to navigate these tense encounters. Having initially underestimated the party’s presence in the immediate neighbourhood, it now felt as though he could hear the grass growing, a reminder of the immense effort it took each day to maintain his composure. He disliked the party’s palpable presence as much as he did the occasional visits from officials of the police or the trade supervisory office; people he regarded as intrusive busybodies. Their sudden appearances were intended solely to uncover mistakes, no matter how minor, while also probing his political views. He treated them with the utmost respect, knowing he could not afford any missteps.
The local mayor, known as the Goldfasan, approached with a stack of neatly stapled documents under his arm. August remained still, keeping his eyes on Bohrmann as he confidently strode towards him. It was too late to step out of the way. How unimpressive he looked: neat from head to toe, with his thin brown hair slicked back with pomade, beardless and wearing nickel-rimmed glasses, emitting the scent of cheap men’s cologne. Disappearing into the shop at that moment would have looked like an act of flight.
Promptly, Bohrmann began interrogating August. What frustrated him most was his inability to gauge Bohrmann’s attitudes. At any time, August had to be absolutely careful. The insults came without delay. Bohrmann seemed to question his Christian values and asked whether August planned to continue attending Sunday services, to listen to what he called “fairy tales”. August was particularly annoyed that he had to choose his words carefully. and always argue strategically. He maintained a calm expression as he explained that, as a popular grocer with a wide clientele, he could not afford to miss Holy Mass; after all, it was a tradition. Was he being spied on? What else could this creep mean with such a pointless comment? When Bohrmann was in a foul mood, as was often the case, he would subject August to monotonous lectures filled with clichés, insisting that he must always behave in an exemplary manner, for the sake of the fatherland. Whenever he uttered such slogans, he would click his tongue unpleasantly, straighten his stocky body and place his elbows on his hips. He incessantly repeated the party’s effective battle cry, “Food is not a private matter”, until August could no longer bear to hear it.
Naturally, Bohrmann had ensured that he and his family had been tested to prove their purebred status, using a know-it-all tone to explain that it was one of his most important tasks. However, he knew that any clarification regarding proof of blood purity was completely unnecessary. Everyone knew very well that the Blood Protection Act had been passed many years ago. August had long since provided proof of his Aryan descent, backdated to 1800.
The Goldfasan constantly succumbed to his urge to show off. Every time August thought about the numerous conversations with him, he felt an intense annoyance at his submissive behaviour towards this cold-hearted Nazi. As usual, Bohrmann would clear his throat loudly after his remarks, cough and then stare piercingly at August, as he did after each of his lengthy reprimands. The bigwig clearly took pleasure in making August squirm whenever he felt like it. Unfortunately, he had seen through August from the very first moment and treated him with unbearable condescension ever since.
Even now, Bohrmann remained unmoved until he gestured with a slight wave for August to enter his office. August did so reluctantly; stepping inside brought back memories of his earlier visit, which, despite its challenges, had ultimately turned in his favour. Bohrmann had inspected one room after another, casually engaging him in a deep personal conversation and noting a few things they had in common. This rapport had been successful thanks to August’s meticulous preparation for their discussion. They had reminisced about their experiences during the Great War, and August easily detected Bohrmann’s enthusiasm for war beneath the surface. Just thinking about it still made August break out in a cold sweat. He carefully chose his words, ensuring that no one, least of all the Goldfasan, should suspect his love of peace.
Since his return from the Great War, August had been trying hard to forget the nightmares that haunted him from the muddy trenches. To avoid raising Bohrmann’s suspicions, he had feverishly searched his mind for anecdotes that he could use to his advantage. He had told Bohrmann the tale of his war injury and had also recounted it many times to his customers. They often asked him how he had gained the nasty scar on his forehead, and he was always happy to explain: a comrade had taught him how to dig a foxhole under enemy fire. Once, he had raised his upper body too quickly, allowing a French soldier to graze his forehead with a bullet. Although the injury did not qualify him for the Wound Badge – August constantly stroked his temple as he told this story – he was nevertheless proud of the scar. His younger brother, Leonhard, had suffered a similar fate, as a British soldier had shot him in the right elbow, leaving him with severe limitations, which he managed to overcome with remarkable resilience.
Without Bohrmann, life would not have been bad, but this man got on his last nerve.
’You’ve surely been following the victory announcements’, Bohrmann interrupted August’s train of thought. ‘There’s something to celebrate’. His mood seemed to have changed; he had already vented enough frustration to comrade Radke. August let out a barely perceptible sigh. The corners of Bohrmann’s mouth curled into a gleeful smile as he savoured every word. ‘After four weeks of fighting, the incredibly brave Wehrmacht has captured Sevastopol. The victory in Crimea is assured’, he concluded boastfully, as if it were his personal achievement. The Goldfasan flaunted his pride. ‘Crimea was already in our hands during the Great War. It’s outrageous to blame the Germans for starting it’.
‘And the burden of reparations was unfair in every respect’, August ventured. Bohrmann nodded in approval. August sensed that this was one of the few moments when he and Bohrmann were on equal terms.
‘We’ll teach the Poles a lesson! We won’t let them cut off our territories. Our Pomeranian province will shine in its former glory’. So that’s what Bohrmann called a celebration. He was as slippery as an eel. The war was far from over.