Gerhard looked at himself in the mirror and beamed. The uniform of the Hitler Youth, a birthday present from his father, fitted him like a glove. He squared his shoulders, tucked his chin in and raised an arm in the nazi salute. Already he could see himself as a soldier, a famous warrior, the Iron Cross resting on his stiff shirt-front.
"Gerhard."
"Yes, mother?"
"Hurry up. The festival will start soon and Herr Eckhardt wants you there early."
Gerhard patted his hair and ran out of the bathroom. It would never do to keep Herr Eckhardt, local leader of the Hitler Youth, waiting. Today the members of the Hitler Youth were taking part in a ceremonial march-past to celebrate the Fuhrer's birthday. Afterwards there would be games and dancing in the village square with a special prize for the young man with the cleanest, smartest uniform.
The long practised march-past was all that Gerhard had dreamed. Several rows of goose-stepping soldiers, their polished rifles held smartly across their chests, their jackboots gleaming, followed a band of military musicians playing the Horst Wessel Song, fifes squealing and drums rattling like machine guns. The Hitler Youth were greeted with wild cheering from proud parents and neighbours who lined the road.
After the parade Gerhard sat quietly under the plane trees in the square, determined not to dirty or crumple his uniform before the judging. His eyes followed his less fastidious friends who were already playing leap-frog or swinging from the branches of the trees. He was so absorbed in watching them that he didn't notice the village mayor coming towards him.
"Ah, Gerhard Hasel?"
Gerhard looked up, recognised the mayor and stood up hurriedly, clicking his heels in a passable imitation of his elders.
"Yes, sir."
"We have a visitor, Gerhard. This is John, from England."
For the first time Gerhard noticed the boy standing beside the mayor. He looked to be about Gerhard's age, with dark hair and an open, friendly face. Gerhard clicked his heels again and bowed slightly.
"How do you do?" he said in stiff, formal English.
The boy grinned and held out his hand.
"Nice to meet you. I'm afraid your English is better than my German."
Gerhard shook his hand and the two boys smiled at each other.
"Please show John around," the mayor said. "He is staying with his mother in the gasthaus, so you should take him back there after the festival."
"Jawohl. Heil Hitler."
Gerhard gave the nazi salute as the mayor turned away.
"Why did you say 'hail Hitler'?" John asked.
Gerhard looked surprised.
"But Hitler is our Fuhrer. We always say 'heil Hitler'."
John shrugged but anything he might have said was drowned by a burst of cheering and clapping.
"What's going on?"
Both boys stood on tip-toe and Gerhard pointed to the other end of the square where the mayor and several other dignitaries were climbing up onto a platform decorated with nazi flags and emblems.
"Now they will speak and give prizes."
"Prizes for what?"
"Oh, many things. The best garden, the best cake, the best uniform."
Gerhard looked down at his own spotless uniform and John noticed the glance.
"Are you competing in anything?"
Gerhard hesitated. On the one hand he very much wanted to win the prize for the best dressed Hitler Youth but on the other hand he felt he had responsibilities as a host towards this English visitor. He knew that Hitler Youth were supposed to put duty above pleasure but ...
"No. Let's go and watch the judging."
The two boys ran off and watched the competitors come forward to be judged and, if successful, receive their prizes. Later, when the speech-making began, they wandered around the village enjoying the food and drink that hospitable housewives offered them.
"Do you have food like this in England?" Gerhard asked, brushing the crumbs of apple strudel off his shirt front.
"No." John admitted, "But we have other things just as nice - Bakewell Tarts or Simnel Cakes, for instance."
"You have nothing as nice as German cooking." Gerhard boasted.
"Well, I think we do." John answered, his colour rising. "Even in simple things we are better than you Germans. I never ate margarine until I came here to Germany."
"You don't like to eat margarine?"
John shook his head.
"No. Butter is best."
"Pah! Our Fuhrer says 'Guns before butter'. We must make Germany strong, then we can worry about making things even better."
"Is that why you march around in uniforms with guns and things?" John inquired.
"Of course. When I am older I want to be a soldier in the army and fight for the Fuhrer."
John's eyes sparkled. "I want to be a soldier too. In the artillery, with the big guns, or maybe drive a tank."
Gerhard suddenly began to laugh.
"What are you laughing about?" John demanded.
"Perhaps, if there is another war, we will fight each other. Today we are friends and we share apfel strudel; then we fight and try to kill each other."
"I don't think that's very nice!" John expostulated. "Why can't we be friends always?"
"Because you are English and I am German." Gerhard protested. "I was born in Germany, I speak German, I even eat margarine. That's just the way I am. You are English. If there is war between our countries we must fight each other. You will be my enemy and I will be your enemy."
"But that's not fair!" John protested.
Gerhard shrugged.
"But that's the way it is."