Ein Fenster mit Blick auf den Hügel

      — Paolo, perché diavolo hai detto così?! I was raging with anger and incomprehension. Paolo, there in the bar, said a terrible thing. Was it really said at school and at training camp? He was always the quiet kid who wouldn't hurt a fly. But his brother's reply saying he was in favour of the German government's actions against "undesirable races" was a shock. I couldn't believe that something like that would come out of his mouth.       — In questo mondo, ogni persona ha il proprio punto di vista e punti di vista. Perché non posso avere la mia opinione?! We were arguing in Italian. I thought his arguments were unconvincing and based on nothing. I hoped that he only said it because that was the answer he wanted to hear, and that he really thought the opposite. Allowing violence and persecution of people because of their race was the kind of nonsense that could be invented by a mentally ill person, which was the dictator of this country. Was the system really capable of brainwashing a child into a loyal follower in just one day? Admittedly, it was admirable - how convincing they could be. So, the Hitler Youth programme included ideological processing in addition to camping trips and joint film screenings. But I won't give Paolo away. He won't become a monster like them.       — Paolo, talk sense! — I switched back to German. — Understand, to take a man's life just because he wasn't born the way they want? It's not right. It's disgusting! Everyone has the right to life, and we didn't give it to them and we don't have the right to take it away. If the law applied to us, I don't think you'd be standing in front of me talking like that. You wouldn't be walking around with a swastika on your sleeve and you wouldn't be able to sleep well because of thoughts of the Gestapo. I took his hands in mine and squeezed them.       — You see, I want what's best for you. Don't be cruel. Don't let yourself be brainwashed. Rosalie Allen's "Chime Bells" came from the radio on the dresser, the clock ticked softly, and a car engine roared in the distance.       — No. Non lo farò, non mi farai cambiare idea! With these words, my brother went off to the bathroom, leaving me alone. Now I'd sit down and write a letter to my father back home and he'd tell me exactly what to do. But the brutal truth that he was gone and I would never see him again came crashing down on me like a mountain. How I missed his advice now, the kind smile of wrinkles under his brown eyes, his commanding voice, the bad-smelling cigars he smoked in the evenings standing on the balcony of our house. He knew exactly what to do in such a situation. And for the first time since I'd been here, I let myself burst into tears, sitting in the middle of a one-room flat, smelling of dill and a single window overlooking the city and the green hill behind it.       — Giovinezza, Giovinezza, Primavera di bellezza Della vita nell`asprezza I sang, choking back tears. I remembered my father standing in front of us with a piece of paper with the hymn written on it. Paolo and I, when I was eleven and he was five, sang it together. We complained that "the song was too long!" He laughed, but kept reading the text and singing it with us. Paolo...I felt so sorry for him. My brother had to live in wartime, to lose his father, to learn every day at such a young age about death, about war, to see the bombing planes flying over the city, to hear them buzzing. I opened the window, letting in the salvation of the night air, which came in handy. The lights were on, tiny specks of light standing out in the darkness of the houses. The hill disappeared from sight. A black, faceless car drove by without headlights below, stopped in front of the house opposite, the engine switched off. Five men in black uniforms got out of the car. Even though there were no streetlights on the street, I noticed that three of them had guns-guns. I hurriedly switched off the lights and lurked, watching the actions of the members of the police order¹, and I was scared. Two of them disappeared into the darkness of the archway leading to the courtyard, while the others stayed at the entrance. Everything went quiet for a while. A tiny light flickered on, a cigarette was lit, the soldiers began to talk quietly, and the lights came on on the third floor. I kept watching, afraid to move. A man in pyjamas appeared at the window, gesticulating rapidly and saying something. A man in uniform came up to him, listened and slapped him hard on the cheek. There was a child there, I could hear him crying. Eventually, the police officer raised his gun and fired. Right through the man's head. Blood stained the glass. Something was shouted. Another shot, the voice went silent, another, the crying of a child was silenced. I sat on the floor, gulping for air, unable to come to my senses. Three shots, three deaths. That family had been ruthlessly murdered. I couldn't move. The car engine hummed and started to recede. Everything passed in silence. Paolo came out of the bathroom in his checked pyjamas, water dripping from his hair.       — What was that noise, and Lorna, why are you sitting on the floor? I could only shrug, praying my brother wouldn't look out the window, where the murder marks were still visible across the street.       — You're shaking, what's happened? — he came up to me and touched my forehead. — I don't think I have a fever, just sweat. I hugged him quickly, burying my face in his pyjamas.       — Promise me you'll be careful. il mio tesoroMy treasure... This outburst of tenderness on my part after the recent quarrel embarrassed Paolo. He averted his eyes in embarrassment and stroked my hair.       — Lorna, everything will be all right. Don't worry. We went to bed together and fell asleep cuddled close together. At one o'clock the next morning, when Paolo was still asleep, I decided to go to the house across the street. Let my brother have a day off from the Hitler Youth meetings. The interior was no different: the same staircase, the same corridors and the same courtyard. Except that on the third floor, on one of the doors was nailed a wooden board on which was written in large letters: "ʜɪᴇʀ ʟᴇʙᴛᴇɴ ᴊᴜᴅᴇɴ". It was impossible to get into the flat. A woman in her thirties with sunken cheeks and dull eyes came out of the door opposite.       — I wouldn't advise you to stand here. You'd better get out of here.       — How often does this happen?       — They arrest about three people a week. We've only had five in a month. It's an isolated incident.       — That's terrible.       — Yeah, those bastards! They didn't even spare the little girl, she was only two years old! - Tears ran down the woman's cheeks. - She was so pretty, so talkative, and her mum and dad were so polite, just lovely... No, no one was spared.... It's not only the victims who suffer, but also the people around them. I said goodbye to the woman, Frau Irma, and went to the meeting place of the Hitler Youth. Curiosity was burning inside me, I wanted to know what they were doing there for so long. Here was a huge park, more like a forest, and here was a clearing, on which children of different ages were arranged in a strict square. I hid behind a tree. They sang their hymn, and those slender voices gave me goosebumps.       — What are you doing here? Ralph stood in front of me, staring straight into my eyes. I pressed my back against the tree, frightened.       — You scared me. — I hissed. — What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be standing with them right now? He smiled and shuffled his foot on the dry leaves.       — I decided to break the rules a little and spend this time with you. I raised an eyebrow in surprise. A chuckle escaped his lips. He took a step closer; I had nowhere to go, so I pressed myself harder into the bark. The guy noticed it.       — Are you really that afraid of me? Why?       — No, I'm not, it's just...I don't really trust people I don't know, you can expect anything from them.       — You're just like my father, — Ralph picked up a stick from the ground and began to twirl it, — just as cautious. But that's the quality that helped him survive the war. So there's nothing wrong with you being wary of me. He threw the stick, and it spun, flew away and landed with a thud about six metres from us.       — Relax, I mean you no harm, you can rest easy.       — Alright, I'll obey you, Herr Stelmacher. - I chuckled. He took a step back, then three more, turned round, then did the same again. Ralph was clearly inviting me to follow him. I decided not to play the stubborn lady and went. The guy led me deep into the park, winding through the trees, and finally we came to a small lake that reflected the slightly overcast sky and trees. Next to it was a small but good-sized dock. We stood next to each other, breathing quickly after running. Ralph pointed me somewhere to the west.       — See that hill? If you climb it, you can see the whole of Munich. We could go there sometime, if you don't mind..... A hill that overlooks the whole city. Sounds spectacular and grandiose. I wonder if you can watch sunsets and sunrises from up there?              — My window overlooks it. - I mumbled.       — Tell me, why did you and your brother move here? I gloomed and went to the wharf, sitting on the edge of it with my legs overhanging. Memories came flooding back. But I felt I could trust this German young man.       — My father, Alonzo Carbone, was a retired major and a respected man in town. Strict, decent and caring-those were three words to describe him. My mother ran away from him after she found out he had shot people in the war. Silly? I agree. Everyone has to kill in war, even if you're a medic. But she left without saying anything. My father gave up the service after that and devoted all his love and care to me and Paolo. We were good and educated children. He would sometimes take us to see the parades, to see the performance of the Dceitalian title held by Benito Mussolini, head of the National Fascist Party. Can you imagine, he even shook hands with him... One day, he was attacked in broad daylight in a square by an anti-fascist fanatic. My father had no choice but to take his revolver and shoot him. He didn't get anything done, no conviction, no status. And then one day, a few days later, he was walking home at night when a man came at him with a knife. He took him by surprise, which the killer took advantage of...He slit his throat and left him for dead in an alley. Dad was found in the morning. We buried him, gave him the house and left. Ralph asked cautiously:       — Why? Why did you leave your country?       — Because I was afraid! I was afraid that they might do the same to us! That they might come up and stab us like a pig in a pen," I sobbed, "it's my fault we live in a shabby flat... I couldn't talk any more. Ralph kept quiet, for which I was grateful.       — Have you ever been swimming in a lake? He asked such an inappropriate and simple question that I didn't know what to say.       — Yes, a couple of times in Italy.       — Why did you stop?       — I don't know, I just didn't feel like it anymore. To my surprise, Ralph began to unlace his shoes. He took off first one, then the other, and then jumped into the water, splashing me. It wasn't deep where he stood, only waist-deep. The guy smiled at me.       — Don't you want to get that feeling back? And I couldn't resist. I took off my shoes and stepped carefully into the water, my dress parachuted around me and I hurried to wrinkle it. The water was cold, invigorating, and it gave my body goosebumps. Ralph splashed water on me, wetting the remaining dry parts of my clothes. Cold, but fun. I laughed and splashed back at him. He hit the water surface and in the same instant a big splash wet me from head to toe. I laughed. I had never felt so good. Ralph laughed with me. We were fooling around like little kids standing in the water, but I didn't care.              — Heil Hitler! Two soldiers were walking along the shore of the lake. I instantly held my breath and submerged myself to avoid being asked. I decided to play a joke on the guy and didn't surface when he said they were gone. He worriedly whirled around looking for me and called my name. After the fifth time, I took pity on him and surfaced. All wet. My hairband was floating nearby. Ralph looked at me without taking his eyes off me like no other man had ever looked at me. There was no vulgarity or lust in that gaze, just something pure and bright, like the sun. The grey eyes shone, either from the water or from something else. We sat on the dock, warming ourselves and talking.       — How old are you? - He asked.       — Nineteen.       — So you're a year older than me. I smiled, putting my face into the breeze.       — At that age, I could have gone to the front, to defend my country. If I ever get there, I hope to die heroically, doing my duty for Germany. That's a strange way of thinking.       — Do you really want to die without knowing all the pleasures of life? — I shook my head, — You see, Ralph, the party, duty, Hitler...they're not worth it. People don't go to defend their country because they're patriots and admirers of the government. No. They go to war to protect their loved ones, to protect those they care about. In our country, half the population thinks like you do. It's frightening. They go there, to the front, forgetting about home, about family, in their heads only the government, the Third Reich and the preservation of its security. I realised I'd said all that in front of a German. A member of the Hitler Youth. What was I thinking? He could easily go and turn himself in, and the next night the Gestapo or the order police would come to our house. I looked at Ralph apprehensively.       — Don't be afraid. This conversation will stay between us, I swear. I agree with some of your arguments, and, frankly, I don't like Jews and others being killed. Chase them away, put them in camps, yes. But not murder. It's a disgrace to the honour of our nation. After talking a little more, I learned that his father was an Ober-Einsatzleiter of the National Socialist German Workers' Party, and that his mother had died in childbirth, and that he had spent his childhood, if not alone, then in the company of two comrades. We left the park and began to say goodbye.       — Well, er...bye Lorna, see you later. I hope the offer to go up the hill still stands. I assured him that everything was fine. He held out his hand to me, and I shook it, somehow not in a hurry to take it away. His palm was dry and warm, so damn nice. Awkward.              — See you! — I told him and smiled. As I walked home, I kept thinking about that son of an Ober-Einsatzleiter. My cheeks turned crimson when I remembered how he looked at me in the lake. I was fascinated. And that's when I saw death so close. A familiar black car, men in uniform, about ten people. And a man standing hunched in the middle. People walking by averted their eyes and hurried away. I decided to stay to watch.       — Take off your trousers, you pig! I said, take them off! The man, trembling from head to toe, was slapped. There was laughter. The poor man, apparently Polish, slowly took off his trousers.       — And pants, too. And there he was, naked from the waist down, standing defencelessly before the monsters in human form.       — Your tap's a bit long, don't you think? It should be shortened... The policeman pointed the muzzle of his gun at the Russian's crotch and pulled the trigger. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Again laughter and another shot, now in the forehead. The man fell silent and did not move again. I was terrified and clung to the wall of the building to keep from falling. A man had been killed in front of my eyes at a distance of twelve metres, having previously humiliated him in public! I felt sick and threw up on the pavement. The blood was still spreading from underneath the now dead man. I almost ran out of there. Get away. Away. Away from here.