Eight months later – July, 1941

"Hold your non-throwing arm out. The grenade should land fifteen meters away. Get down immediately after the throw—you don't want to be visible to the enemy." Emil paused. "Throw!"

Inge's grenade landed no more than ten feet outside the pit and lay there morosely. Despairingly, he looked at his trainer.

"Don't throw at the ground." Emil barked. "Let go of the grenade while your arm is still high. Down, Herr Mauhler. Get down."

Inge ducked.

"Next person in line, enter the pit."

The pits were narrow areas that resembled stalls. There were eight pits lined up in a row, Emil's entire unit stationed behind them. The shooting range had been keenly transformed for grenade training today. Army procedures created a larger role for the Gefolgschaftsführern for their original purposes—control over their unit. Roughly two thirds of Emil's unit had thrown. They were in line behind the boys who hadn't. Most of the boys left were new recruits.

"Position."

Pause. Eight boys, few of them recruits, swiftly held their non-throwing arms out, each keeping the arm with the grenade close to his chest.

"Throw."

Eight heads disappeared. Eight training grenades flew through the air semi-expertly. They made indignant popping noises as they detonated, all within seconds each other.

"Next person, in the pit. Don't lag!"

The von Hessler brothers stepped up to their pits, agitated beads of sweat piercing their tendrils and soaking them. It was a mildly hot day today, not what Hamburgers was used to.

"Position! Herr Ferenbacher, move more quickly. Don't make yourself a target to the enemy. Throw!"

Ppop-pop-pop-Pppop-pop.

"Next!"

Oskar, Artur, and Oswald moved up with five more recruits.

"Position!"

He watched them closely.

"Throw!"

Of the recruits, only two of them had made the suggested fifteen meters. Emil sighed. "Throw harder!" was about the advice he could give at this point. "Next!"

The eight boys stood and departed the pits. Oswald yelled "Yes Sir!" Artur curtly jerked his head up and down. Oskar stumbled and wiped the sweat off his brow.

There were only four new lines left. All behind them had thrown. The eighty or so '40 and '41 recruits in his unit were not doing as badly as Emil had first predicted. Still, there was no room for mistakes, and they were making too many.

Falk and Orel were with the next eight. Both of them were crippled by the sun's heat. Falk walked upright and stiffly. Orel stumbled along, much like Oskar. Falk had lost a considerable amount of weight from the training, and was even good-looking now, albeit short. It was strange, nearly comical, to see Orel, the taller-framed boy, compose himself in an awkward manner and Falk, still pudgy, retain the true Jugend stride.

"Position!" Emil was tempted to wipe his brow. "Throw!"

If only grenades could be launched from a bow as arrows were. Half the boys, who had been fine archers, lost their talent in drawing upon their own arm strength.

"Throw hard! Release grenade while your arm is in mid-air, not while it is pointing toward the ground! Your movements must be swift and confident! Get down immediately after the grenade is thrown! Next!"

Two seventeen-year-olds, four sixteen-year-olds, and two recruits. They would never win the war with fighters like these on a battlefield, unless they completed another round.

"Position! Throw!" Emil, standing behind the lines, could not measure how far the grenades would go until they had landed. A bold, short wall indicated the end of fifteen meters. It was the mark that the boys' grenades would have to pass if they would ever be able to consider themselves true soldiers. Hitler's true men were flawless fighters; advocators and appliers of bravery. They would never fall. They could never fall. There were simply too few of those kind fighting right now.*

"Next!"

Eight more boys.

"Position! Throw! Next!"

Eight more boys: last time.

"Position! Throw!"

The boys stumbled doggedly out of their formation.

"Get back in line for another round!" Emil yelled.

The boys stopped in their tracks and looked behind them at Emil. "This is unacceptable! If you don't quit throwing like half-wits then look forward to staying out here until sunset!"

A groan came from the boys, building and rising quickly to a shriek of indignation. They sidled back to their lines, from which no one had moved very far. The original line yielded to the last line as the components of it staggered to the very back, throwing Emil subtle glares.

Emil respired silently. "Position!" He yelled.

Jürgen and Jan ran up to Emil immediately after the second round had ended (sufficiently).

"How'd we do?" Jürgen asked eagerly.

"You boys did fine." Emil smiled at them. "As usual."

"Better than most of them, right?" Jan prompted.

"It was only right, making us do it over." Jürgen smiled thoughtfully. "Our friend is wise, is he not?"

"Perhaps." Emil said vaguely. Discussing training methods with a student was utterly out of the question. Jürgen should have known that by now.

"Very." Said Jan absently.

"Alas! My brother is tired!" Jürgen smiled. "Are we doing anything else, Herr Lutz?"

"No, but we are reviewing Lugers tomorrow." Emil smiled at Jürgen. "You and Jan are doing well and have nothing to worry about."

"No, nothing but my girlfriend." Jürgen's smile faded. "She is causing me… problems."

Emil laughed. "What kind of problems?"

"Only problems a—"

"Girl could cause." Emil finished for him.

"She won't talk to me until I buy her a birthday present." Jürgen rolled his eyes. "Fran's such a brat. Maybe I won't buy her a thing. She doesn't deserve anything, that's for sure." He smirked.

"Treat women mean and they'll leave you." Emil said. "Treat them nice and they'll do the same thing. Learned it the hard way."

"And haven't got a girlfriend since, eh?"

"That's right. And now I have a successful theory about women."

"Proof?"

"That your Fransizka is exactly the same as my old girlfriend."

"Implying?"

"That woman are indeed much inferior to men. There is no variety, which indicates lack of complexity in their brains and thinking patterns."

Jürgen chuckled. "Ah. Harsh. But that is a fact that men have known for hundreds of years."

"Do you suppose the women have found out yet?" Jan asked.

"Surely not." Emil said.

"No. They'll probably never find out, poor things." Jürgen laughed.

"Probably not." Emil repeated.

"You're serious, aren't you?" Jürgen asked Emil, laughing harder. "You've got them pegged then, Herr Lutz, if a little bit too much so."

"Girls are ditzy, yes. The only girl who isn't is the girl you eventually marry." Jan said.

"That is true." Jürgen replied.

"Perhaps."

"But my girlfriend promises to visit me, and never does. Then she complains that I'm neglecting her! She has nothing better to do than go to school and pinning it all on me! She's so silly I almost like her." Jürgen grinned lazily.

"I think you do." Jan joked. "To have been seeing her for so long."

*"I think that she's blackmailed me and I don't know it." Jürgen replied, without missing a beat.

"Or so, that's just an excuse."

"Or so, you're making a big deal out of what isn't." Jürgen was vexed.

"Or you're losing your temper because you're being contradictory."

Both boys laughed and hung arms around each other, walking off into the distance as they talked about some new topic. Emil had been lost since the beginning. He probably wasn't even supposed to keep boys training under him as his companions. But there was no one else and certainly no one else his own age. Thomas had been his friend, once upon a time. All things considered, no one could replace Thomas. And friendship was just as useless as romance. Being in the presence of the von Hessler brothers peeved him in a way that only Thomas could. Emil hadn't been lying when he had confessed to having a theory about women. He had a theory about friendship as well.

The next day was Lugers. The boys had had to take down the pits and replace the throw line with targets. The day began at dawn. The war had begun accelerating. The program had grown yet more rigorous. It was not just about the older ones who were ready to leave the Hitlerjugend; it was about those who would be called in case of emergency. As a trainer, the war was none of his business. Emil was not fighting in it. Not now. Not yet.

"Always keep your eyes on the target." Emil ordered his sleep-logged unit. "Keep both eyes open and alert. Aim for the target. Do not aim for anything other than the target. All this, you should remember." He gazed at the members in his unit to make sure that every one was listening. "When on the battlefield: there is no time for thought. There is no time for mercy. War is won by casualties, as are victories. And alertness—" He shoved a nearby recruit to test his balance. "Is the basis for your own victory. You must kill to survive. Today I expect no sluggards or dunces. You must be as quick in mind as you had to be quick in movement in practice yesterday. Get in your lines."

The boys, just as unmotivated as they had been a minute before, complied. Emil had expected nothing more of them.

"First one in line, step up."

Eight boys, as yesterday, crawled forward. One of them stumbled and fell to the ground, over the shooting line.

"Herr Schmidt," Emil said coldly. "If Hitler had wanted someone with coordination such as yours, he surely would not have been disappointed upon visiting a bar. The next person who trips today will be punished. Ready." Emil paused for a few seconds, waiting for the boys to resume their positions in front of the shooting line. "Aim."

Each boy lifted a Luger from his left and pointed it at his target.

"Shoot."

It was here he slept every night, and here he woke every day, solemnly circumspect. It was here where he faced no surprises. Emil woke at the same time every day, in the same room. He never took naps; taking naps was bad for the overall concentration and mental balance of a man. He had never slept anywhere else a day in his life. Even when he and Anne…

.

His parents were downstairs, talking, always talking, talking for as long as he could remember. Nothing had ever changed in his life, really. Life would be different once he left Hamburg to begin his assistance for the victory of the Fatherland. Life would Change. Emil didn't embrace change or dread it; there was simply no time. There was scarcely time to forget; he remembered so much by habit. Hell, he hadn't forgotten anything since Anne…

.

Emil rose and changed into his uniform. He left his room and closed the door. He descended the stairs nearest to his room, the ones that led to the dining room.

The slim shadow of Frau Lutz stood in the very center of the room, gazing at the chandelier. Her husband stood beside her, his tall frame blocking the little light that eminated from the room. He gripped a cane, as he always would. They stood at a forty-five degree angle away from the adjacent wall, their backs still to their son. They whispered, to avoid waking him. Emil hated whispering; he heard whether he was asleep or not. Having his choice to eavesdrop or not, he decided not to.

"Mother. Father."

"Good morning, Emil." Frau Lutz smiled at her son. "How are you this morning?"

"Well." Emil said. "As always."

"Have you eaten?"

"No. I will soon."

"Good. Rolf is preparing breakfast for us."

"That is good."

"Is your training going well?" Herr Lutz asked tentatively.

"Yes. It is going well."

"Don't worry, Emil. You'll leave. I'm sure they'll release you soon. I still don't like this about the Bannführer holding you back."

"Though he did it because you are a good student and a good trainer." Frau Lutz assured. "They'll be needing more soldiers. Soon they'll need you." She smiled at Emil.

"Damn right they will. Emil's not getting cheated of anything—"

"Of course not, Georg. Emil will be the best one fighting. He will fight."

"Yes, Father. I will. They promised to let me go."

Knopp hadn't promised anything. But a place in the war—a real place, not this training bullshit—was a God-given right. If the war passed by without Emil's participation, Knopp would hear about it—from Herr Lutz, at least.

"Rolf—where is Rolf? Rolf." Frau Lutz snapped.

Rolf, the family's cook and butler, rushed into the room. "Frau?"

"Rolf, where is our breakfast?" She chuckled. "It is early, yes, but our son is a busy man."

Rolf left the room, returning with the family's breakfast: ham. "My apologies, Frau, I misunderstood you to mean that I was to bring breakfast later—"

"You did, you did. I apologize for snapping at you. For, where would this family be without a good butler?"

"Katarine," Herr Lutz began, as soon as Rolf was gone. "I'm afraid that—"

"Does this have to do with Rolf?" Frau Lutz cut across him.

"We've made Rolf's—issues—known to the authorities for years, but since things have tightened so much since last year—"

"What, because he is a criminal? He is a good worker! I will not have—"

"What will we tell them? I'm not sure they'll let him go this year."

"That he is a good worker! They have no right to take away our butler! Where do they get that right—"

"Katarine!" Herr Lutz barked.

"What, Georg? I don't like the fact that they're taking something that belongs to us—"

"Do not speak that way of us, Katarine." Herr Lutz warned.

Herr Lutz was a strong Nazi Party member. He had not missed a meeting in over ten years. When he was a youth, he was one of Hitler's stormtroopers, rounded up in Berlin with the others when he had been released from jail. He had met his wife in Hamburg and married her there. Somehow the Lutzs had never gotten back to Berlin.

Frau Lutz sighed. "You're right. I am sorry, Georg. But times are hard, no? We cannot afford a new butler."

"What if the authorities would compensate?" Herr Lutz sighed. "But they wouldn't. We wouldn't."

"Compensation is good. But who knows if we even want a person like Rolf in our house anymore. We can get better. Times are hard; times are hard…"

Silence. Emil ate his breakfast thoughtfully. They had held onto Rolf for too long now, being the type of person that he is. That was dull news. However, his father flaring up against his mother—taking into consideration that Herr Lutz had always considered his wife as almost an equal—was strange.

Emil stood, glancing at his. "I must go now."

Herr and Frau Lutz beamed at their son. "Good luck with training." Herr Lutz said.

"Thank you." Emil replied. He walked across the dining room to the long hallway that led to the front door. Today, the boys would learn the basics of driving and controlling a tank. Emil's entire unit was composed of Motor-HJ members. In addition, they would learn the advanced procedure of throwing a grenade from the ground, in continuation to their lesson two days ago.