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been raised to fight for Adolf Hitler. Fritz’s earliest memory was of a Hitler Youth rally staged before a medieval Nuremberg castle that had once been the headquarters of the Teutonic Order of German Knights, a Christian organization of warriors who’d participated in the Crusades of the twelfth century. The SS general had taken his son along at such a young age so the boy would be keen to join the Jungvolk at ten. That would graduate him into the Hitlerjugend at fourteen, and from there the Schutzstaffel—the SS—would recruit him into the Black Corps.
    Like father, like son.
    How the soaring ancient walls of that great castle had loomed up out of half darkness, lit only by flickering torches. How the thunderous overture of Wagner’s monumental opera, Der Ring des Nibelungen —so loved by the führer—had captured the boy’s heart, overwhelming Fritz with waves of melody and stirring orchestration, extolling the heights of heroism and sacrifice to which the assembled Hitler Youth must aspire. How the beat of drums and the fanfare of trumpets had heralded the torchlight parade of boys, most of whom had walked to the rally from Berlin and other far-off places in a display of physical endurance. Gazing up at that castle draped with swastika flags and Nazi icons, young Fritz had known instinctively that Hitler was his God, for no mere man could be as awesome as this führer.
    “Here he comes!” his father shouted, lifting up his son.
    Fifty thousand voices cheered in unison as if those gathered at Nuremberg had been forged into one. From where Fritz sat, high up on his father’s shoulders, he could see the shiny limousine as it crept into the stadium and the small standing figure that drove the crowd into fits of hysterical fervor. Bonfires were ignited and booming fireworks filled the night sky. As Hitler mounted the platform, the Reich youth leader read the Lord’s Prayer.
    “Adolf Hitler,” he shouted, “you are our great führer! Thy name makes the enemy tremble. Thy Third Reich comes. Thy will alone is law upon this Earth. Let us hear daily thy voice. Order us by thy leadership, for we will obey to the end, and even with our lives. We praise thee. Heil Hitler!”
    The responsive roar from the ralliers almost knocked Fritz from his perch.
    “Loyalty is everything!” the youth leader yelled. “And everything is the love of Adolf Hitler!”
    The throng went wild.
    “The führer commands, and we follow! Everyone says, ‘Yes!’”
    “Yes!” clamored the mob.
    From high above on the castle’s towers, trumpets blared to launch the trooping of banners. As fifty thousand voices sang “Holy Germany,” flags that had been flown during the Adolf Hitler March were slowly carried in. They had already been sanctified on the tomb of Frederick the Great, and now they brushed across the Blutfahne. The Hitler Youth had a martyr of their own. Twelve-year-old Herbert Norkus, stabbed to death by Communists in 1932, had died for his faith in Adolf Hitler. The flag dipped in Herbert’s blood led the parade.
    The führer reviewed the banners as a hymn rang out:
    Let the flags fly
    In the glorious sunrise
    That guides us to new victories
    Or into flaming death!
     
    “ Heil, my youth!” Hitler, a tiny man flanked by gigantic swastikas, greeted the rally with fire in his voice. “These are exciting days!” he declared with a flourish. “We are accustomed to battle, and no attack can defeat us!” he seethed, shaking his fist. “You, my youth, will always stand at my side!” he assured one and all. “You will raise our flags on high!” Hitler bellowed. “Our enemies may attempt to assault us once more, but our flag will always win the day!” he yelled to the heavens. His right arm shot forward, straight as an arrow, angling up to God, hand flat, palm down, in the Nazi salute.
    “Sieg heil!” the Hitler Youth screamed in a frenzy, returning their führer’s salute with outstretched arms of their own. SS-General