Children to a Degree - Growing Up Under the Third Reich by Horst Christian Page A

happened at the Napola and why are you back in Berlin?” Karl wanted to know as they started walking home.
    Harold answered with his typical grin. “Well, I really liked the discipline and the ambition of the students. There is not a single slacker or slob around. You would like it.”
    “Sounds inviting,” remarked Karl. “What was it that you did not like?”
    “Several things,” answered Harold. “Most of all I did not like that we were manipulated to report about our relatives and parents.”
    “What do you mean by manipulated?”
    “Well, first they asked us to name and list all our close relatives like uncles and grandparents. Then, a few days later we were instructed to write essays about their jobs and about their discussions and the discussions your parents had at home. If you failed to write about some relative whom you had previously mentioned, you were questioned about him.”
    Harold adjusted his belt buckle and Karl noticed that his friend had lost some weight.
    “I don’t understand why your teachers would be interested in your parents’ discussions. It sounds like as if they wanted to learn from you, while it should be the other way around.” Karl tried to make sense of what his friend told him.
    “No, Karl, forget about your idea of a regular teacher. In the Napola we have no teachers like we do here in school. Instead, we have several different instructors.” Harold was done with his belt and continued. “The assignments to write about our parents came from the ‘Political Education’ instructor. A young fellow with a ‘party bonbon’ on his jacket.”
    “How can you learn from a young fellow?” Karl wanted to know. “How old was he?”
    Harold shook his head. “Karl you don’t understand. Listen to what I am telling you. I use the word ‘instructor’ on purpose. Right in the beginning, during the first hour of our introduction, we were told to be absolutely precise in choosing our words to communicate. The word ‘teacher’ implies that you are being taught. The word ‘instructor’ does not apply to teaching. In the Napola we are being ‘instructed’. A far cry from being taught. Think about it.”
    Karl allowed that there was a difference. “So, do you think about it a lot? I mean do you really think so deeply about the difference between being taught or being instructed that you are willing to give up the cadet school?” he wanted to know.
    “No, Karl, I don’t think too much about it but it bothers me. Matter of fact it bothers me a lot.”  The boys had walked from the Jungvolk assembly hall to the street corner where they usually parted. Karl had to turn into the Uhland Strasse while Harold went too far and had to double back.
    “Let’s turn around and talk some more,” suggested Karl. “What else turned you off?”
    Harold looked at his friend. “When I think about it, there was not much that I liked. On Sunday mornings we had to march around the local Catholic churches and sing at the top of our lungs. The purpose was to sing loud enough to interrupt the church service.”
    Karl was puzzled. “Did your instructors justify the interruption of the church service?”
    “No, but that’s not all,” answered Harold. “We had to place one of our boys at the church portal to listen to what was going on in the church. When the ringing of the little bells at the altar announced the beginning of the Holy Communion, he waved at our drummers to step up to the entrance to beat double time. At the same time our trumpets repeated the attack signal over and over again.”
    “The attack signal,” exclaimed Karl. “You were attacking the church members?”
    “No, you dummy. We were not attacking anyone. It was just the loudest trumpet signal we knew. The trumpet detail, about 20 boys, rehearsed it every morning and every evening.”
    “So, the way I understand it, the whole exercise was for the express purpose to interrupt the service.” Karl tried to sum it