The boy’s lip was already swollen and bleeding profusely from the blow that had knocked him to the ground. It was three against one and he knew this was a fight he could not win.
‘Like this, Günther?’ Erich kicked the boy again, and this time it felt as if the blow had cracked a rib.
‘That’s it,’ Günther said with obvious satisfaction. ‘The strong dominate the weak. Remember that.’ He was suddenly towering over the defenceless boy. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy spat blood at him. A moment later he felt a tug at the neck of his shirt as his head and shoulders were pulled up, only to be smashed back down again by Günther’s fist. Laughter rang in the boy’s ears. Another blow sent his head crashing into the parquet floor that lined the corridor he had previously been running along on his way to class. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. Had his father been there, he knew he would have beaten him all the harder if he had. Instead, he rolled onto his side and curled his knees up to his chest in supplication.
Then, through the blood in his eyes, he saw a pair of knee-length white socks striding towards him, and a pair of black shorts and a brown shirt like his own. It was another boy of about his age approaching along the otherwise empty corridor. Their eyes met, and even while he was being kicked repeatedly in the back, by all three of the older boys for all he knew, the boy couldn’t take his eyes off the newcomer.
The approaching boy called out. ‘Hey, Bl?dmann!’
The kicking stopped and somehow the pain in the boy’s back and ribs seemed to intensify.
‘Who’s this, then?’ Günther said. ‘Has your little brother come to help you?’ He laughed. ‘We’ll soon see who the stupid one is. It’s still three against two, and we’re older and stronger.’
The size and strength of the opposition seemed to make no difference to the newcomer, who was suddenly in their midst, standing with his hands on his hips in a defiant, mocking posture.
‘And what are you going to do, little man?’ Günther continued. ‘Do you want some of the same med—’
Günther wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence. The newcomer cracked his fist into Günther’s nose with such speed and determination, it would have been impossible to see it coming. The other two boys backed away, as though suddenly less sure of themselves.
Günther quickly recovered. He wiped the blood from his nose and studied it momentarily before looking up again. ‘You’re going to pay for that!’ He lunged at the newcomer and landed a glancing blow to his chin, jolting his head sideways. Then Günther leapt at him and pulled him to the ground. ‘Can you wrestle, little man?’
The newcomer lashed out again, but this time his punch was easily blocked.
‘I’m a very good wrestler,’ Günther said as he twisted his legs around the other boy and rolled him over, pinning him onto his back.
The newcomer jabbed again, and now he cut his opponent’s lip. He threw another punch, but any advantage he might have had was fleeting.
Günther blocked him again and he knelt on his upper arms, immobilising them. ‘See how you like this,’ he said, and then he began to rain blow after blow into the newcomer’s face, like a blacksmith hammering steel, until his knuckles were wet with blood.
Beside them, the boy stirred. He sat up and the pain in his ribs caused him to wince and clutch his side. He saw Günther’s friends move closer and he knew he would not be allowed to help this bright-haired boy who had come to his aid. He could do no more than watch and hope that the bully would soon let up. Blow after blow continued to fall until the boy saw the fight go from the newcomer. He had stopped bucking and twisting, and his head seemed limp now as it rocked from side to side as Günther kept hitting him. The boy thought Günther would never let up. He thought he was going to kill the newcomer if he didn’t do something. He was about to, for what good he thought it would do, but the beating suddenly stopped. Günther seemed to freeze mid-blow.
He groaned. ‘Oh, Scheisse!’
Very slowly Günther began to fall sideways towards the boy. He landed heavily just a few feet from him, and it was then that the boy saw the reason he had stopped the beating. Protruding from his side was the unmistakable black and polished nickel plate handle of the newcomer’s Hitler Youth dagger.
The newcomer began to move again. He slowly sat up, blood in his teeth and all over his face from the beating he’d just taken. He kicked Günther’s legs away from him and the other two boys who had been with him turned and ran for the doors at the end of the corridor.
The newcomer got to his feet. ‘You must learn to stand up for yourself—show your enemies you’re not scared. I’ll teach you.’ He straightened his shirt and tie. ‘Well, are you just going to sit there all day?’ He extended his arm to help the boy up. ‘I’m Volker. Volker Strobel.’
‘Johann Langner,’ the boy said. ‘Is he dead?’
Volker kicked Günther and he groaned again. ‘He’ll live. He’s probably just in shock, that’s all.’