Chapter 1 -- Chapter 1 -- Heroldsberg, Germany Spring 1929 "Goal!" I shouted as the ball squirted past Ansel and in between the two empty milk cans that made up our imaginary net. Ansel Becker and I practiced football each day after school. Next year we would be old enough to try out for the school's team. Both of us dreamed of playing for the German national football club someday. We played in an open space in the alley just off the marketplace in our home village of Heroldsberg, Germany. The alley was covered in cobblestone that, according to Papa, had been here since the Middle Ages. It was late in the day, and the shops and vendor carts were beginning to close down for the night. "Those chestnuts smell delicious," Ansel said. "They do," I agreed. "But Mrs. Hufnagel charges too much, Papa says." "Your papa thinks everyone charges too much for anything, Rolf." This made me laugh. Ever since Ansel and I had first met in kindergarten, he had always been able to make me laugh. "I suppose that is true," I said. My father, Alexander von Heusen, owned a small toy factory just outside of Nuremberg. He was constantly negotiating with his suppliers and customers, and it carried over into our everyday life. Everything was a negotiation for my father. Yet he was a kind man, and most seemed to accept his constant attempts at cost savings with good humor, especially these days. It was nearing dinner hour. Ansel snatched up the football and we walked along the cobblestone street, turning next to the church. My house was two blocks away, a small home but comfortable. Up ahead beyond the church, a panel van had parked on the street. Beside it, I was surprised to see my older brother Romer talking to someone perhaps his age. Another man was unloading boxes from the van and carrying them into an empty shop on the street. Ansel and I stopped to watch them. The two newcomers wore brown shirts and black pants that were tucked into knee-high black leather boots. "Who do you think they are?" I asked. "And why would they be talking to Romer?" "Well, I heard someone say that the National Socialists were opening an office here in Heroldsberg," he said. "Maybe that is them." "What are the National Socialists?" Ansel bounced the ball on the cobblestone. "Dummkopfs, dummies, according to my father. Dangerous dummies, but still, in the end, dummies." He smiled and spun the ball on his finger. Ansel was my best friend. But he did have a flair for the dramatic. "With all due respect, Ansel, as my father is with the high prices of everything, your father believes almost everyone is a dummy." "Not true," Ansel said. "He thinks almost everyone is an idiot. But I think he believes the National Socialists have achieved even greater heights of idiocy. Not only that but their party leader--his name is Adolf Hitler--well, my father says he is full of dangerous ideas. He tried to overthrow the government in Munich, several years ago." "Really?" I said. It was hard for me to imagine someone trying to completely take over a country, especially by getting rid of the government already in charge. "Yep. There was a government meeting at a beer hall in Munich. This Hitler fellow and a bunch of his goons surrounded the place and tried to take over. Several people were killed." "What? Why isn't he in jail?" "He was, according to my father. Found guilty of treason. But only served less than a year." I had to think about that for a second. "So I guess you can get away with treason?" "Apparently," Ansel said. His father was a reporter for the Nuremberg newspaper--the Zeitgeist . He had been reporting on events in Germany ever since the Great War, which had ended in 1918. Germany was badly defeated and forced to sign a treaty with the Allied nations. Ansel's father had done most of his reporting from the front lines. He had even been injured in a chemical gas attack. It always seemed to me that Ansel was well informed in current events. I had no doubt his knowledge came from his father, who always appeared to know everything that was going on everywhere in the country. The treaty called for our country to pay for all the damage and destruction caused during the war. Some said it was too much. That Germany would never be able to repay it. Now it was 1929, and by trying to pay the debt, the country was slowly choking to death. At least that was what I overheard people saying. Every day in the marketplace as I passed by for school, I could hear the old men who gathered on the benches outside the shops remark about how bad things were. And the poor economy and lack of jobs and money were what Ansel's father had been reporting on for the last few years. It was a strange and stressful time in Germany. Many were frightened at thoughts of what the future might hold for the nation. "And your father thinks everyone who doesn't agree with him is an idiot," I said. "Also true," said Ansel. Papa said many in Germany were out of work. Suffering without food, jobs, or hope. Things were not so bad here in Heroldsberg. At least they didn't seem to be, whenever I took the time to think about anything other than school or football. People here worked. Heroldsberg had become famous for making cloth and fabric. I guess since people always needed cloth and fabric, jobs were more available, and life wasn't as difficult as it was in the big cities, where the factories were shuttered, or the smaller villages, which had little to offer in terms of jobs. Heroldsberg was a small town. Only a few thousand people lived here. Besides the fabrics factories, there was a lot of farming in the area. And it was less than fifteen kilometers from Nuremberg, so people could live here and take the train in the morning to work at jobs in the city, returning home in the evening. My family hadn't traveled much. With my mother deceased, my father working in his factory for long hours every day, and the general lack of money for extra things like travel, I had never really been anywhere except Nuremberg, besides a weekend trip to Munich when my brother Romer played in a football tournament. Truthfully, I did not mind. I thought Heroldsberg was the most perfect place in the world. It was certainly beautiful. It was full of twisty cobblestone streets, and some of the houses were hundreds of years old, and built with sloped roofs. In the winter, when the roofs were covered with snow, they looked as if they belonged in a fairy tale. By now we had reached the shop where the van was being unloaded. Ansel and I waited, watching the young men work. Up close, I guessed both of the two newcomers to be around sixteen or seventeen years old. They were neat and clean in their appearance. Their hair was perfectly cut and combed, and their shirts were crisp and pressed, as if the exertion of doing the moving and lifting caused them no fuss whatsoever. When they saw us watching, one of them approached us. "Don't bother talking to them," said Romer. "That's my little brother, Rolf, and his stupid friend Ansel. Pay them no mind." "Excuse me, Romer," Ansel said. "I'm the idiot friend. Not the stupid friend. There's a difference." Romer's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Ansel. Most of the time Ansel could insult Romer and he didn't even know it. Romer always resented the fact that he could not get one over on Ansel. Ever. "Oh, I don't mind. My name is Hans and this is Nils. And we like it when brothers get involved," Hans said. He held out his hand to shake. Ansel and I didn't say anything at first. Nor did we shake his hand. Romer glared at us for being rude, his light blue eyes flashing with anger. That was what he seemed to be all the time lately. Angry. And for the life of me, I didn't know why. Romer had everything: he was smart, athletic, and popular in school. But in the last few months a change had come over him. He was short-tempered and irritable. He now spent many hours in his room reading. It was strange to me how much his behavior had altered. Romer was fifteen. He was already over six feet tall, and strong. An exceptional athlete, he ran long-distance and played football for his school's club teams. On the pitch, he was fast and fluid, the ball moving as if it were attached to his foot with a string. But he could change direction and stop and start in a heartbeat and leave his opponent twirling in circles. The club coach at Romer's school said that he might be able to make the German national team someday. He was that good. "Wouldn't that be great, Romer?" I said once as we kicked the ball back and forth in the street in front of our house. "Yes, Rolf. That would be fine. But it is a long way away. If it ever happens," he had said. Now he stood there talking to Hans and Nils, and I couldn't help but think that Hans was Romer's mirror image in many ways. Tall and blond with piercing blue eyes as he held his hand out, but Ansel refused to shake it. Except... I don't know what it was, but there was something off about Hans. For one thing, he was tall and extremely skinny; almost all of him was arms and legs. His eyes were larger than normal and round. He never held eye contact when he spoke to you. Rather, his eyes darted from place to place, and if he did look in your direction, it was never directly at you. "What is it we would be getting involved in? Will there be food?" Ansel finally asked. Hans's hand returned to his side. Ansel always recited from a list he claimed to keep of Unassailable Facts of Life. Number 17 on the list was "Everything goes better with food." "Ah," said Hans, not answering the question. "And I see you are both football fans. Like Romer here?" We shrugged, not knowing who this person was, only knowing that his appearance and manner had somehow set off alarm bells in our heads. He kept his long arms at his sides, bent at an angle, as if he were getting ready to march. It was as if we were talking to a spider. He was too smooth, as if he'd experienced his whole life without any challenges or upsets. Like one of the rich boys at school, who never seemed to be bothered by anything. He stood there watching us as we fidgeted, nodding and probably wondering why we weren't talking to him openly and trying to think of a way to engage us in more conversation. "I love to watch the national team," Hans continued finally. "I saw them play in Berlin last year. That Richard Hofmann! My goodness, what a player!" There was going to be a new tournament in football next year called the World Cup. It would take place in Uruguay in South America, and it would invite the best teams from all around the globe to come play against each other until an eventual winner was crowned. Germany had an excellent professional team and we thought that we had a good chance of beating anyone from another country. Ansel and I were really looking forward to the tournament, until we learned that Germany would not be participating after all. No money to send a team. As if he were reading our minds, Hans said, "It is such a pity Germany will not participate in the World Cup tournament next year. But I guess we can blame our Weimar government for that." Hans smiled curiously when he said it. As if it gave him great pleasure to insult the Weimar Republic. Ansel's eyes narrowed slightly. The truth was, if Hans had managed to see the great Richard Hofmann in person, Ansel would no doubt be jealous. When he was jealous, he liked to agitate people. Ansel loved football more than almost anything else, and Hofmann was his favorite player. Since he already didn't like Hans, he for sure did not like the fact that Hans had seen Hofmann play in person. "What are you doing here?" Ansel asked sharply. Hans startled, drawing his head back ever so slightly as if he'd been surprised by Ansel's tone. "Ansel, don't be rude," Romer said, raising his voice. "It's okay, Romer," Hans said. "That is a good question, my friend." His companion stopped unloading and reached out his hand to us to shake. We didn't shake with him, either, and he awkwardly returned his hand to his side. Hans continued, "Nils and I work for the youth division of the National Socialist German Workers' Party." "The Nazi Party," Ansel said. Since his father was a reporter, Ansel had a much deeper knowledge of current events. All the different political parties had members and offices all over the country. When the country and the people were so poor, politics gave them something to think about, to root for or against. At least that was how Ansel described it. Politics had become a sport, like football. Hans and Nils seemed to grimace a bit when he said it, as if they had accidentally revealed the secret code to something. But Hans nodded. "Why yes, that is another name our organization sometimes uses," he said. I never heard about these things unless or until they were written about in the newspaper. And we seldom got the paper when we were trying to save money. Sometimes Papa would read a paper to us during dinner. If it was gossip or "trash news," as my father called it, it was unlikely we would ever hear anything about it. We did not own a radio, so we did not receive any of the daily news broadcasts. Papa had intended to get one, but they were too expensive. But he lamented the fact that we did not have access to news, especially the BBC--the British Broadcasting Corporation--which broadcast all over Europe and was actually usually among the most reliable sources for news, according to Papa. "Say what you want to about the Brits," he would say. "But they pull no punches when it comes to reporting the news." "Well, if you enjoy football, hiking, camping, and other sports, I think you would be interested in our organization," Hans said. "We spend a great deal of time participating in these things to help build healthy minds and bodies for Germany's future leaders." "Sounds like Boy Scouts to me," Ansel said. Here Ansel was again "poking the bear," as Papa would say. Ansel was always happy to goad anyone if he thought that they were being foolish. Only he could do it and act all innocent, as if he were merely confused or just repeating something incorrectly that he had heard an adult say. In reality, his attack was already well underway. Once again, a brief dark cloud flashed across Hans's face. I couldn't tell if it was because he really disliked the Boy Scouts or just Ansel. Maybe it was a bit of both. The two of us had joined the Boy Scouts last year. Our activities had been cut back, though, because people had to make difficult choices in hard economic times. Most of our scoutmasters had to give up volunteering while they focused on keeping their jobs or leaving Heroldsberg to find other work. Now we seldom got to go on any overnight campouts, and this year there was no summer camp, where we could work on our merit badges. But we still held a weekly meeting, practicing our camping skills, pitching tents, and tying knots. If we ever got to go camping again, we would for sure know what to do. And we played rollicking games of capture the flag, where the two teams' antics could be witnessed by the entire village as we wildly chased each other like savages through the streets of town. But Hans was clearly angry at Ansel's comment. "Well, it is most definitely not the Boy Scouts," he huffed. I got the impression that it would not take very much to upset Hans. And the more he talked, I realized what he said just didn't ring true. Or at least was missing details. For one thing, why was it these two young men were in charge of setting up this office? They were barely older than Romer. Shouldn't an actual adult be their troop leader? Maybe he was already here, doing something else? Or perhaps he would arrive later? But it just felt strange. Apparently this youth division of the National Socialist German Workers' Party was quite a bit different from the Boy Scouts. We might not camp anymore, but at least we had scoutmasters who made sure we followed the rules and didn't get into any trouble. So far Nils had not spoken. Another weird thing. Then something clicked for me. I remembered my father and Romer discussing this new youth group at dinner a few weeks ago. Normally I did not pay attention to a lot of what my brother Romer and my father talked about over the dinner table. Usually because their "talks" lately descended into "fights," and I wanted to eat my meal in peace and leave as fast as I could to get away from the noise. But I remembered them saying this group was called the Hitler Youth. That seemed unusual to me, that the person in charge would name a group like that after himself. "Are you the Hitler Youth?" I asked. Hans chuckled nervously. He looked slyly at Nils and then back at us and nodded. "That is what some call our organization," he said. "And what do you know of Hitler?" In truth, I knew very little. Another political party and another politician--they all tended to run together in my mind. But Ansel, through his father, knew all about this Hitler fellow. And because Ansel idolized his father, he was not afraid to share his father's opinion of the man. "I know that he is an idiot," he said. For a moment I saw something dangerous flash across Hans's face. He clearly did not like Ansel's comment, and it was getting harder for him not to show that he did not like Ansel. "And where do you get such information?" Hans asked. His face wiggled and winced as if he were chewing on something unpleasant and trying to keep everyone from knowing that was what he was doing. "My father is a reporter for the Nuremberg Zeitgeist . I like to keep up on current events, so I read it every day. There is a federal election coming up next year. So there is a lot of news about politicians and parties these days." I knew this was a lie. Ansel most definitely did not read the newspaper every day. Not even when his father wrote a story. He picked up his news like I did: from eavesdropping and overhearing the adults in his life. "From what I understand--talking to my father and listening to him talk with his friends--your idol Hitler is something of a dummkopf," Ansel finished. By now Hans had given up on trying to keep composed. His mouth became a straight line, and his cheeks were slightly tinged with red. "A reporter!" he nearly spat. "Mein Gott! Well, God knows they never get anything wrong. The newspapers have been lying to the people for far too long. I would be careful talking about Hitler in such a way if I were you." Nils had stopped unloading a while ago, and mostly just stood there fidgeting. Now he stared at Ansel with an alarmed look. His face and posture reminded me of a snake. As if he would be slow to think but fast to act. "Why should I be careful?" Ansel said. "From listening to my father and his friends discuss it, this Hitler does sound kind of stupid. And not the harmless kind of stupid. But the kind of stupid that makes him think he's better than everyone else. The dangerous kind of stupid." Hans took in several breaths. His face was set like stone. He took a notebook and pencil from his pocket and began scribbling. I had no doubt the notes were about us. Clearly he was writing down what Ansel had said about Hitler. That his father was a reporter for the Nuremburg Zeitgeist . That his father thought Hitler an idiot. All of this was taking place before me and I still wasn't 100 percent sure who Hitler was exactly, or why he provoked such a response in people. So far the only thing we had agreed with Hans about was that Richard Hofmann, the German national football player, was an incredible talent on the pitch. "And you." Hans turned to me. "I suppose you think Hitler is 'stupid' as well?" I shrugged. "I don't know of him. I cannot say what he might or might not be." Hans smiled. "It is good that you have kept an open mind," he said, shooting a glance at Ansel. "If we all--all of us--take into account our own perceptions, our own realities, when it comes to judging someone or their behavior, we can make up our own minds. The newspapers, reporters, and others like them have an agenda. They like to tear things down. They have no vision for Germany. We are here to build things up. Our people are suffering in this economy. Mainly because our government is too weak and corrupt to stand up to the rest of the world and refuse to take the blame for a war we didn't cause. Most have the wrong impression about our organization. That our members are forced to do things like hikes, running, swimming, and other types of activities. Physical training, and military drills--those are required of us, certainly--but it is only part of the truth. Everything we do with this group is voluntary. No one is forced to do anything against their will. And for the people who don't want to do the things that we do, they're free to join other groups like your Boy Scouts." "You just said--" Ansel started, but Romer cut him off. "We should be going," Romer said, before Ansel could say anything else. Hans held up his hand. "One moment please, Romer. Ansel, what I meant is there are plenty of opportunities in Germany for young boys like you out there besides our group. And you can take advantage of whichever one speaks to you the best. But what I would encourage you to do is give us a try. Come to one of our meetings. Our first one is next Tuesday at seven p.m. here at this building. Bring your friends! Bring several friends! Come and learn about what we are and what we do and how we could help shape you into something new and better." "I am already new and better," Ansel said, flexing his skinny arm muscle. Nils rummaged through a box in the back of the truck, removed three flyers, and handed them to us. Ansel looked as if he'd just been handed a cow pie. He scowled as he read it. This also irritated Hans, who by now I thought might start dancing in place with a desire to wring Ansel's neck. Ansel was clearly annoying him with his wry comments and sarcastic jokes. That was Ansel. He was good with the quip. In school he would always be the one to say something funny that would make everyone in the class laugh. "Nevertheless," Romer said. "It is close to dinnertime. We should be going, Rolf. You know how Papa dislikes it when we are late." I did not know that. Papa never really cared if we were late or not as long as we showed up eventually. I suspected Romer had watched the back-and-forth with Hans and Nils and decided that we should move on before Ansel got us in trouble. "We were just talking," I said. For once Ansel shut up. He was a little afraid of Romer, and not without reason. "Papa is waiting, Rolf." Knowing Romer, I could tell he wasn't happy about the exchange between us and these mysterious new arrivals in Heroldsberg. Perhaps he saw them as two new potential friends his age and we had annoyed them. Ansel bounced the football and turned to head toward our houses. Papa said that so many things had changed in Germany since the Great War. New political groups were coming and going every day, it seemed like. Political parties were formed and disbanded. Sometimes two parties were merged together to make up a whole new one. Each party believed in something different, and their preferred method of communication was to shout it at everyone. It was exhausting and hard to keep up with. Every time there was an election, there were several new groups that had formed together to try to make things better if they were elected. Although sometimes the people wondered: Were they really trying to make things better for all of Germany's citizens? Or just themselves? I didn't know that things had changed for all of us on that day. That would come later. As I looked over my shoulder at Hans, who glared back with an icy stare, I only knew one thing. There was a spider among us. Excerpted from Rise of the Spider by Michael P. Spradlin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. 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