[On the subject of nations as humane.]

Warning: This piece of writing contains some ideologically sensitive material. If you are easily offended, it is advised that you do not read this. However, in no way does this story reflect the personal opinions of the author him/herself. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Ludwig Beilschmidt, or the personification of Germany, belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.

IV.

Helmut is five when the war begins. Ludwig, who has been avoiding an actual rank in the government or army for the boy's sake, can no longer escape.

As he lounges with the child secured tightly in his arms, he hears the rapping of knuckles on his front door. He sits up and puts a finger to Helmut's lips, asks the boy to get off, and makes his way to the door. Helmut walks behind him, his blue eyes questioning.

Ludwig opens the door, the feeling of dread growing in his gut. There are three men there. Two of them are wearing a brown uniform with a red armband; the other, a sharp black one with the same armband and a cap perched on his head.

They simultaneously click their heels together and throw their right arm forward.

"Heil Hitler."

Ludwig returns the salute and glances at Helmut, whose head is cocked as he watches them with interest. He does a clumsy imitation, unable to figure out why his heels don't click in the same way the men's heels do, and smiles sheepishly up at them.

Guilt begins worming in the pit of Ludwig's stomach. He feels queasy and wants to get this over with as soon as possible. He turns back to the men; the one in black introduces himself as the Untersturmführer. Ludwig offers him a polite nod.

"Listen - Beilschmidt, is it? Ludwig Beilschmidt? That's right. Well, we" (he gestures to the men flanking his sides) "have come here to fetch you and persuade you into becoming an officer under the Führer. We were looking through the records, you see, and we were really very impressed by your lineage!"

At the mention of his family, Ludwig stiffens. His brother, who considered himself a proud Prussian, had been disgusted by the current regime. He left years ago when the Führer was only beginning and cursed Ludwig for not coming along with him.

He wonders if his brother would have joined the army or the police if he had stayed.

"So, being an Aryan German, we would like to offer you the opportunity to join the Schutzstaffel. Now, you are aware that there are several different branches...?"

The only response Ludwig can give is a nod. His throat is too dry for him to try and speak.

"Of course you do. What was I thinking? Well, I'd like you to think about this offer. This opportunity to serve the Führer with all of your heart. You would really be a valuable addition; a prime specimen of the German race! How about ... let's give you a week to mull it over. Does that sound fine?"

Ludwig nods again, although it doesn't sound fine at all.

"Excellent! We look forward to it." The Untersturmführer gives him a smile that shows off his brilliant white teeth, then crouches to peer at Helmut. Ludwig twitches, but makes no move to get the Jewish boy away from the SS official.

"Hello, there, boy," says the Untersturmführer, taking off his cap with a smile.

Helmut, who has been examining his hands in boredom, gives him a quick look. "H ... hello."

"No need to be so nervous. Are you a good boy?"

"I think so." He peers up at Ludwig, who clears his throat and mutters a "yes." "I'm a good boy."

"Do you go to school yet?"

"No, sir. Ludwig teaches me."

"Does he, now? -Very good. Stretch out your hands. Palm-up." The Untersturmführer drops a sugar cube in Helmut's hands and the boy's eyes go wide. He puts it on his tongue and closes his eyes, letting it melt as an expression of sheer bliss fills his face.

The Untersturmführer stands and chuckles. "A good boy you have there, indeed. Is he yours?"

Ludwig's mind races with a million different answers. At last, he says, "No."

"No?"

"He was ... he was left to me, sir. By a deceased relative of mine." He does his best to keep calm, although he is already breaking out into a sweat. He forces his eyes to remain level and his breathing to be steady; he will not give away Helmut's origins. He must not.

The Untersturmführer stares back coolly, then closes his eyes and nods. "Good, good. Although, I have one bit of advice to offer..." He leans in, an eyebrow cocked. Ludwig fights the urge to lean away from his sharp features and scrutinising eyes.

"Take him to the Hitler Youth when he's old enough, won't you?"

He eases back into position, does the salute one more time, and turns on his heel, beckoning the men to come with him.

Ludwig's fear is replaced with immense relief, and he shuts the door and locks it tight. As soon as he does it, he feels a tug on his pants and looks down at Helmut, giving him a shaky smile. "Yes, Helmut?"

"I want another one of those squares," pleads the boy, mustering the most pitiful expression he can make.

The German laughs; his mood lifts a little more. "There are some in the cupboard. Come, I'll give you one. But no more! We don't want you to get too fat from eating them."

'Otherwise you can't serve the Führer,' chants a voice in his head.