Paradox of Honor

Peter Schmidt had risen early, a force of habit due, primarily, to his new way of life. Since the first day he entered basic training, he had thought of that long-awaited day, the day he would complete many weeks of basic training in the military. He missed his mother's cooking and looked forward to the graduation. To those who had successfully completed the course a fifteen day furlough was granted. Peter could think of nothing more satisfying than to gorge himself on his favorite dishes. Although the military cooks were better than expected, to him nothing equaled his mama's meals, especially her desserts. The thought of sleeping in and coming and going, as he saw fit for the next fifteen days, was almost overwhelmingly unbelievable.

It would be a godsend not to see any officers, and particularly to be far removed from the top sergeant with his screeching voice, wearing incessantly on everyone's nerves. Peter thought about the pleasant change, but frowned, when he had a second thought about how fast the two weeks would pass while on leave; so he compromised his frustrations and anxiety for the self-appeasing attitude that some time off was better than no time at all.

He sat on the edge of his bed a little longer, then stretched his newly discovered and developed muscles, a result of the arduous and vigorous physical training. Glancing over to the window, he noticed it was still dark outside. He stood up and once again went through a stretching routine of twisting his body to the left and then to the right, raising up on his toes, and, finally, reaching overhead, as if trying to touch the ceiling. Then he hurriedly gathered his shaving articles and tiptoed into the hall bathroom, being careful not to let the water run too fast, for fear it might disturb the sound sleep of his parents.

While Peter shaved, he wondered how he'd look if he grew a mustache like Hitler's. He left gust the right amount of soap under his nose, squaring it off with precision. Then with comical exaggeration he began to dramatically mimic him, making all the various familiar facial expressions had made during his infamous speeches. He muffled his mouth to keep from laughing at himself out loud. Leaning closer toward the mirror, he huffed, "My Fuhrer, you are a big stupid ass!

Peter combed his straight, fine, light-blonde hair and stared for a moment into the mirror. His soft blue eyes, and long, oval-shaped face depicted more gentleness, than strength. He turned sharply and quietly slipped out of the house, descending the brick steps of his home and gazing upward to the sky. It was clear, except for a few fading stars, sparkling from the heavens, which were soon replaced by a brilliant, rising sun. He smiled at feeling so insignificant, yet magnificent, in God's glory. For an early August an early August morning in Munich it was exceptionally cool. He continued down the few remaining steps with renewed vigor.

Peter loved walking in the very early morning hours. The streets were empty and the only sound that could be heard, other than one's footsteps, were the echo of their thoughts, the hidden secrets of the night. Peter walked, as softly as he could, over the cobbled stone streets, so that the sound of his clicking heels did not overpower his meditations, which he savored at this hour.

The stone streets sparkled from the morning dew and looked as though they had been polished to a high gloss. It was only five A.M. His mind was fresh and his thinking channels were always clearer in the early hours. He pondered on his twentieth birthday, which would be in the following month. He wondered, curiously, how many more he would spend away from home. How fast the time was passing. He remembered his childhood for a moment., as if it were yesterday. Already it was 1939. As he thought of his dear friend, Hans Steiner, a sly grin appeared out of amusement, and curiosity. Was Hans sleeping with Ursula, or in bed with some whore? It was a known fact that Hans and his girlfriend, Ursula, were sexually involved. They had been sweethearts ever since they were kids, and everyone knew one day they would marry, just as everyone expected Peter and Hilda to also reach that same plateau. The difference between Peter and Hans was that Peter remained faithful to Hilda and stoically denied sex between them, despite her objections. Hans made no bones about his sexual achievements regardless of his promise to Ursula.

Peter and Hans were almost perfect examples of Hitler's true Aryan race. Hans, who was six feet two with wavy, blonde hair and light-blue eyes, was just slightly taller and broader than Peter with his tight, wiry physique. Since they both had the necessary qualifications and proper specifications as Aryans, they could both be trained as S/S officers. Peter declined the offer to enter Officer Candidate School. When Hans asked Peter why they should decline such an honored privilege, Peter answered, "We can get away with much more as enlisted men, than if we became officers. Besides, our chances of staying together are greater as regulars, than if we became officers." Hans refused the offer, swayed by Peter's logic and their bond of friendship.

If Peter were looking to make a career in the military, he could understand an officership in the army of the "Third Reich," but for him the military was the last profession he would consider. He could think of many more interesting careers that would be more meaningful to him. His attitude differed too greatly from the political policies and ideologies of his leaders. Hans had always reasoned that, since war was imminent, they would be a lot better off as officers. He knew that was all anyone talked about these days, but maintained an optimistic hope it would never come to that, not in his time, anyway.