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leave their mark on us and our decisions.’
He paused. He usually did so at this point in the lecture, and as always his audience now sat spellbound by his words, actually perhaps not his words, but his father’s. Yet now it was he, Jan-Erik, who was conveying those words. Their voices were similar, and after years of giving lectures he had smoothed away the differences. By now their voices were scarcely distinguishable. Recordings of his father’s legendary readings could be found in every home; his voice had become a national treasure. But the precious recordings were now the only remnant of Axel Ragnerfeldt’s voice. A stroke five years ago had silenced him, and it was Jan-Erik’s turn to carry on his cultural inheritance. The books had been translated all over the world, and each year the royalty payments poured into the family business, which over the years had turned into a small empire, with foundations and grants for charitable works. As well as a considerable salary for Jan-Erik, who was the president of the corporation and saw to it that everything ran smoothly. He had more requests to give lectures than he had time for, but he took on a good number of them. He enjoyed travelling. A euphemism for the fact that he felt no great eagerness to stay at home.
He had grown from the task. It had made him significant.
‘Perhaps Joseph Schultz realised that death would take himeven if he chose to remain with his comrades and fire his weapon. Perhaps he realised that if he chose the easy way out and obeyed the order, he would execute not only those fourteen men but also the last little sliver inside himself that made him a human being. That last little part of us that has to remain intact so we can face ourselves in the mirror when we get up in the morning. Perhaps he realised that once it was gone, he would no longer be truly alive. He would merely survive until death finally caught up with him.’
He clicked on the mouse and the photograph of Joseph Schultz’s heroic act vanished. In its place appeared a close-up of his father, one of the few he had ever permitted his publisher to use.
‘Joseph Schultz’s action in wartime never conquered any country. He saved no lives; fifteen men died instead of fourteen. His unique spirit and civil courage never won a medal for bravery on the battlefield. His name is unknown to most people, while that of Hitler, Göring and Mengele have taken their places in the history books. But perhaps the most surprising thing of all is that sixty-five years later Joseph Schultz’s decision arouses more wonder than that of his comrades-in-arms. His action seems astounding, despite the fact that all he did was what most of us realise was the right thing. Because if we were to choose, who would we rather be? Joseph Schultz or one of the others in the patrol?’
Silently let your gaze sweep over the hall.
‘Who besides me wants to be like Joseph?’
Jan-Erik sensed the wave that swept over the audience. The spotlight was hot on his face. Every pore in his body was wide open, welcoming the feeling that filled him. As usual, just after these words, he left his notes on the podium and walked slowly to the centre of the stage, standing on the spot he had marked in advance and keeping his eyes on the floor at his feet. Apparently vulnerable and without the protection afforded by the podium, he seemed to join with the audience as he slowly raised his eyes.
‘My father and Joseph Schultz both knew that our actions are like our children. They live on, and they continue to have an effect independent of us and our will. Joseph Schultz and my father belong to the minority who realise that the reward for a good deed is the very fact of having done it. That is important, very important. They have shown that by con quering our own fear we also conquer our mightiest foe. I am eternally grateful to have a father like Axel Ragnerfeldt, and to have the opportunity to continue to spread his
He paused. He usually did so at this point in the lecture, and as always his audience now sat spellbound by his words, actually perhaps not his words, but his father’s. Yet now it was he, Jan-Erik, who was conveying those words. Their voices were similar, and after years of giving lectures he had smoothed away the differences. By now their voices were scarcely distinguishable. Recordings of his father’s legendary readings could be found in every home; his voice had become a national treasure. But the precious recordings were now the only remnant of Axel Ragnerfeldt’s voice. A stroke five years ago had silenced him, and it was Jan-Erik’s turn to carry on his cultural inheritance. The books had been translated all over the world, and each year the royalty payments poured into the family business, which over the years had turned into a small empire, with foundations and grants for charitable works. As well as a considerable salary for Jan-Erik, who was the president of the corporation and saw to it that everything ran smoothly. He had more requests to give lectures than he had time for, but he took on a good number of them. He enjoyed travelling. A euphemism for the fact that he felt no great eagerness to stay at home.
He had grown from the task. It had made him significant.
‘Perhaps Joseph Schultz realised that death would take himeven if he chose to remain with his comrades and fire his weapon. Perhaps he realised that if he chose the easy way out and obeyed the order, he would execute not only those fourteen men but also the last little sliver inside himself that made him a human being. That last little part of us that has to remain intact so we can face ourselves in the mirror when we get up in the morning. Perhaps he realised that once it was gone, he would no longer be truly alive. He would merely survive until death finally caught up with him.’
He clicked on the mouse and the photograph of Joseph Schultz’s heroic act vanished. In its place appeared a close-up of his father, one of the few he had ever permitted his publisher to use.
‘Joseph Schultz’s action in wartime never conquered any country. He saved no lives; fifteen men died instead of fourteen. His unique spirit and civil courage never won a medal for bravery on the battlefield. His name is unknown to most people, while that of Hitler, Göring and Mengele have taken their places in the history books. But perhaps the most surprising thing of all is that sixty-five years later Joseph Schultz’s decision arouses more wonder than that of his comrades-in-arms. His action seems astounding, despite the fact that all he did was what most of us realise was the right thing. Because if we were to choose, who would we rather be? Joseph Schultz or one of the others in the patrol?’
Silently let your gaze sweep over the hall.
‘Who besides me wants to be like Joseph?’
Jan-Erik sensed the wave that swept over the audience. The spotlight was hot on his face. Every pore in his body was wide open, welcoming the feeling that filled him. As usual, just after these words, he left his notes on the podium and walked slowly to the centre of the stage, standing on the spot he had marked in advance and keeping his eyes on the floor at his feet. Apparently vulnerable and without the protection afforded by the podium, he seemed to join with the audience as he slowly raised his eyes.
‘My father and Joseph Schultz both knew that our actions are like our children. They live on, and they continue to have an effect independent of us and our will. Joseph Schultz and my father belong to the minority who realise that the reward for a good deed is the very fact of having done it. That is important, very important. They have shown that by con quering our own fear we also conquer our mightiest foe. I am eternally grateful to have a father like Axel Ragnerfeldt, and to have the opportunity to continue to spread his
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