Operation Ganymede - 4. Chapter 4 - Sorting and Selection

Four days.
Four days to carry out this strange mission assigned by the higher-ups. And since it was Tuesday (the installation, as always, had taken place on a Sunday), this meant the Oberleutnant had to deliver his report by Saturday. Time was short—there was not a second to lose!

First step: a meticulous selection.
The files of the camp participants were stacked in neat piles, their contents meticulously detailed. Each file included a photograph of the registrant—a crucial detail that would save considerable time. The process began by eliminating obviously unsuitable profiles. The overweight? Out of the question (though there were very few). The unattractive? Unthinkable—the ideal of Greek beauty had to be upheld. The pimply? Ridiculous. As for the "disproportionate," it was obvious that the purity test had already excluded them.
The objective left no room for error: find boys capable of charming a group of individuals as dangerous as they were degenerate. The thought brought an ironic smile to the former teacher’s lips as he began to methodically open the cartons containing the precious stacks of files. One pile per squad: four for the Hitlerjugend, two for the Pimpfe. On reflection, it might be worthwhile to include not only boys aged 14 and up but also the oldest of the Pimpfe, from 12 years old onward.

The sorting began.
First file, rejected. Second, also rejected. Third? Too old. The fourth finally tipped the scale. "Jaa," he murmured, jotting the first name on a new list. And so it went. Rejections came as quickly as the scratching of his pen, punctuated by brief, sometimes mocking comments. An hour later, as the clock struck dinnertime, the sorting was complete. Before him lay a stack of twenty-seven dossiers. The youngest was eleven, the oldest sixteen.

The Oberleutnant didn’t even bother to sit for dinner. He grabbed the first file in the pile and immersed himself in reading.

Andréa Brauner, 15 years old.
Academy: Gefolgschaft. Not bad. Appendectomy two years ago, so likely in good physical condition. But twice under disciplinary arrest? Problematic. For now, set aside.

Simon Kisling.
A charming smile, almost inappropriate for an official photo. Academy: Schar. Age: 16, though he looked much younger. No medical history. This one would go directly into the pile of favorites.

Théophilus Heissler, 13 years old.
"Sehr hübsch," he murmured. With such a frank gaze and promising appearance, this boy was perfect. He briefly regretted that the health reports didn’t indicate growth status. No matter, this would be a great addition to the selected pile.

Amalrich Eisenmann.
This one he recognized. Impossible to forget that face, seen as soon as the trucks unloaded. "Ah, Amalrich," he thought, reading the name and savoring its sound. Fourteen years old, enrolled since February. The morality report? Highlighted in red: "Wandervogel." A strange nostalgia swept over him. This boy would undoubtedly make the cut, mission or not.

The files continued, each page telling a story, each face evoking memories or questions.

Arnfried
“What a bastard that Honen is,” muttered Arnfried, clenching his fists. All because his father was an Oberleutnant in the SS and his family was filthy rich. Honen was always bragging about his future at the officers' school, his privileges, his arrogant sense of superiority. "Pff, it’s not my fault they stuck me in his team," Arnfried grumbled.

Hänsel said the same: Honen was unbearable. But for now, Arnfried had to focus on his shirt. Every morning after gym exercises, the boys were given fifteen minutes to put on their uniforms before the doctrine lesson. If he dragged his feet, he already knew what would happen: cutting remarks, mockery about his supposed lack of seriousness, and maybe worse.

He finally fastened the last button, casting a furtive glance at the mirror. "Hurry up, Arni," he told himself. "Or you’re going to catch hell again."