Frederick, whose blonde hair had browned and who had a slight frame, was a Renaissance man. He was artistic and romantic. He was against the war and Hitler, but he learned to adapt and did what was expected of him, which was still never enough to warrant any attention from his father. Even though Frederick eventually joined the Wehrmacht to fight for Germany, Karl continued to ignore him. It was almost as if there wasn’t anything the son could do to gain his father’s respect. Frederick turned to his painting. He was gifted in drawing landscapes. He took inspiration from the renowned works of Caspar David Friedrich, and he loved drawing nudes and portraits of good friends. If there was one thing he excelled in, it was art, which also happened to be the very thing Karl couldn’t have cared less about.

Before his conscription, Frederick went briefly to the prestigious Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. It was a bittersweet accomplishment. Frederick’s painting ability, in Margarete’s eyes, was something to be nurtured, and she was proud of his work, hanging some of his paintings on the walls of the apartment. Karl didn’t notice and had no congratulatory words for Frederick when his son was admitted into one of the best art schools in all of Europe. Painting wasn’t a respectable profession in his eyes. Frederick’s choices were unacceptable to Karl, who viewed his son as a disappointment.

Art wasn’t Frederick’s only passion. He also loved jazz and had an affinity for the New Orleans sound of several black musicians, including Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet. But the only music allowed in Germany was that performed by German musicians. Any music performed by a non-Aryan was forbidden by the Nazis; listening to black American musicians was unconscionable. “Nigger music,” as Hitler referred to jazz, “was forbidden,” said Charlotte. Anyone who sought it out was doing so at great risk. You could even go to prison if you were caught listening.

Frederick, isolated from his father, was at least getting attention from his mother at times. In family photos, Margarete even appeared enamored with him, her expression one of pure elation as she gazed at him. But it was more than a mother cooing over her son. Margarete favored Frederick over Charlotte and didn’t hide it. She talked to him more, smiled more, and complimented him more. It was a hurtful reality for Charlotte, who couldn’t seem to garner attention from either parent. Even when she looked at an old family album at the age of ninety-four, Charlotte seemed upset, as if the feelings of neglect and rejection were still raw. “You can see,” she said, pointing to a photo of Frederick. “Mother’s favorite, and I’m always on the side and superfluous.”