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May he rest in peace.

Here's a interesting excerpt from a translation I'm currently working on, "On the Road with the Führer! - A Few Snapshots of a Great Journey" by Herbert Seehofer, which covers Hitler's election campaign in 1933. In this excerpt, the author recounts a youth parade in Erfurt where Hitler saw a physically disabled boy in the Jungvolk, who was attempting to march with his comrades; the rest of the excerpt will speak for itself below, but I find it to be a interesting anecdote given that we hear so much about the Third Reich's rejection and unsympathetic view of physical or mental disabilities: In the back row of the procession marched a boy—a young recruit from the Jungvolk, wearing a black cap and a brown shirt—who looked out of place among the ranks of fresh, vigorous youths: a physically disabled child. His right shoe had a thick sole and a huge heel, as his leg was too short or crooked; his back had become hunched, without having borne the weight of the years, and his head, with its bulging, diseased eyes, stood out in its morbid size, forming a strange contrast to his frail body. The Führer’s gaze fell upon this boy, who was striving with all his might to march with a straight posture down the parade route: for a long time, the Führer watched the boy, and the faces of those standing by reflected deep compassion and, no doubt, the unspoken question of why this disabled boy was in that column; after all, he could not possibly be up to the strain in the long run. Everyone felt exceptionally sorry for him, as ultimately only healthy, strong youths should be marching - but then suddenly there was a nod from the Führer, and an orderly was instructed to find out the name of the child, who has now already disappeared with his column into the dust of the parade route. While I am still lost in thought, pondering the situation, I hear a brief command: the boy is to receive a portrait of the Führer bearing his own signature! The letter with the picture may have arrived just as the Saxon boy reached home again and told his friends how wonderful everything had been. I don’t think he had spoken of the exertion that the hours-long march had entailed for him—marching in formation for hours on end, keeping in step; he probably didn’t even mention how he gritted his teeth to hide any sign of weakness either. Now he holds the Führer’s picture in his hands—a memory for a lifetime.