“Swine. And now they blame us. The Germans did it. Who? Me? No, those liars. They say the Jews brought it on themselves, but I don’t agree. It was them. They took everything too far.” A pause, awkward, the easiness gone. He touched his hat. “Well, so.”
Alex watched him go, his shoes loud on the pavement. Kleine J?gerstrasse had always been an echo chamber, sounds bouncing between the buildings. That night they had heard shouts first, running footsteps, then heavy boots, stopping just outside, not sure where to go next, a tension you could almost feel through the door. Erich had outrun them only by seconds, just long enough to slip through the side door before the maid bolted it, eyes wide with fear. Kurt Engel was bleeding from a gash in his scalp, Erich holding him up, his own face bloody from a smashed nose. Fritz and the girls had rushed in from the sitting room, little involuntary cries, the whole house beginning to flutter. Then more shouts in the street.
Alex peeked through the curtains. “SA,” he said. “Did they see you come in?”
“Who cares what they saw?” Fritz said. “Call the police.”
“The police won’t do anything,” Erich said.
“What’s that? Blood?” Fritz said. “Are you hurt? Ilse, get some water—”
The maid began to run then stopped short as the brass knocker began pounding on the door.
“Open up! Scum!”
Alex could hear the sharp intake of breath in the room, the beginning of panic. Elsbeth was swallowing, her eyes darting nervously.
“Call the police,” Fritz said.
“Papa,” Erich said. “They’ll kill us.”
“In my house?” Fritz said.
“Open!” Another pounding, even the heavy door shaking with it.
“Over here,” Irene said, opening the closet door under the stairs. “Quick.”
Erich put his arm around Kurt’s waist and half dragged him behind the Christmas tree.
“Turn on the tree lights,” Irene said to the maid.
“Open!”
“You have to answer them,” Alex said to Fritz, watching Irene shut the closet door and move two wrapped presents up against it, part of the display spread under the tree.
“Who is that?” Fritz shouted. “What do you want?”
“Open up!”
Alex nodded at Fritz, who looked around, a directive to stay still, then went over and opened the door.
“What is the meaning of this? What do you want? You should be ashamed of yourself. Are you drunk?”
The leader, a burly man in his twenties, rushed through, then stopped, not expecting the lights, girls in dresses.
“They came in here. There’s nowhere else—”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Jewish scum. Communists.”
“Here? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We’ll see for ourselves,” he said, moving into the hall.
Fritz stood in front of him, a stage gesture. “How dare you? Make trouble in this house? At this time of year?” he said, taking in the tree. “Do you think you’re in some beer hall? One more step and I’ll get the police and then you’ll see where you are.”
“Get out of the way,” the man said, pushing Fritz’s shoulder, his nerve back, the men now behind him.
“Stop that,” Alex said, reaching for the man’s hand.
The man swerved, shoving Alex instead. “Oh yes?” Another shove, toward the tree. “What about you? Were you at the meeting too? Maybe another Jew. You look—” Peering at him, nose wrinkled, so that for one stopped second Alex wondered if there really was some telltale Semitic scent.
“That’s my son,” Fritz said. “Take your hands off him.” The voice icy, the authority of generations. Alex looked at him. No hesitation.
The SA man stepped back. “If you’re hiding them—” He signaled for his men to fan out.
“What makes you think you can do this? What right?”
“What right?” the SA man repeated, jeering.
“Effie, call the police,” Fritz said to another maid.
“Call them,” the SA man said. “They’re looking too. Let them do the dirty work for once.”
“Dirty work,” Fritz said. “That’s all you know. You and your—”
“Here’s the water,” Ilse said, carrying in a pitcher, the old request.
“Water?” the SA man said.
Fritz looked at the rest of them, suddenly at a loss.
“Thank you, Ilse,” Alex said, moving over to take the pitcher. “For the tree,” he said to the SA man. “They dry out and then there’s a danger of fire.” He knelt down and poured some water into the support stand. “It doesn’t take much,” he said, hoping it wouldn’t overflow, the basin already full. He glanced over toward the closet. Don’t even look, draw anyone’s attention. But then he saw the blood seeping out from under the door. Just a thin tickle but there, blood always jarring, something the eye went to, like a snake.
He stood up and went to the other side of the tree, away from the closet. Sounds overhead now, doors being slammed.
“So that’s what it is now?” Fritz said, no longer looking at the SA man. “You do whatever you want. In my house. My house.” The only way he understood it.
The SA man ignored him, busy shouting to the men upstairs, then turned, his voice heavy with contempt. “A man who would hide Jews. Vermin.”
“Nobody’s hiding anybody. You’re making a fool of yourself. Ah, now we’ll see.” The knocker rapped again. He went to the door. “Police. Now we’ll see. Come. Thank you. This gangster and his men broke in. You hear them? They’re all over the house.”
But the policeman seemed more embarrassed than alarmed. “Well, Hans,” he said to the SA man. “What’s this?”
“Communists. Two. Maybe more. They’re here—he’s hiding them. There’s nowhere else in the street.”
“Hans, this is the von Bernuth house.” He turned to Fritz. “I’m sorry for this.”
“I told him. No one’s here. And he comes right in—”
“Call your men,” the policeman said quietly. “You have no business here.”
A reluctant shout upstairs, Hans surly but not prepared to defy the police.