Thirty-Six #3
“Riots.” The man sniffs and shrugs.
Another man says something I don’t hear, but the others laugh.
I catch the word Jew , and my skin contracts.
The tram screeches around a bend and I can’t hear any more.
It stops at the top of the Brühl. Should I get off here?
He could be anywhere in the city. I decide to wait.
The workmen leave and the tram moves off toward Dittrichring.
I jump off at the next stop. The street is busy and I turn to cross the road to head toward Thomaskirche. A crowd of young men pass me, heading in the opposite direction, down Gottschedstrasse. On a whim, I follow them. The air becomes heavy. My throat stings and my lungs heave.
Smoke.
I reach the corner of Gottschedstrasse and Zentralstrasse and stop.
I’m facing the building Walter took me to that first time we came into the city together.
I remember how I stood outside the synagogue, feeling such shame and anger as I waited for him.
I see his face as it was then, proud and excited, filled with love, as he presented me with the Kafka from beneath his jacket.
I let out an involuntary sob. People turn and stare at me.
Heat is intense on my bare skin and I gape at the flames engulfing the synagogue, licking skyward, roaring and crackling.
The fire is consuming the whole building, curling from the windows and underneath the roof.
A crowd is assembled, watching the spectacle from a safe distance away.
A fire engine stands in front of the building, the firemen leaning idly on their vehicle, watching the inferno.
“Why do they do nothing?” I ask the man standing next to me.
“They won’t save the synagogue,” he answers, “but they stand by in case the fire should spread to German property.”
“But... what if there are people in there?” I say, my chest tightening. What about the rabbi? “Shouldn’t we do something?”
The man shrugs his shoulders. “Be my guest,” he says with a sniff.
And what of the Kafka? The prospect of the book Walter so lovingly presented, and I later rejected, being consumed by the flames is more than I can bear.
I slip around the back of the gawkers. To one side of the burning building lies a pile of books and papers. Two men have set fire to that, too. A desolate little group stand silently watching. The only one to speak is a little boy who asks, “Why do they burn our things? Those are our things!”
Nobody answers.
Turning, I run through the center of old Leipzig. Here, nothing is changed. It could be any ordinary evening. People out for a stroll, visiting the bars and restaurants. How can they, the thoughtless swine? I run faster until my chest is fit to explode.
At the top of the Brühl, I slow to a walk, drawing the air in great, heaving gasps. There are clusters of men. Strange sounds. Shouting.
I hug the walls of the buildings as I enter the street but soon abandon this.
The safest place to walk is in the middle of the road.
The air is filled with acrid smoke. Mobs of boys and men smash the windows of shops, battering in doors, yelling as they loot the contents.
They don’t even notice what they grab—anything, great armfuls of it.
They whoop in delight. The pavements shimmer with shattered glass.
Policemen stand around making no attempt to stop the madness.
Two men emerge from a covered passageway next to a tailor’s shop just in front of me.
The windows, like so many others, have been broken and some boys, no older than fourteen, are grabbing piles of cloth from inside.
The two men cry out and jostle past me as they rush forward to save their possessions.
I huddle, frozen in fear, against the wall as other men push past. A crowd rolls in, surrounding the men, hiding them from view.
These men, no longer fathers, brothers, sons, are wild creatures, smelling blood and power and chaos. The veneer of civilization is shattering, revealing the true nature of man. Wild and dangerous. Beast.
I watch, my feet stuck like glue to the road. I had half expected some sort of army of Jews out on the streets, locking arms with the National Socialist defenders. Not this. This is just thugs, running amok, belligerently smashing up shops.
I should leave. It isn’t safe. Surely Walter isn’t here.
I turn to retrace my steps, but see up ahead, on the right, the sign for KELLER my eyes sting. Shouts to the left. Two men, roughly dressed, drag an elderly man in a suit from his shop door, out into the street, right in front of us.
“Fuck you! Fuck you all!” yells the old man, resisting. He pulls an arm free and with lightning speed throws a fist into the face of one of his captors.
“Stupid bastard!” shouts the punched man, and they start to beat the older man. Blow after blow. The man is screaming, high pitched, desperate. A raw animal sound that penetrates me, deep inside. The man is down, twisting and turning on the pavement. They kick him, vicious and hard.
“Look away,” Tomas’s voice says in my ear, but I can’t.
His yells are reduced to whimpers.
They are battering the life from his body.
“Stop,” I say, “STOP! Do something!” I turn to Tomas, but he stands, like me, and does nothing.
“Jesus Christ, they’re killing him,” I yell.
Everything goes black around me, except a red-tinged vision of the old man, and the two men kicking him, in the center, as if I’m seeing it through a camera lens. I lurch toward them.
Strong arms hold me back. I struggle against them, crying out. The men don’t stop, they continue beating him until he whimpers no more.
“Leave it, Hetty, come away,” Tomas is saying in my ear, gripping my arms so hard it hurts.
The men stop. Chests heaving, they look at me.
“Get her out of here,” they tell Tomas. “She’s a liability. This is no place for a girl.” And they walk away, leaving an inert body, twisted and bloody, in the dirt, the glass, the shit on the road.
Tomas drags me firmly by the shoulders, maneuvering me past the dead man, propelling me away from hell.
We wait at the tram stop. Everything looks the same.
The wooden shelter. The single streetlamp throwing out its paltry glow.
Away from the horror unfolding in the Brühl, it’s eerily quiet.
I wish I could forget what I just witnessed, but I know with absolute certainty that I never will.
The brutal violence. The way those men wanted to kill another human being.
His desperate cries for help as he writhed in agony in the dirt.
It replays and replays, blinding me to my surroundings.
I did nothing. I stood and watched the life drain from him. I didn’t even offer comfort in his death throes. What sort of person does that make me? Complicit?
And Walter? What if it’s Walter’s body kicked and battered, lying in a gutter somewhere? A noise escapes from deep within. I’ve not found Walter.
Tomas peers down at me. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, clenching my teeth to stop them chattering.
I’ve lost track of time and check my watch. I’m surprised only an hour has gone by. I can still get home and Bertha will be happy.
A tram turns the corner, its light piercing the gloom as it trundles toward us.
“Thanks for looking after me, Tomas. I’m fine now. Really.”
“I need to get back.” He looks toward the Brühl. “But I should make sure you get home safe.” He looks down at me.
“Seriously.” I try to laugh. “I’ll be home in five minutes. I’m fine.”
The tram passes slowly, then, metal screeching on the line, it comes to a stop.
“Tomas.” I muster all my strength to look straight at his eyes without wavering. “Thank you for taking care of me. I will be perfectly safe. Go back to your duties.” I force my face into a smile, jump on the tram, and wave.
“Go!” I say lightly. “I’ll see you soon, I promise.”
I watch him standing there as the tram pulls away, legs slightly apart, torn between his duty and my safekeeping. He raises a hand finally and then turns to go.
Nausea and a wave of dizziness overwhelm me. I sink onto a wooden bench, my head falling to my knees.