72
Munich Police Department
“I’M SORRY, FRAU GERLICH,” said the police officer standing behind the desk. “I have no further information.”
“Telling me my husband’s in protective custody tells me nothing!” cried Sophie Gerlich. “Where is he? What is he accused of? How can I see him?”
Sophie turned. Behind her, a line had formed out the door and down the block. Everyone wanting to know the same thing—the location and status and well-being of a loved one, scooped up by SA storm troopers and dragged off into “protective custody” pursuant to the Reichstag Fire Decree.
“Is that what you’re going to tell every single one of us? Protective custody? You have no idea—”
“They tell us nothing, Frau Gerlich. By now, you should know that. You’ve come here every day for almost two weeks—”
“And I will keep coming every day. You’re the police. How could you not know?”
The officer, an older man with a kind face, raised his hands. “We are the police, yes, but we have no control over the SA or the SS. We don’t even—”
“Please.” Sophie grabbed his arm, tears welling in her eyes. “Please. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
He patted her hand. “If I knew something, I would tell you. All I can tell you is to wait for them to contact you. I’m sure they will.”