Following the recent assassination of a senior diplomat at the German Embassy in Paris, Ernst vom Rath, by a Polish Jew called Herschel Grynszpan, notice had been given for a nationwide riot in retaliation—a pogrom against Jews all over Germany and its annexed territories. Alongside the SA or Sturmabteilung—the assault division known as ‘stormtroopers’—the Hitler Youth were to join in, and since Johann and Volker were now adult leaders within the organisation it was their duty to take part. At least, that was how Volker saw it.
‘You have to do something now you’re here,’ Volker said. ‘The other leaders will talk. They’ll say you like the Jews.’
‘I don’t care. This is going too far. I’ll have no part in it.’
‘Here, take this.’ Volker handed Johann an empty bottle. ‘Throw it at that shop window. Surely that won’t affect your conscience too much. See, the glass is already broken.’
Johann took the bottle. He gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then he dropped it. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘Hey, Strobel! Langner!’
The two friends turned to see a young man they had known well while earning their achievement badges as they moved up through the ranks of the Hitler Youth. They had not seen him since he turned eighteen and became an SA stormtrooper. He was with several other men, all of whom were armed with a weapon or blunt instrument of some kind. They were not all dressed in the brown shirts of the SA. Some had been instructed to wear casual clothing to make it look as though the German people had risen up in anger against the Jews for the assassination earlier that month, rather than a coordinated effort by the Nazi regime to help deal with die Judenfrage—the Jewish Question.
‘Heinrich!’ Volker called back, smiling. ‘What a night this is going to be, eh? I hear the Gestapo have already made a great many arrests.’
Heinrich came over. ‘Yes, it will be a night to remember so that we can tell our grandchildren about it when we’re all grey-haired and toothless! How is it you’re not with your units?’
Volker laughed. He put a hand on Johann’s shoulder. ‘It seems my friend’s lunch has disagreed with him. He’s feeling sick.’
At hearing that, the angular features of Heinrich’s face creased in disbelief. ‘You’re queasy, Johann? A strong fighter like you?’ He slapped Johann’s back. ‘I won’t believe it.’
Johann offered him only a weak smile in return, as if to corroborate the lie.
‘Look, now it’s me who’s falling behind,’ Heinrich said. ‘I’ll see you.’
‘Wait,’ Volker said. ‘We’ll come with you. We were about to rejoin the party anyway.’ He threw Johann a serious stare. ‘Weren’t we, my friend?’
Johann raised his eyebrows apologetically. ‘I’ll be along shortly. Perhaps a few more minutes.’
Heinrich laughed again. ‘You must have it very bad. It’s a pity. You’re missing all the fun.’
Johann watched them leave, thinking it no pity at all. Whatever the consequences, he would sooner stay where he was, in a street where it appeared no more damage could be done. Somewhere in the near distance the shouting suddenly grew louder and he covered his ears. It made little difference. Another window shattered, and above it all came the high-pitched wailing of women and children as another Jewish home or business was raided. It reaffirmed Johann’s resolve to have no part in it. He began walking back along the street, away from the flaming synagogue that was now all but indistinguishable amidst the consuming flames and the onset of night. He was leaving, and to hell with it.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans for him.
A scream so close that it startled him rang shrill in his ears and he turned back. His eyes quickly scanned the buildings, some now with lights at their windows, others in darkness. Where had the sound come from? It was a woman’s cry, of that he was certain, or perhaps it was a child. His strides grew longer until he was almost at a sprint, wondering why, on this of all nights, he should care. And yet, he could not help himself.
Another sound drew his attention. He heard raised voices to his left, and then an upstairs light above a watchmaker’s shop caught his eye as someone moved in front of it, momentarily blocking the window. The business clearly belonged to a Jewish family. The walkway outside was littered with broken glass and other items that had been destroyed and hurled out. The scream came again and Johann ran in through what remained of the smashed-in entrance door. The voices became louder and he fought his way across the debris towards the lighted stairway he could see at the back of the shop. He began to climb the stairs and was met by two Hitler Youth boys who were hurrying down. He thought them no more than fifteen years old, and they were each carrying an assortment of household items that clearly did not belong to them. They must have recognised the HJ—Bannführer insignia on Johann’s shirt, because they both froze at seeing him.
‘What have you got there?’ Johann asked, his tone sharp.
‘Just some pans for my mother,’ one of the boys said.
‘Everyone’s taking things,’ the other boy said. He handed Johann a watch. ‘Go on, have it. I’ll find another one.’