Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  If the officer heard the shout, he ignored it. Two of the other Jews helped their comrade to his feet and steadied him between them. The major watched without comment, then turned to his line of men.

  At that moment, someone laid a hand on Lisa’s shoulder. She turned and saw that it was Richelle. Her face was flushed and she had Leyna’s hand clutched in one of hers. “Come!” she urged quietly. “We must leave. Now!”

  “But what about Papa and Uncle Hans?” Leyna cried. “Where are they?”

  “Shush, Leyna,” Richelle said sharply. Then more kindly, and in a soft whisper, “I see Papa over there on the right. Right near the front. They will catch up to us. We must go now!”

  But even as she spoke, a hush fell over the crowd. They turned back to see why. A sergeant had come forward now, his feet crunching on the broken glass. He had two pairs of sheep-shearing clippers, one in each hand. He handed one to the major. The major took it, then turned to stare balefully at the Jews. Motioning for the sergeant to stay where he was, he strode down the line, stopping at the last man. He studied him curiously, as if he were some strange animal in a cage.

  Lisa could see now that this man was the oldest of them all, probably in his late sixties. His hair was almost white and his beard was a light grey. Many Hasidic men kept their beards neatly trimmed, but it looked like this man had never shaved. His beard was full and came halfway down his chest. And his side curls, which now hung straight down, were three inches down over his shoulders. His eyes were fixed to the front and looking down. It was like the major didn’t exist for him.

  Feigning curiosity, the major reached out with the blades of his shears, slipped them under the one curl, and held it up for the crowd to see. “And what is this?” he asked the old man.

  “You call it a side curl. We call them payot.”

  “Ah, and what does that mean in Hebrew?” His voice was conversational now.

  “Sidelocks, or what you would call sideburns.”

  “They seem very strange to us Goyim. Isn’t that what you call us Gentiles?”

  The man did not answer, just kept staring at the ground.

  “And tell me, please, why is it that you let these payot grow so long? Have you ever cut them?”

  “Nein. Never. In the Torah we are told not to cut the corner of our beard. It is a sign of our faith in God.”

  The major considered that thoughtfully, then turned to the crowd. He spoke in a clear, strong, but almost friendly voice. “Meinen Damen und Herren. Did you hear that? It is a sign of his faith.” He looked puzzled. “Would you out there show me your payot?”

  There was laughter along with many boos.

  He cupped his hand to his ear. “What’s that you say? No side curls. So are you telling me that you have no faith in God?”

  “NEIN!”

  He smiled innocently as he cupped his hand to his ear again. “What was that? Oh, I see.” He turned back to the Jew. “They’re saying that it deeply offends them that you feel you have faith and they do not.”

  “We do not speak for others’ faith, only our own.”

  The major ignored that and held up his hand. “Ah, I think I have a solution. What if we cut off the side curls so that none of us are offended anymore?”

  The heads of all six Jews snapped up as shock registered on their faces. But the crowd loved it. “YES! JA, JA! DO IT!” Then somewhere from the back, a man began to chant. “CUT THEM OFF. CUT THEM OFF.” The people began to stamp their feet and clap their hands in rhythm. “CUT THEM OFF! CUT THEM OFF!”

  And whirling around without warning, that’s what the major did. He yanked hard on the old man’s side curl with one hand, stretching it out, and snipped it off with the shears in his other.

  “No!” the old man cried, reaching up to the stub of hair just below his ear. The major knocked his hand away, cut off the second one, and flung it into the air.

  A guttural roar exploded from the crowd. “CUT THEM OFF! CUT THEM OFF!”

  The sergeant started to move in, but the major shouted at him. “No! I will do it.” And he proceeded to cut off all the men’s side curls with swift precision. Snip snip. Gone! Snip snip. Gone!

  The crowd was chanting hypnotically now, making the ground shake slightly.

  Lisa, Richelle, Leyna, and Erika were rooted in place, too shocked to move. The roar of the crowd was animal now and sent chills through Lisa. What horrified her the most was to see how many women were chanting and screaming along with the men, raising their hands in the air and waving back and forth sinuously, their eyes almost glazed over. On the low brick wall, one mother had a little girl in her arms. She was two maybe, a darling little girl with blonde curls and large blue eyes. Suddenly Lisa thought she was going to be sick. The mother was lifting the girl high in the air so she could see better.

  Suddenly, someone gripped her arm and whirled her around roughly. “Lisa! Erika! Come.” She turned in shock to see her father barking orders at Leyna and Richelle. “We have to go now!”

  “What about Alemann?” Richelle cried hoarsely.

  “I signaled to him. We’ll meet him up the street. Now go!”

  But even as they started away, the noise of the crowd suddenly died, like a candle being snuffed out. They turned back to see why and instantly understood. The major had reached the last Jew, the young man. But when he reached out and took the short side curl in his fingers, the boy jerked his head away. When the major tried again, the young man kicked out at him, giving him a hard blow on the knee.

  Like a flash, the sergeant and two other soldiers were at the major’s side. They grabbed at the youth’s arms and legs to contain him, but he was fighting like a wildcat now. One foot knocked the shears out of the major’s hand. A flailing fist struck the third soldier on the nose, and blood spurted. With a roar, the sergeant doubled his fist and struck the young man a hard blow to his left side. That dropped him to his knees, but only for a moment. Then he was up again, kicking and screaming and thrashing wildly.

  The major stepped back and whipped out his Luger. He stuck the muzzle inches from the boy’s face. “Stop or you die!” he shrieked.

  Eyes wild, face contorted, the boy froze. The other trooper stepped in and slugged him a second time for good measure, dropping the boy to his knees. Breathing hard, the sergeant retrieved the shears and started toward the boy. “Cut it off,” the major barked. “Cut it all off.”

  Two more soldiers rushed in and they pinned him to the sidewalk, one on each of his arms and feet. The crowd took up the chant again as the sergeant went to work. “CUT IT OFF! CUT IT OFF!”

  Lisa was numb as she watched the sergeant shear the boy, chopping at his hair, taking great whacks out of his beard, cutting the side curls off so close to his ears that he drew blood. When the sergeant finally stepped back, chest rising and falling, a hush once again fell over the crowd. The soldiers let him go and he staggered to his feet. Hunched over, he drew in huge, hungry, desperate gulps of air. After a moment, the major came forward. His pistol was back in its holster, but the flap was still open and his hand rested on the butt. He leaned in until his eyes were just inches from the boy, then, loud enough for all to hear, he cried, “There you go, little piglet. Run back to your sow mother now.”

  Quick as a striking snake, the young man hawked up something from deep down in his throat and spat it directly into the major’s face.

  The major fell back, almost stumbling as he wildly wiped at his face. He screamed as he started to draw the Luger again. But the sergeant was faster. He jerked up his rifle and shot the boy in the chest three times in rapid succession.

  November 10, 1938, 11:22 a.m.—Westend District

  The shock was total. People screamed and began to scatter. Hans threw his arms around Lisa and turned her away. Erika and Leyna dropped to the ground, trying to pull their mother with them, but she was too transfixed with
horror.

  “Nooooo!” It was like the roar of a lion.

  Hans jerked around and saw a flash of movement. It took him a split second to realize that the man in worker’s coveralls barreling down on the line of soldiers was Alemann Zeidner. He lowered his shoulder and smashed through three of them, scooping up one of the soldier’s rifles. In a split second he worked the bolt action and put a live round in the chamber. As the soldiers scrambled to get their weapons up, he ducked around the low brick wall and dove behind it. The soldiers were yelling and sprinting after him.

  Alemann popped up suddenly and fired two shots over the heads of the soldiers. Frantically, they fell back and dove for cover.

  “He’s got a gun!” someone shouted. “Run! Run!” And instant pandemonium reigned.

  Behind him, Hans heard Richelle scream and guessed that she had seen Alemann too. But there was no time to find out for sure. He pushed Lisa down. “Get over by the building. Stay down!” And he was gone, arms up, elbows out, fending off the rush of people coming at him.

  Not having seen Alemann at all, Lisa was stunned to see her father suddenly disappear into the crowd, going toward the danger, not away from it. She reached out and grabbed Leyna’s hand, looking around wildly for Erika, who had been standing beside her a moment before. “Stay down!” she yelled at Leyna as she stood up, craning her head as she looked around.

  She too had to fend off the people rushing at her, which made her afraid she was going to be separated from Leyna.

  “Mama!” Leyna’s scream spun Lisa around. She was just four or five feet away, but she was looking the other way, her arms outstretched. Lisa was to her in two leaps and grabbed her hand. “Where, Leyna?” she shouted at her. “Where are your mother and Erika?”

  “There!” She pointed. Lisa caught a brief glimpse of Richelle, with Erika right behind her, but it stunned her to see that they were fighting their way forward through the surging crowd, not coming toward her and Leyna.

  Just then a man slammed into them, nearly knocking them down. “Get out of the way!” he snarled, clawing at her arm, trying to break her grip on Leyna. Later she would not be able to say whether it was panic or rage, but in one smooth movement, Lisa pulled her right arm all the way across the front of her body, then with every ounce of strength she had, swung it back at the man’s face. Her elbow caught him high on the cheekbone. There was a shriek of pain, and then he was gone. Gripping Leyna’s hand like she had it in a vice, she spun them both around and started running, only this time not against the crowd, but with it.

  Hans fought his way forward, making better progress as the crowds began to thin a little. The street here was four lanes wide as it passed through the square, which provided a lot of space for people. He guessed that the crowd had probably reached four or five hundred by now in size. A large, rotund man slammed blindly into him, nearly knocking him down. Hans lashed out at him, sending him tumbling. Then, seeing a parked car just in front of him, he pushed his way through until he stood behind it, letting the people flow around him like he was a rock in a river.

  He went up on his toes, neck craning, looking toward the low brick wall where he had seen Alemann disappear. The spectators there had scattered when they saw him coming at them with a rifle. There was no one at any of the windows or on the balconies of the apartment buildings now, either. Potential rifle fire did tend to make one duck and run.

  He looked to the right. He could see that the soldiers that had started after Alemann had now regrouped. They were huddled up against one of the buildings, waiting for the crowd to dissipate before they went after him, Hans guessed. Or perhaps none of them were too eager to chase down a man who now carried one of their rifles. In the other direction, where the six Jews had been standing, that line of soldiers had dived to the ground or taken shelter.

  As Hans looked more closely, he guessed that they didn’t have a straight line of sight to the wall and probably hadn’t seen Alemann at all. Seven or eight more soldiers were flat on the ground, muzzles of their rifles waving back and forth, looking for any threat. The body of the boy was still there, but none of the other five Jews were in sight. Captured or escaped? There was no way of knowing. He did see the major crouched down low with the sergeant, frantically scanning back and forth.

  And seeing that, an idea came to him.

  He stepped out from behind the car and began fending off people again as he headed for the major. He raised his hands high. “Hey!” he shouted. “I know where you shooter is. I can help.”

  A soldier with a corporal’s stripe got up to one knee, peering at him, then motioned frantically for him to come. Hans’s instinct was to bolt and run. This was insane. But with perfect clarity he knew what was going on in Alemann’s mind. He had seen a young man shot at point-blank range by a Gestapo, just as he had seen his student shot dead by the Gestapo captain that night in the snow. Something had snapped in him, even to the point that he had not thought of his family when he saw the boy shot.

  So Hans saw only two options now. And both were pretty grim.

  First option, Alemann was going after the major. That was an absolute certainty in Hans’s mind. And when he found him, he would go down in a hail of gunfire. The second option was only slightly less grim. Alemann hadn’t killed anyone yet. He had only reacted the way he did out of shock when he saw a young man killed. Perhaps they could slip away, through one of these torched shops, if Hans could get to him first and convince him that killing the major would be suicide.

  Hans snorted in disgust. Option two was ninety percent fantasy. They weren’t going to get away. And as soon as they had Alemann in custody, they would examine his papers. They would interrogate him. Their old friend Colonel Keitel would see his picture and instantly recognize him. Which would then put Hans and his family in jeopardy.

  Angrily, he pushed those thoughts out of his head. All that mattered now was saving his friend from being killed as his wife and daughters watched.

  He raised his hands higher. “Don’t shoot. I’m not armed. But I know where the shooter is. I want to help.”

  11:26 a.m.

  Alemann’s heart was thumping like a bass drum as he cautiously raised his head and assessed his situation. He was a little puzzled that he couldn’t see the major and the soldiers with him. He had pictured the plaza as basically square, for that’s how it looked from where he had been standing. Now he saw its contours zagged in and out here and there. He could see that the wall he had chosen for his place to hole up set off a small garden and an Italian restaurant, now gutted.

  For a moment he considered seeing if it went through to a back alley so he could slip away. Then he thought of the boy lying in a pool of blood on the pavement. And Yakov dying, face-first in the snow. It was a simple decision.

  The noise of the fleeing crowd was rapidly dwindling, and Alemann knew that soon they would be coming for him. Fine. He would take some down with him. Hopefully one of those would be the major.

  And then he started as another thought came and the blood drained from his face. They didn’t have to rush him. All they had to do was radio for help, maybe call for an armored car or something. Wait him out until they had him completely surrounded. He sat back and closed his eyes. Oh, Richelle. What I have I done? What have I done?

  11:28 a.m.

  “Keep your hands high!” a voice barked.

  Hans raised them even higher. There were half a dozen soldiers spread out on the ground, their rifles aimed in the direction where Alemann was hiding. The man closest to him got to his feet, glancing around nervously. He was not SS but one of the Brown Shirts. A young guy. Early twenties. Barely out of Hitler Youth, Hans guessed. But he had lieutenant’s bars on his epaulets. Great! Typical lieutenant. Green as a spring meadow and scared spitless. How many of that kind of officers had he dealt with in the army? He kept glancing nervously to his left, in the direction Alemann was holed up. B
ut nothing was happening there that he could see.

  “I am not armed,” Hans said, speaking slowly. “I know where your man is. He’s behind the brick wall by the restaurant, but you can’t see him from here. I just want to help before someone gets hurt.”

  Another man, older, heavy whiskers, cigarette dangling from his mouth, sergeant stripes on his uniform, stood and came up behind the lieutenant. He had his rifle in his hand, but the barrel was pointed at the ground. “Come on in,” he growled. “Easy. No sudden moves.” He grimaced, glancing at his commanding officer. “Don’t want anyone getting nervous, now.”

  “That’s far enough.” The lieutenant drew his Luger and pointed it at Hans’s chest. “Show us your papers.”

  Lowering one hand slowly, Hans unbuttoned his overcoat. “They’re right here,” he said as he saw the lieutenant tense. He thought of the captain at the checkpoint they had seen earlier and decided it was time to intimidate this idiot a little. “I am a high-ranking member of the Nazi Party. I know where your shooter is. I don’t think he’s ready to—”

  “Stop!” the lieutenant shrieked. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “I can’t do that if you want to see my papers,” Hans said.

  “Uh . . . Sergeant. Get his papers. Make sure he’s not armed.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said wearily. As he walked up to Hans he was shaking his head in disgust. “Sorry,” he mouthed. He reached inside and retrieved his papers. When he looked more closely at the party card, he turned and held it up. “He’s right, sir. Longtime party member.”

  That seemed to relieve the lieutenant a little, and he lowered his pistol and motioned for Hans to come forward. “Do you know this man? This shooter?”

  “No, of course not. But I was in the crowd, back far enough to see him standing over on the far side. I could see that he was very agitated, especially when the major started cutting off the beards of the Jews.”