A Single Spy

by William Christie

  Ernst pointed to the north, where there was much more smoke. “A lot of Jews live there.”

  Elizabeth was tugging at Alexsi’s arm. “Do you think we can go see, Walter?”

  Alexsi knew that his uncle, not to mention everyone else he served, would want a report of what was really happening. “All right. Just understand that anything can happen.”

  But no one was listening to him. They were watching the fires and their eyes were shining with excitement.

  They joined a group spilling out of the library and turned north on the Artilleriestrasse. The moon was just past full, and as they crossed the Ebert Bridge over the River Spree it shone white on the rippling black water.

  The smoke was thicker as they walked up Artillery Street. Soon their feet were crunching on broken glass. The sidewalk was carpeted with it. A crowd was gathered before a storefront with a gaping hole where the glass display window had been. A group of men were inside chopping everything to pieces with axes. They were wearing civilian clothes but their brawler faces had the unmistakable look of Stormtroopers.

  To Alexsi it was the strangest thing. The crowd was watching without a sound. All you could hear was the sound of chopping and breaking inside.

  “What a waste,” an old man standing next to Alexsi said.

  “What do you mean, sir?” Alexsi asked, genuinely curious.

  “Just look,” the old man said, waving toward the empty shop window and the glass on the ground. “They can’t leave it like this. Someone will have to clean it up and put new glass in the window. Everything broken. That’s good money wasted, young man. Who will pay for it? We will.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” someone nearby muttered. A few others added to the chorus of agreement. But no one said a word to the Stormtroopers with axes.

  Alexsi continued up the street, by now not really paying attention to whether Elizabeth and Ernst were still with him.

  He ran into another crowd, but instead of being silent this one was jeering loudly. People were holding up their children so they could see. They were shouting, “Hit him!” And, “See! That’s what you get!” “Dirty Jew!” “That’ll teach you!” “Serves you right!”

  Alexsi pushed through so he could see. A man was sitting on the curb, hands clasped to his head with blood streaming through his hands. A Stormtrooper was standing over him with a club. A woman in a nightgown was sobbing, holding a baby in her arms and hunched over the child as if trying to completely cover it from the world. And a dark-haired little boy was standing next to the bleeding man, grasping his sleeve with a white-knuckled grip, shivering uncontrollably. Alexsi knew what that was about, and it wasn’t the chill of the November night air.

  There was a crack from above that made everyone look up. A piano came sailing out a second-story window. The crowd surged backward, people stumbling over each other. The piano landed in the street with a crash, splintering into pieces.

  “What a shame,” said a voice next to Alexsi.

  He turned his head. It was Elizabeth. She was looking up at him, shaking her head. “It’s not the piano’s fault who plays it, is it?”

  Alexsi just kept pushing through the crowd. He didn’t care about anything else, but he didn’t want to have to look at that shivering, terrified little boy any longer.

  He passed more glassless storefronts. The Germans were amazing. Anywhere else there would be a stream of people helping themselves to what was inside. But here no one even seemed to be thinking about it. Of course, it wasn’t as if the streets had been emptied of authority. Now and then you saw a policeman calmly walking about as if to make sure the rioting remained orderly.

  At the next intersection he followed the commotion and turned right on Oranienburgerstrasse. There was a big crowd gathered in front of the Jewish synagogue there, the big one with the Moorish domes.

  A bonfire was burning on the sidewalk right in front of the synagogue doors. Now and then men came out of the building and threw something onto it. Broken furniture. Books. Alexsi recognized the distinctive Jewish candelabra. And there were some big paper scrolls blazing away. Perhaps that was the Jewish holy book.

  A truck from the Berlin fire brigade was parked across the street. The firemen were just sprawled in their seats, casually watching. But being German they still had their helmets on.

  Alexsi walked over to one of the firemen who was leaning against the side of the truck, smoking a cigarette. “What’s going on, Comrade?”

  “We’re standing by to make sure the fire doesn’t spread to anything German,” the fireman replied.

  Granted, it was Germany, but Alexsi still thought it was all pretty well organized for a riot.

  Young boys were throwing rocks up at the synagogue windows, then looking around quickly to see if anyone was going to stop them. When they saw they were free to continue, they went running off, shouting excitedly, and returned with armfuls of stones.

  The crowd was shouting, “Burn it! Burn it all!”

  Alexsi heard a stern German female tsk beside him. It came from an elegant-looking gray-haired lady whose face was grave in the firelight.

  “What’s wrong, madame?” he asked.

  “If they can do this, the Catholic church will be next,” she said with finality. And then when he turned back an instant later, she was gone.

  The crowd at the eastern end of the street seemed to buck and heave. An Order Policeman in a shako and greatcoat and pistol belt broke through the mob of onlookers. He took one look at the fire and rushed through the synagogue doors.

  “What’s all that about?” someone asked.

  A minute later Stormtroopers in civilian clothes carrying axes and crowbars began to spill out the front door. The policeman brought up the rear, pushing them out.

  “What’s going on here?” a voice from back in the crowd inquired plaintively, as if they were watching a motion picture and there had been a plot twist no one understood.

  As soon as the Stormtroopers were out the door they suddenly turned about and began screaming at the policeman, who shouted back.

  Alexsi edged forward carefully, trying to find the right balance between close enough to hear and far enough away not to get pulled in if some real violence suddenly broke out.

  “Go back to your station!” the leader of the Stormtroopers screamed at the policeman. Alexsi knew he was the leader because he was pointing with his finger while all the rest were brandishing axes and tools. “It’s all arranged! We have our orders!”

  “This building is a protected historical landmark!” the policeman shouted back.

  “Get lost!” the Stormtroopers screamed back. “You’re in for trouble.”

  The crowd had now fallen totally silent in the face of this spectacle. Alexsi recognized their instinct. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of whoever won the argument. Just like at the shop before—be on the side of the ones doing the beating and you’re safe; be on the side of the ones being beaten and you risked a beating yourself.

  Some of the Stormtroopers took a few steps forward with their axes raised, trying to intimidate the cop into retreating.

  Instead the policeman drew his pistol. At that there was a sharp gasp from the crowd, and people began backing up. The Stormtroopers did, too.

  “I will uphold the law requiring this building’s protection!” the policeman shouted. “You have been warned! Now get out of here before I open fire!”

  Alexsi wasn’t completely surprised when the Stormtroopers began slinking off like bullies who had been punched in the mouth.

  The policeman blew a shrill blast on his whistle, waving over the fire brigade. Like good Germans, they hopped on their truck and motored across the street, following the policeman’s orders and putting out the bonfire before it could spread inside the synagogue.

  Once the fire was extinguished in a sooty, wet hiss, the crowd also began to slink away. A loud muttering rose up as everyone debated the pros and cons of the policeman’s actions. If he had orders then
he had to follow them, was the general consensus.

  Alexsi was certain he didn’t have orders. On a night when everything Jewish was being destroyed, and the fire brigade standing by to make sure only the right things burned, he doubted there were orders for one cop to defy the SA and protect the biggest synagogue in Berlin. That fellow, he thought, was going to have an interesting future.

  Elizabeth and Ernst were gone, lost in the crowds. Depending on where you were walking, the streets were either full or deserted. If Jews were being abused there was a crowd watching it. And everyone who lived nearby was awake and standing out on their stoops to make sure what was happening didn’t spread to their building. Most of the people standing in front of their homes had little booklets in their hands. It didn’t register on Alexsi until he’d seen them over and over again. Everyone was keeping their Ahnenpass handy to prove they weren’t a Jew. The Nazi document traced your lineage back four generations and proved you were an Aryan. It was full of the signatures and official stamps that both the Nazis and the Soviets loved so much.

  When he first received Walter Shultz’s little red booklet, Alexsi secretly found it hilarious. The Iranians of course called themselves Aryans, while the Germans seemed to associate it with Nordics and considered the brown people of the world racially inferior. At his uncle Hans’s parties people would compliment him on his fine Aryan nephew. They weren’t aware they were clucking over a subhuman Slav.

  Yes, wave your little booklet at them, Alexsi thought. Maybe that will save your house from being burned, your furniture chopped up, your family beaten, and you dragged off to a camp. Tonight. On another night you’ll be holding the wrong book and it won’t save you. And the thieves of the world, who own nothing, will laugh at you as they slip away free into the darkness. Or take away the last of your precious things in prison.

  At one elegant-looking mansion the iron gates were thrown open and a truck was parked in front of the entrance. Alexsi watched black-uniformed SS loading silver and paintings into it. So someone was making out, he thought.

  He was just walking west now, in the rough direction of his uncle’s house. There must not be anything Jewish around here, because the streets were deserted.

  Echoing noise as a group of teenage boys ran by, right down the center of the street. All pent up and howling out their freedom on this night. Then the one out in front stopped suddenly, and the others followed suit. They held a little conference and the leader, walking now, circled back toward the sidewalk Alexsi was coming down.

  Alexsi still had his knife from Russia. It had actually provoked considerable debate in Moscow, with all kinds of talk about border searches and creating suspicions. Yakushev finally shut them down by declaring that a boy who could smuggle a blade into the Lubyanka undetected would certainly manage to get it into Germany without any problems. But here in Berlin his uncle’s maid was bound to go running to him about any sheaths sewn into underwear. Alexsi slid his hand into his pocket and cupped the knife in his palm, the blade still folded away.

  They walked up to him. Alexsi’s first thought was that, just like at the orphanage, and the Lubyanka, there was always three. For some reason it took that many to make them feel confident. They were a year or two older than him, dressed like workingmen, out of school.

  There was no one else on the street. Even though there were lights in some windows, Alexsi wasn’t expecting any help from the good citizens of Berlin.

  The leader said, “Look, a Jew.”

  The other two slid around to cut off his retreat.

  “I’m not a Jew,” Alexsi said calmly.

  “Then what are you?” the leader asked, taking a step closer.

  “A student,” Alexsi said.

  The leader took another step forward and shoved him in the chest with both hands. Alexsi passively let the shove take him a few steps back, and prepared to be grabbed from behind.

  “I hate students almost as much as I hate Jews,” the leader announced.

  The pair behind laughed. Alexsi silently thanked them for pinpointing their location for him. He just smiled broadly.

  At that the leader’s face twisted up. “I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” he hissed, aiming another shove.

  But as it came in Alexsi lunged forward, knocked both those hands up with his left arm, and punched the blade up under the rib cage. He briefly enjoyed the look on the little bastard’s face before twisting his wrist to cut what hadn’t already been cut and loosen the blade for extraction.

  One of the pair behind him grabbed him around the neck. Alexsi leaned back into him to loosen the grip, spun half around, and quickly stabbed him in the guts. There was a startled “What?” and the hands around his neck loosened. Alexsi turned inside him, got a good grip on his jacket, and drove the knife up between his hands right into the center of the throat. A wide-eyed look, a gargled sound, another quick twist, and a sidestep as it came out to keep from being sprayed with blood.

  A look of sheer horror from the third one at what had just happened and he was off and running now. Alexsi was after him, and the adrenaline was making their feet fly.

  The shit was screaming, “Help! Help!”

  Alexsi was briefly alarmed, and knew if anyone showed up he’d be the one who’d end up being chased. Then he realized that on this particular night absolutely no one in Germany would be coming to the assistance of anyone running through the streets screaming for help.

  They ran for blocks, Alexsi close enough to hear the other boy heaving and crying in panic. Then, making a last-second decision to cut over onto a side street, the boy stumbled when it changed from pavement to cobblestone.

  Alexsi was on him. He jumped onto the boy’s back and let his weight drive him into the ground. With his knees on the boy’s back, Alexsi grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.

  “Please don’t kill me,” the boy blurted out, just before Alexsi passed the blade under his throat and made the killing cut.

  “I don’t like bullies,” Alexsi told him, getting to his feet as the boy on the ground twitched and bled to death with no sound but a faint whistle of air through his cut windpipe.

  He wanted to run, but made himself walk quickly away from the body. All the good Germans who had watched from their windows and done nothing would now be venturing out their doors with battery torches in their hands, calling for policemen and being helpful good citizens.

  Now the feeling of pounding excitement and genuine pleasure at paying those three off gave way to familiar cold fear. This wasn’t Russia, where they only cared about political crimes and you only got caught if someone squealed or if they were specifically hunting you.

  But Alexsi shrugged that off a moment later. It was the knife or a beating, and his days of being beaten were over. As he walked he wiped the knife off with a handkerchief. The wise move would be to throw it away so it wouldn’t be found on his person, but it was lucky and he couldn’t give it up. He rubbed the blood from it and his hands with the handkerchief, which did go into a trash receptacle.

  Under a streetlight he examined his clothing for signs of blood but didn’t see any.

  Alexsi briefly filtered himself through a crowd watching a stand-alone Jewish house burn to the ground. A streetcar arrived right in the midst of it with utter punctuality, and he climbed aboard.

  * * *

  HANS SHULTZ was in the sitting room when he came through the front door. “I’ve been listening to the radio,” he said. “If they say it’s bad it must be even worse.”

  Alexsi realized it was his uncle’s German way of giving voice to those things he would never say, such as “Are you all right?” and “I’ve been worried.” “Give me a moment for the toilet, Uncle, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  In the light of the bath he made a much more detailed check of his clothing. With clinical detachment he noted that his shirt cuff and jacket sleeve were stained black with dried blood. The maid would lose her mind if he threw them into the laundry bin. H
e ran water in the sink and set them to soak. There was blood under his fingernails, and the creases of his hands. In the closed room it was clear just how much he smelled of smoke. And who knew if there were any other droplets of blood, perhaps on his hair in the back, that he couldn’t see? He’d been careless enough already. Alexsi filled the tub and bathed quickly but thoroughly, scrubbing himself all over with a brush. He went downstairs in his pajamas and robe.

  Hans Schultz listened intently to Alexsi’s account of what was going on in the streets. Minus the three killings, of course.

  He lit a cigarette. “Of course there is nothing spontaneous about this, nephew, as you correctly surmised. The party has been waiting for a chance to confiscate Jewish money and property, and this assassination is merely a convenient pretext. The Jew in Paris, well, it seems that his parents were among the Polish Jews living in Germany that Hitler expelled last month. And then Poland would not accept them so they are trapped in no-man’s-land on the border. So he decides to shoot someone at the German embassy, in protest. And randomly chooses my unfortunate fellow diplomat vom Rath, who I happen to know was under investigation by the Gestapo for pro-Jewish sympathies. Whatever this young man hoped to accomplish, he has now single-handedly disenfranchised all the Jews in Germany.” He shook his head. “Too many ironies. No one would believe it.”

  “I can believe it, Uncle,” Alexsi replied.

  “This puts an end, it would seem, to the legend about Jews being smart,” said Hans Shultz. “I have no sympathy. Any Jew who stayed in Germany after the Nuremberg Laws were passed deserves to have his house burned down for sheer stupidity alone. They must have thought Hitler couldn’t last.” He shook his head. “Foolish.”