Free The Prosperous Thief by Andrea Goldsmith Page B

her, and knows there’ll be nothing for her here.
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Martin says, guiding her away from the kiosk.‘We’ll be at Katz’s soon for lunch.’
    As they exit the park they see their tram and make a run for it. They are out of breath and laughing as they trundle down the broad Kaiserstrasse and then into Nordstrasse and the area where Renate grew up. She knows all the shops and houses here, all the landmarks. Martin glances at her, she looks just like her old self.
    There are more uniforms about when they leave the tram at Goebenstrasse. Martin, now determined that this should be as normal an outing as possible, guides them to the end of the short street so Alice can identify the building where Oma and Opa used to live – ‘And where I grew up,’ adds Renate – the second and third floors now hung with banners, and the sound of a wireless where once had been Amalie Friedman’s music. The wireless is playing military music, German military music with a strong seductive melody, impossible to resist, and so majestic that to sing along is to swell the heart. Martin has heard German music these past few years that could mobilise the hordes no less effectively than the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Even now, standing in the street below the Friedmans’ old flat, he can hear the thud thud thud of boots behind the heavy beat of the orchestra. It’s annihilating and unstoppable and he doesn’t want to hear any more. He gathers his wife and daughter and hurries them back to the main thoroughfare.
    They set off in the direction of Katz’s restaurant, but Alice, already very hungry, says her legs don’t want to move any more. So with half a kilometre to go, Martin swings her onto his shoulders. They continue on their way, Renate and Martin with arms linked and Alice surveying the world from on high, so she sees the Jews first. Martin feels a flinching of her body and in the next moment, in a space ringed by onlookers, he sees them too: two observant Jews and not a common sight in Düsseldorf, bearded men with long black coats and hats, not Homburgs like Alice’s grandfather used to wear, but – she’s so taut and still – to her eyes probably much the same. Two observant Jews similar in age to her grandfather, here in an area which Alice associated with him, being cornered by four Brownshirts. Martin doesn’t want to see what is happening, he doesn’t want to get involved. He just wants to protect his wife and daughter from the situation up ahead and deflect any danger that might spill onto them.
    There is only one way clear, and that’s back the way they have come. In front are onlookers and buildings and the two Jews with the four thugs taunting them in snarls from the gutter. They tug at the men’s beards, pull on their curled forelocks, knock their hats and skullcaps into the filthy gutters. Four young thugs and two wizened old Jews.
    ‘Bloody Jew scum,’ they jeer.‘That’s what you get for attacking a German.’And start to throw punches, deliberately missing the old men’s faces by millimetres.
    It won’t stop there, Martin knows it won’t stop there. He should help them, they’re old, they’re defenceless, they could have the life beaten out of them, they’re scholars not fighters, Martin should go to their aid. And in the next moment: why should he? If these Jews didn’t look so obvious no one would be threatening them now. These sorts of Jew with their ancient clothes and ancient customs make it worse for all Jews.
    One of the stormtroopers, he doesn’t look more than seventeen or eighteen, lands a punch on the bare head of the shortest Jew. The man staggers but doesn’t fall. Another swipe and he is on his knees. Filth from the gutter spatters his spectacles.
    ‘Your hats, you Jew bastards, on your heads.’
    They reach out, they replace their hats, mud dribbles down their old faces and snares in their beards. Again their hats are knocked off and trodden in the slushy gutters.