Free The Ghosts of Altona by Craig Russell Page B

Schleswig-Holstein, Altona had kept its individuality and had influenced the liberal and social-democratic policies of its Hamburg neighbour.
    But to some, Altona was a symbol of something to be wiped out. A Red Flag to a Brown-shirted bull.
    *
    Seven thousand of them had come that day. They zigzagged their way through Altona Altstadt, a brass-band-heralded assault on the city quarter. It hadn’t taken long for the first trouble to erupt. The Nazis had shouted inflammatory chants, taunting the Communist Party and threatening Jews and other Altona inhabitants. In reply, Communist Party members had jeered and barracked the marchers. Shouts turned to scuffles and scuffles turned to fights, fists and improvised weapons flying.
    Georg had been under strict instructions to stay indoors, his father going out to do his duty as a KPD member and stand up to the fascists. There was going to be trouble, his father had told him, maybe even bloodshed. But it had been too bright and warm a day and Georg too bright and curious a boy and, once his father had left, he had slipped out and followed him at a safe distance.
    Georg had navigated through a dense forest of Altonaers, gathered along the route of the march, fenced in by often scared-looking policemen. Eggerstedt, the President of the Polizei Hamburg, was a Social Democrat, but had not heeded Communist Party warnings that allowing the Nazis to march through Altona would result in a bloodbath. But the political climate had been tense and the Nazis were being appeased, added to which neither Eggerstedt nor his deputy were in Hamburg on the day of the march. His officers, tense and outnumbered on both sides, had been left to deal with the consequences.
    Georg had weaved through the crowds, keeping his father just in sight. The jeers and the strident sound of drums and brass swelled in the warm air and, despite himself, Georg felt a thrill.
    Then the jeers turned to yells, the tension turned to fury. Georg could now see the marchers, in SS and SA uniforms, and he could hear them too, their full-throated singing of the chant, Die rote Front schlagen wir zu Brei! We will beat the Red Front to a pulp!
    And it was then he saw Helmut Wohlmann. Wohlmann was four years older than Georg and had been his father’s apprentice until recently. After his parents had died, Helmut had lived for a while with Georg and his father and had become like an older brother to Georg. But then, at a time when it seemed like everyone was becoming radicalized, polarized, Helmut had joined the NSDAP. As fervent a Nazi as Georg’s father was a Communist, Helmut had moved out and all contact had been severed. And now Georg saw him, brown-shirted, marching with the others.
    There was a pulse, a sudden swell and surge as the crowd lurched forward, straining the thin police line. In response, the SA marchers launched themselves at the bystanders, belts wrapped around their fists, using their buckles as weapons.
    Georg found himself unexpectedly near his father. Their eyes met and Franz Schmidt looked suddenly scared. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, shooing Georg away from danger.
    It was then that shots rang out.
    Two SS men fell to the cobbled ground. One dead instantly, the other screaming for a few moments.
    The police looked around wildly, confused, trying to find the source of the gunfire. Then, as the crowd surged forward in fury, fists flying, batons were swung to beat back the wave. First one, then another policeman fired shots at imagined gunmen – the first of five thousand police rounds to be fired that day, most into the crowd.
    Georg was pushed forward with the charging crowd and a police baton smashed into his right temple, robbing him of consciousness.
    But before the darkness overcame him, one picture was burned into his mind: that of his father clutching his chest and sinking to his knees, and Helmut Wohlmann in his SA uniform standing over him.
    *
    After he replaced the notebook and locked the