After lunch, the sisters decided to stroll through the Tiergarten, but they had only just put on their coats and were heading for the door when a loud crash of shattering glass startled them. “Sara,” Amalie cried, pulling her out of the way as a second brick tore through what remained of the front plate-glass window.
“Heil Hitler!” a man shouted outside. Boots pounded on pavement and other voices took up the cry.
The door swung open and a couple darted inside, breathless and wide-eyed. “Don’t go out there,” the man warned shakily, ushering his companion farther into the room. “They’re rioting, from the Reichstagsgebäude to the Potsdamer Platz and God knows where else.”
Heart thudding, Sara stole to the broken window, stepping carefully over fragments of glass and staying close to the wall. Peering through the frame, she glimpsed a throng of men—dozens, hundreds of men—storming down the street, breaking shop windows and shouting: “Heil Hitler! Deutschland erwache! Juda verrecke!” One man paused and raised his hand in the air, holding something that gleamed in the sunlight. There was a puff of smoke, and Sara flinched while others in the café shrieked at the sound of a gunshot. Other pistols fired in reply, some distant, others frighteningly near.
“Madam, please step back from the window,” a man called out. Glancing over her shoulder, Sara spotted the maître d’ waving guests toward the back of the café.
Sara obeyed, and when she returned to Amalie’s side, her sister clutched her arm. “I have to get home,” she said, as the sounds of shouting and breaking glass rose just beyond the window. “Sylvie and Leah—”
“They’ll be perfectly safe indoors.”
Amalie shook her head, frantic. “The nurse always takes them to play in the park at this time of day.”
Sara’s heart plummeted. “All right.” She glanced through the window, enough to see that the riot seemed to be escalating. “Let’s stay together and keep our heads down.”
“Ladies, please, don’t go!” a waiter shouted as Sara inched the door open and peered outside. Up and down the street, men in suits or workmen’s clothing marched, shouted, and broke windows, their eyes lit up with a strange, fierce glow. Others—men and women, some clutching children by the hand—fled before them. The sound of swift hooves heralded the arrival of the Prussian police on horseback, but their attempts to disperse the mob with rubber truncheons only heightened the frenzy.
A lull in the chaos beckoned. Sara seized Amalie’s hand and led her outside, instinctively fleeing perpendicular to the path of the mob, although it was opposite to the direction of home. Pulling Amalie after her, she darted down a quiet alley, around a corner, and onto a wide boulevard, where some citizens hurried in one direction—men grasping attaché cases as they ran, women clutching purses to their sides and hobbling as quickly as they could in their high-heeled pumps. Others, mostly younger men, grinned eagerly as they raced off to watch the fray, or to join it.
A taxicab sped past. Frantically, Sara waved, but the driver ignored her though he carried no passengers. “Frau Gruen would have taken the girls home by now,” she assured Amalie, scanning the street for another cab. “I’m sure they’re safe—”
Suddenly a red-faced young man rushed around a corner and nearly plowed into them. “Heil Hitler!” he shouted, his face inches from Amalie’s. He snapped out a one-armed, flat-palmed salute so sharply that Sara felt the rush of air from the movement. “Juda verrecke!”
Amalie gasped, hand to her throat, but Sara pulled her aside and the man bolted away.
Another taxi approached; Sara released Amalie’s hand, put two fingertips in her mouth, and let out a loud, shrill whistle just as Natan had taught her. The driver slammed on the brakes, and before his reason overcame instinct, Sara flung the door open, pushed Amalie inside, and scrambled in after her. She gave him Amalie’s address, adding, “Take the long way around, if it’s safer.”
He nodded and sped off again.
“What is happening?” asked Amalie, her face pale, her voice trembling. “This is Berlin. This sort of thing doesn’t happen here.”
Peering through the windshield, Sara took in the thinning crowds before them, then turned in her seat to study the madness they were leaving behind. “It must have something to do with the opening of the Reichstag.”
The rioters were fascists. That much was evident from their shouts and salutes, even though they were not clad in Brownshirt attire.
The drive home took more than twice as long as it would have on an ordinary day. Sara and Amalie found the children safe indoors with their anxious, wide-eyed nanny, distracted by toys. As Amalie tearfully embraced her bemused daughters, Sara quietly told Frau Gruen what they had witnessed.
“Fascist beasts,” the nurse said flatly.
Sara nodded agreement. And where was Natan in all the madness? When her eyes met Amalie’s, she knew her sister wondered too.
Eventually Wilhelm rushed in, shaken and outraged, to embrace his wife and kiss his darling girls. “Why do they hate us so much?” lamented Amalie, clinging to her husband, her luminous eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Women and Jews—what threat do we pose to those men, that they call for our deaths?”
“Don’t let those cowards frighten you,” said Wilhelm. “I would never let anyone harm you or the girls. Never.”
Amalie nodded and rested her head on his chest, but when she closed her eyes, two tears slipped down her cheeks. Sara said nothing. Wilhelm meant well—Sara knew he did—but his wealth, rank, and even his Christianity could not have protected his family earlier that day if they had taken a wrong turn into the thick of the riot.
Wilhelm placed some calls, and when he was satisfied it was safe, he had his driver take Sara home to the gracious residence in the Grunewald where she had lived nearly all her life. Her parents met her at the door, her mother pale and trembling, her father grimly quiet. Behind them stood Natan, hands in his jacket pockets, frowning pensively.
“Where have you been?” Sara cried, breaking free of her mother’s embrace to fling her arms around her brother.
“Covering the opening of the Reichstag, of course,” he replied. “And then the riot. One led to another. Listen to this: When the new session opened, the National Socialists marched in wearing their brown uniforms, despite strict rules against party regalia in the Reichstagsgebäude. They snapped to attention, gave that Hitler salute, and—” Suddenly understanding dawned. “Oh, Sara. I’m sorry. Lunch.”
“Yes, lunch.” She thumped him lightly on the chest. “Amalie and I were worried sick. At least tell me you got a good story. In that case I’ll forgive you.”
“There is no good story to tell about what happened today,” their mother declared. “But at least we’re all safe. I don’t want to hear another word about this tonight or I’ll never be able to sleep.”
