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The brownshirt who appeared to be the leader chuckled and nodded at Selig. “We have no right? Is that what you say? And who are you to say such a thing?”

“I’m the owner of the store,” said Selig.

“You? You’re the owner of this store?” The brownshirt tapped the end of the rifle against the glass entry door. “This one here?”

“Yes,” said Selig. “I am Seligmann Geiger.”

The guard took his rifle with both hands, reared it back, and slung the butt against the glass door, shattering it into pieces. The crowd that had begun to gather gasped in response.

“No!” Selig yelled. Another storm trooper shoved Selig, nearly knocking him to the pavement. He regained his balance and turned to rush the man, only to see six brownshirts, armed with rifles and pistols, gearing up for just that moment.

“This is not legal,” he said, as controlled as he could, his entire body shaking with rage and horror. “I am reporting this to the authorities.”

The lead brownshirt found that amusing. “Who exactly do you think we are?”

“No, I’m reporting this to the police.”

Selig stormed away as they laughed. He broke into a jog, running across Jakobplatz and Sebastianplatz as a light rain began to fall. He reached the police directorate within ten minutes and rushed inside. The station house was abuzz as he’d expected, officers in uniform milling about and moving men in handcuffs into a holding cell. But there were brownshirts inside the station, too.

“I am here to report a crime,” he said to an officer behind a desk. “Members of the SA are preventing customers from entering my store.”

The officer, a jowly man with tired eyes, looked up at him. “You are Jewish?”

“I am. My name is Seligmann Geiger. I own the Geiger Department Store. The boycott that the chancellor called for was a suggestion. Customers weren’t required to follow it. But these SA men are preventing entry to my store. They are posting signs. They shattered the glass of one of my doors.”

“You are speaking of my men?” A man wearing an SA uniform approached Selig.

“Yes,” said Selig with hesitation. “Your men are acting illegally.”

“That is most concerning. Come with me, Herr… ?”

“Geiger. Selig Geiger.”

“Come with me, Herr Geiger.”

Selig followed him through the station, passing detectives seated at desks, the smell of burnt coffee. The man nodded to a handful of brownshirts talking in the corner, who nodded and joined their leader, following behind Selig. The leader opened the door to a room that contained only a single chair, alone in the space.

“Come, Herr Geiger, have a seat,” the leader said. “I would like to hear all about your mistreatment.”

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SELIG GEIGER WAS ON the floor almost immediately, brownshirts kicking him with their sharp boots and clubbing him with their batons. It happened so fast, from so many directions, that for a moment Selig saw nothing, heard only mocking laughter, before the pain crashed down on him.

He lay motionless. He spit a tooth out, tasted blood in his mouth. Every breath brought a sharp sting in his ribs. When he raised his head, he vomited.

“The Jew has two choices,” said the leader. “One, we take you into protective custody. Would you like to hear the second option?”

Selig staggered out of the police station, barefoot, his pants removed, leaving only his long underwear. Around his neck they’d hung a sign: Ich bin Jude, und ich werde mich nie mehr bei der Polizei beschweren.

I am a Jew, and I will never again complain to the police.

They marched him through Munich. With his broken ribs and concussion, navigating cobblestone streets in his bare feet, Selig could hardly move himself forward. They prodded him with their rifles, mocking and ridiculing him. Selig refused to reward the SA any more than possible. Blood dripped into his throat from his missing teeth.

They paraded him around the Karlsplatz—the central square—and ultimately led him back toward his store. Passersby wore a mix of reactions. Some looked away entirely. Some looked on with pity, others with outright derision. Some saluted Hitler and taunted Selig. One even spat on him.

He passed police vehicles and foot patrolmen, none of whom reacted. As if the members of the SA were superior in rank.

By the time he turned onto Rosental, Selig had fallen down three times. His knees were scraped bloody, his feet raw and blistered. He heard cheers coming from down the street. It was a moment before he realized how close to his store he was, that the SA thugs who had first accosted him outside his store were still there, now laughing and jeering at him.