AN: This story should probably come with a trigger warning, though not nearly on a level with "Fear Itself" or "The Darkest Nights."But in case chapter 1 didn't make it clear, there is discussion of Nazism and the way the Nazis thought about and treated "undesirables" (Jews specifically). Nothing explicit, but allusions and references.
To Butterfly: There are a lot of effects remaining from all the wars – the fact that German books are no longer printed in Fraktur is a consequence of World War II. There is a lot of history (mostly "Mind Games"-verse history) that factors into this story.
To Lyger 0: Good memory! That question gets answered before the end of the story.
Stuttgart, November 12, 1938
David Kurtzberg put his head down, staring at the ground. Surreptitiously he pulled his cap down lower, pushing his conspicuous red hair under it and adjusting it to better conceal his face. Between his hair and nose, his features were a little too "Jewish" for comfort. Of course, even failing to look "Aryan" – whatever that meant – could paint a target on one's back these days. Broken glass crunched under his feet. He turned his head to the side to avoid looking at the bloodstain on the print shop floor as he walked past. The acrid smell of smoke stung his nostrils, even days after the fact.
"Kristallnacht" they had begun calling it: the "Night of Broken Glass." The Nazis' great act of revenge against the Jewish people – or just the next salvo in their years' long program of oppression. Shops and synagogues burned and looted, houses destroyed. No one had escaped the destruction unscathed. His parents had been lucky: their apartment building only had the ground-floor windows broken and an apartment burned out; they lived on the second floor. But David hadn't been so lucky. He had been sweeping the floor of this very print shop, only three days earlier, while the old printer, Herr Heschel, put the finishing touches on an illumination on the edge of his Torah. The sudden loud commotion outside had drawn their attention. Herr Heschel, had looked up from his work at the noise. The flickering lights of torches had danced across the long glass front window. Herr Heschel had exchanged a confused look with David before walking over to peer out the window.
That was when the paving stone flew straight through the window, shattering the glass and striking Herr Heschel in the forehead, knocking him to the ground. A hail of stones had followed, smashing every window in the building. David had dropped his broom and thrown himself down beneath the counter, covering his head with his arms to protect himself from the flying glass and rocks. A rock had ricocheted and hit his forearm, leaving a gash that trailed blood which seeped into his sleeve. He had thought that would be the worst of it.
That was when someone had thrown a torch onto the counter.
The Torah – a labor of love by three generations, which Herr Heschel's grandfather had started in the previous century – had gone up in flames in an instant. In moments the counter itself had ignited, the flames leaving black streaks up the walls. Smoke had filled the room, obscuring everything above the counter level. David, crouching below the level of the smoke, had buried his nose and mouth in his elbow to keep out the smoke, peering into the destruction through stinging eyes, searching for the old man. He had just barely been able to make out the unmoving lump on the ground, lying close to the front of the shop, the raucous laughter of the crowd still audible over the crackling fire. Crawling across broken glass toward the remains of the front window, by sheer luck David had made it past the flames to Herr Heschel, grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged him back the way he had come, toward the back exit, out of the inferno which had been the Heschel family's business for generations. The printer's head had lolled to the side, senseless from the blow to his temple. It had only been after they had made it outside that David had realized Herr Heschel's legs had been cut up by the shards of glass through which he had dragged him, leaving behind a trail of blood.
He had been home by the time he realized his own hands and knees were bleeding from the glass shards still embedded in them. It had taken an hour for his mother to pick out every single fragment and bandage him up.
David kicked a stone down the sidewalk in frustration at the injustice of it, his mouth set into a thin line. Despite everything he had done, he had only delayed the inevitable. Herr Heschel had been arrested the day after his shop had burned – accused of "arson." For all he knew, the old printer had already been shipped off to Dachau.
The pounding of a hammer on a nail drew off the ground and down the street. At the end of the block, Rabbi Grossman stood outside of the synagogue, his normally-immaculate black suit stained grey with ash, nailing a board up over a broken window. Unfortunately, there were far too many broken windows – a wisp of smoke continued to rise out of one on the second floor. At the rate he was going, it would take the Rabbi all day just to cover all of them. But if he helped… David had taken only a few steps in that direction when he froze, hearing the sound of riotous laughter approaching from behind. His eyes widened in terror, and he flattened himself against the wall, trying to avoid notice.
A dozen boys in tan shirts – all around his own age – raced past him. One held a wooden beam like a baseball bat. The Rabbi turned on hearing them, his jaw falling open, eyes wide in fear. He looked for someplace to run, but too late. The boy took a single swing and caught him in the face. The Rabbi fell to the ground senseless as the boys all started kicking him.
David clenched his fists at his side, feeling a rage building inside him. He couldn't just stand there and watch them murder the Rabbi! He knew him! Rabbi Grossman had taught him Hebrew; his parents had invited him over for Passover just last year. And yet, David hesitated. Wouldn't he just be bringing these boys' – these monsters' – wrath down on himself? Wouldn't they just attack him like the Rabbi if he tried to do something? And then what? What would that accomplish?
"Hey, Jew!" The leader of the gang, the boy with the beam, caught sight of David and pointed his weapon at him, a malicious look on his face.
"Klaus?" David cocked his head in confusion. The leader was a boy who only lived down the street from him – they went to school together. They hadn't been close by any means, but he had always gotten along well enough with Klaus. David stared at him and the others for a long minute, dumbfounded – so long that the gang had already crossed half the distance between them before he realized his danger. "Scheisse!" David swore, turning on his heel and sprinting down the street. Glass crunched under his feet as he ran, the sound loud in his ears. His eyes darted up and down the street, taking in the buildings he sprinted past, looking for any escape. If they caught him, that would be the end! But after working for Herr Heschel for a year, he knew the neighborhood…
David turned down the next side street and put on a burst of speed. If he could only get there before they reached the end of the street and saw him – yes! Without slowing down he dove into the alley that opened up to his right, rolling over and pressing his back against the wall, a trash bin between himself and the alley mouth. He could feel blood seeping through the bandages on his knees. His ankle throbbed. He bit down a groan of pain. The pounding footsteps drew closer. He pulled his knees up to his chin, holding his breath. The footsteps raced past the alley, thundering over the pounding of David's own heart. Slowly the sound faded away, and David allowed himself to breathe, trying to still his racing heart.
"Better luck next time, Klaus," he muttered, sighing and leaning his head back against the brick wall.
But it wouldn't do to stick around – they would realize what had happened eventually and return. Finally, after sitting still for what felt like forever, David stumbled to his feet. His legs ached from exertion, his ankle protested having to hold his weight, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk. He had to get home. He couldn't just wait here to be found. His mother had to be worried sick.
Slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, he made his way back to the main street. But stepping onto the street, he froze, staring at the posters facing him from across the way.
The first one to catch his attention showed what was clearly supposed to be a werewolf with an exaggerated snout and black hair, a bloody Star of David shaved into its chest. The beast bore a feral look in its eyes, clutching a girl with blonde pigtails in its hands, the girl's arm between its teeth. She girl's mouth was open in a horrified scream. Blood ran down her arm and onto the ground below, spelling out the words "die jüdische Bedrohung." David swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the sight.
The poster next to it was no better.
Hitler himself stood in front of an enormous red Nazi banner, arms outstretched, face animated as though in the middle of a speech. To one side of Hitler and slightly behind him stood a man in the armor of a medieval knight, silver with a white mantle covering his chest, the Iron Cross emblazoned across the mantle. The knight stood with his long sword held in front of him, gauntleted hands on the pommel and tip resting on the ground. Opposite the knight and flanking Hitler stood a man in a long black robe, a red emblem like two lightning bolts covering the left breast. His robe was cinched at the waist by a blood-red belt. Behind the three stood a man who loomed a head above them, muscles bulging, wider at the shoulders than two men. Blond-haired, the model of "Aryan perfection," the perfect specimen of der Fuhrer's "Übermensch" – how unlike the Fuhrer himself, David mused. The "Übermench's" chest was bare, with an enormous swastika branded across it.
David's stomach clenched in fear and anger at the sight.
The poster next to that one showed the knight figure again, this time with his sword raised over his head with one hand, superimposed in the air above row upon row of tanks, each bearing the Iron Cross symbol emblazoned on their front armor. The red field behind the scene bore a gigantic black swastika within a white circle. In spite of himself, David leaned in to look closer at the poster's foreground: the corner of a Torah was just visible beneath the front tread of the leading tank. It didn't take much imagination to guess at the meaning of the brighter red splotch on the ground just in front of the tank. Gold lettering proclaimed this to be "die Übermacht des deutschen Ritters."
David glared at the posters. From a distance he could hear pounding footsteps returning in his direction. Nevertheless, he hobbled across the street, stopped right in front of the posters, and spat on the ground. "What did we ever do to you?"
AN: Although the style is pretty close to what you would expect, I'm not basing any of the described posters in this story on actual Nazi war propaganda.