1
SUNDAY, MAY 7, 1944
Oppenheimer had drowsily placed his arm around his wife when suddenly he felt Lisa’s body grow tense. But everything was quiet outside. Because of the blackout, not the slightest glimmer of light came in. No siren wailed through the night, no bomber droned in the air, no antiaircraft fire drummed in the distance. So it couldn’t be a bomb alarm that had frightened Lisa. At first, Oppenheimer had turned toward her, but then he, too, perceived the stranger standing very close by.
They’ve come to fetch me, Oppenheimer thought. Instinctively, he pulled the covers around himself.
The shadowy figure kept still, his breathing calm and regular. A spark danced in the darkness, moved upward, and transformed itself into a flaming point when the intruder inhaled. The smell of tobacco was blown toward Oppenheimer.
The stranger had to be a Gestapo man. Through Oppenheimer’s knowledge of Berlin’s criminal community, he knew that no normal burglar would stray into a designated “Jewish House” only to then nonchalantly smoke a cigarette and wait for his victims to wake up and notice him. Oppenheimer knows his crowd, had been the much-quoted quip among his colleagues during his years with the police force. No burglar would risk getting on to the Gestapo’s radar for a few lousy coins, and the Gestapo men considered it their very own privilege to seek out and rob the Jewish residents of these houses. Even though there hadn’t been any more raids in the last few months, Oppenheimer could recall them all perfectly. On these occasions, the Gestapo arrived in bulk. It was considered normal for them to beat the residents around the head, spit at them, and call out obscenities. But this man had come alone, covertly. This was a particularly bad sign. When the Gestapo people rabbled, you knew where you stood. However, if they were silent, anything could happen.
Oppenheimer and Lisa remained in their positions for a seemingly endless moment, him motionless in his bed, her next to him, and the stranger leaning against the doorway. Then the man’s voice rang out. “I know you’re awake, Oppenheimer. Sicherheitsdienst. Don’t you want to get dressed and come along?”
This was posed as a question, but the tone was unmistakable. The speaker would not tolerate a refusal.
Oppenheimer did not dare switch on the bedside lamp. Shaking inside, he got up and fished his clothes from the back of the chair. He didn’t have time to ask himself what a man from the National Socialists’ so-called Security Protection Service, the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, was doing here. Mechanically, he walked through the kitchen they shared with the other residents of the Jewish House. It always surprised Oppenheimer how readily he obeyed when he was scared, when he knew that his fate lay in someone else’s hands. He briefly thought of Lisa, whom he had to leave behind without protection. But as an attested Aryan, she would be better off anyway if they killed him. Afterward, she would be free and no longer excluded from the community of the German people because she had married a Jew. Although he acutely feared for his own life, this thought gave him a certain comfort.
The light was on in the hallway, and Oppenheimer saw the stranger for the first time. It was a sobering sight. The man wore glasses and was quite small. But the hand in the baggy coat pocket betrayed the fact that he was carrying a firearm. Oppenheimer was surprised that none of the other residents were up and about. Not even the Schlesingers were creeping down the corridor, curious to see what was going on. It seemed that he was the only target tonight.
The SD man looked at the suitcase his prisoner was carrying and frowned. It had been a reflex. Oppenheimer had picked up his air raid suitcase on his way out. All his important belongings were stowed inside so he always had them with him when he had to go down into the cellar during an air raid. There were a lot of such suitcases in Berlin.
“You won’t be needing that,” the SD man said and waved him back. Oppenheimer turned and placed the suitcase in the dark kitchen.
Two SS men were waiting outside the building with guns in their hands. As soon as the SD man had pushed Oppenheimer out onto the pavement, they got moving. Clouds obscured the night sky. The moon behind them was nothing more than a diffused light that refracted dully off the SS men’s steel helmets. Anxious, Oppenheimer stared at the gray backs, moving in unison, and heard the metallic clatter of their carbines. What could he do? Was there any way to escape? Oppenheimer instantly discarded the thought. As long as the SD man’s gun was pointed at the back of his neck, there was nothing he could do.
They reached a car discreetly parked in a nearby side street. The back door opened, and Oppenheimer was engulfed by darkness.
* * *
Copyright © 2013 by Harald Gilbers
