troop leader therefore swallowed his disappointment and shouted at his men to pull the Fischers to their feet.
‘That man with the camera,’ the Gestapo officer snapped, ‘bring him to me.’
A man in the crowd who had been taking photographs saw himself pointed out and turned on his heel. He was clearly hoping to be able to get away but wisely chose to stop when ordered to and waited while two troopers pushed their way through the crowd in order to escort him back.
Meanwhile Herr Fischer had shaken himself free from the SA men and now approached the Gestapo officer. Despite his ordeal, the bruising on his face and the disarray of his clothing, Isaac Fischer still managed to carry himself with some dignity.
‘My name…’ he said, speaking with great difficulty. His lips were bleeding, his tongue dry and swollen, and like his wife he was in desperate need of water. ‘My name,’ he repeated, ‘is Isaac Fischer.’
‘I know who you are,’ the Gestapo officer replied curtly. ‘Why are you addressing me?’
Herr Fischer was forced to cough and clear his throat several times before attempting another sentence. A function which provoked a look of utter offence and contempt from the policeman.
‘Because,’ Herr Fischer began, his voice like sandpaper on stone, ‘because you clearly have some authority and I wish to make a complaint.’
There was something of a gasp amongst the crowd. Some surprised at the man’s bravery, others shocked at his effrontery. This was followed by much angry murmuring as word of the Jew’s whining spread.
‘A complaint?’ the officer enquired coldly. ‘What have you to complain about?’
Fischer’s eyes widened. It was a shock. Even in his dazed and battered state he had not expected quite such brutal indifference to his obvious plight. And to that of his wife, a middle-aged woman publicly assaulted by a large gang of young men.
What had he to complain about? He attempted to gather his thoughts to frame an answer to such a question.
Only
‘I have been prevented,’ he said finally, ‘from entering my store by these men.’
‘One moment.’ The Gestapo man turned to the photographer whom the SA troopers had brought from the crowd.
‘But—’ Fischer found himself protesting.
‘You will address me when I give you permission and not otherwise!’ the Gestapo officer snapped, his rising tone giving warning that despite his pretence at formality he was every bit as unpredictable and as dangerous as Fischer’s previous thug tormentors.
Fischer fell silent.
‘Who are you please?’ the officer asked the man with the camera.
‘I am an American citizen,’ the photographer replied in poor German. ‘I am an American citizen, I work for Reuters and these men have no right to be holding on to me.’
‘The camera please,’ the Gestapo officer demanded, holding out a black gloved hand.
‘Absolutely not! I am an accredited news photog—’
At a nod from the Gestapo, one of the SA troopers snatched the man’s camera, which had been hanging around his neck on a leather strap, and handed it over to the officer.
‘That camera is the property of…’ the American protested, but then did not bother to complete his sentence, there being no point because even as he spoke the Gestapo officer took the film from the camera and exposed every frame of it. He then returned both the camera and the ruined film to their owner.
‘And here is your property returned to you. Everything is in order, is it not?’ the officer said. ‘My colleague from the Ministry of Enlightenment and Propaganda will be happy to answer any further questions you might have regarding the necessary police action you have just witnessed.’
The American was led protesting from the scene, the civilian who had arrived in the same car as the Gestapo man following him, already firing off a series of rapid excuses and qualifications.
‘Jewish provocation,’ the man from the Propaganda Ministry could be heard saying. ‘An essential containment action in order to maintain public order… Jews required to clean up results of their own vandalism.’
The Gestapo officer turned back to the Fischers.
‘So, you will now get inside your shop,’ he said.
‘Sir,’ Herr Fischer began, ‘you are clearly a policeman. These troopers have acted illegally. The boycott is voluntary…’
‘Herr Fischer.’ The Gestapo man spoke quietly now. Leaning forward, bringing his face quite close to Fischer’s, conveying more menace than ever mere shouting would have done. ‘You have been given an order by an officer of the Prussian Political Police. I suggest you follow it immediately. Otherwise I will have you arrested for a breach of public order and, believe me, you do not wish these men to take you into their custody. Now, Jew, take your Jew wife and get inside your Jew shop.’
Frau Fischer tugged gently at her husband’s arm.
‘Come, Isaac,’ she croaked, ‘please, they are releasing us. And I must have water.’
Herr Fischer made a small bow, then taking his wife’s hand turned away from his tormentor. With stumbling step and aching knees weakened by their ordeal on the pavement, they made their way towards the multiple glass- front doors of their store.
It was 9.05.
Thirty-five minutes late.
Thirty-five minutes later than the Fischer department store had ever been opened in all its history.
The doors swung open as the Fischers approached them.
Shocked, white faces awaited them, cowering behind the glass. Such familiar faces, made strange with fear.
The doorman.
A store detective.
The senior under-manager, due to retire in only two weeks’ time after forty years of service. His gift was already at the engraver’s.
All the Jewish members of the Fischer’s staff were there. Making do to cover the numerous tills, waiting behind their counters, as they had all been waiting since 8.15 that morning, in theoretical anticipation of a visit from the Empress Augusta Viktoria.
Lovely young people. Fine, upstanding young people. Smartly turned out in their matching outfits. The girls with little caps that Frau Fischer had designed herself.
But no customers. A ghost shop. Silent during business hours for the first time in its history.
The beautiful, sparkling, tastefully sumptuous store was like a film set just before the extras were ordered to their places. As if some unseen director was about to shout ‘action’ and flood the aisles and counters with hundreds of eager shoppers.
Herr Fischer attempted to smile and even found his voice, or at least a croaking semblance of it.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said. ‘I hope that you will stay at your positions in expectation of later trade.’
Then, still holding his wife’s hand, he began to make his way across the floor.
Some of the girls gave way to tears as the injured couple passed. The young men too looked shaken and close to breaking. The Fischers seemed to notice this and attempted to hold their heads up a little, giving a small nod or the hint of a smile to various of the longer-serving employees.
On they walked through the tension and the silence. Their footsteps ringing on the polished marble floor. The sole sound in that great and splendid room.
Past porcelain and china. Perfumery.
Cosmetics. Small leather goods. Luggage. Stationery. Sticks, canes and umbrellas.
Through the glass central arcade where stood the food hall and restaurant. The very
Past the famous escalators. Those mighty moving stairways which all Berlin had marvelled at and admired when the old Herr Fischer had installed them. Which Crown Prince Willy himself had opened and which every day
