surprise and horror.
The sergeant’s attack on Probst spurred on the other three brownshirts. They all pulled their pistols and the room exploded with gunfire. Several more shots tore into Probst’s body, knocking him against his desk. He fell backward across it, arms outstretched, his legs dangling to the floor. Half a dozen bullet holes had chewed up his sweater. Blood began to ooze out.
Reinhardt held his hand over his mouth to trap his own scream of horror. He could do nothing for Probst, so he bolted down the stairs, his eyes darting back toward the rear door of the studio as he rushed down the steps sideways, expecting to see the
He slipped out the back entrance into the rainy afternoon crowd that scurried along the street and walked away as quickly as he could.
Ahead of him a woman on the street pointed behind him toward the building.
“Look,” she cried out, “that building is burning.”
Reinhardt didn’t stop or turn around. He tried not to run, not to be too obvious but he was overwhelmed with fear, fear that they were right behind him, fear that they would shoot him in the back. He half-ran, half-walked to the corner a block away, then he stopped to look back for the first time. Flames broiled out of the second-story windows of the freestanding building. Reinhardt’s heart was racing and his mouth was dry. He leaned against the building to get out of the rain and watched.
A few moments passed. Two brownshirts emerged from the back door, looked up and down the street. A Nazi command car, its red and black swastika flags flapping from the fenders, wheeled around the corner and stopped beside them. The ugly sergeant who had fired the first shot at Probst stood up in the open car and pointed up and down the rain-soaked street. His orders were interrupted by the arrival a fire truck.
Reinhardt squeezed tighter against the wall. Standing in the shadows, he watched as the firefighters dawdled setting up their hoses. Several SA stood around, encouraging them to take their time.
“Too late anyway,” one of them said. “The building is gone. Why waste water, eh? Let the rain put it out.”
They all began to laugh.
The roof of the building was now ablaze, the flames snapping up at the sheets of rain.
The brownshirts fanned out from the building, looking through the gathering crowd. Several of them had photographs which they showed to the people staring at the fire.
“Listen to me,” one of the SA yelled to the crowd while he held up a photograph. “You see this man, Felix Reinhardt? I know you recognize his picture. He is very famous. We have orders to arrest him for crimes against the Fuhrer and the Fatherland. Anyone who hides him or fails to turn him over to us will be shot. Has anyone seen him? Speak up!”
Reinhardt hurried away from the scene. The nearest tram stop was two blocks away. A crowd was already gathered there, huddled under umbrellas. He headed straight for it, holding his head down against the driving summer rain. He could not return to his house, they would be watching it. Nor could he risk a taxicab. He needed the security of a crowd. A few more people gathered at the streetcar stop and he crowded in with them, holding a newspaper in front of his face, pretending to read as he peered over the top. He tried to slow his breathing but he had never been this afraid in his life.
Two blocks away the streetcar rounded the corner and crept toward them. It was still a block away when two brown- shirts started down the street in his direction. The rain began to slacken. They stopped and looked up and down the street, started to cross toward him, stopping occasionally to show the photograph to wet and annoyed pedestrians.
Sweat mingled with the rain dribbling down the side of Reinhardt’s face. He could feel its dampness under his arms, spreading down under his jacket.
The streetcar pulled up and he clambered aboard. It pulled away with a groan as the two brownshirts reached his side of the street. One of them walked briskly alongside the streetcar as it pulled away, peering intently in the windows. Reinhardt turned his back to the brownshirt, watching the SA’s reflection in the window as the stormtrooper walked the length of the car checking the pedestrians from outside. He could feel his own heart beating in his temples. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly to calm down.
He rode the bus for seven or eight blocks until the passengers began to thin out, then got off and flagged down a taxicab.
“Take me to the American embassy,” he told the driver. “It’s on the Munich highway.”
“Yes, I know it,” the driver said. He looked in his rearview mirror. “Are you an American?” he asked.
“No, no,” Reinhardt answered quickly. “I m a carpenter. They want me to do some work for them.”
“Make them pay good, eh?” the driver said with a smile.
“Oh yes, they will pay dearly,” Reinhardt answered, trying to look relaxed.
When they were two blocks from the embassy he saw the two touring cars parked across the street from its arched gate. Two men in black raincoats, their black felt hats pulled down over their eyes, were talking to the Marine guard at the gate. Four others sat in the cars across the street with the doors standing open.
The Gestapo.
“Stop here at the tobacco shop,” Reinhardt said suddenly. “I need to get some cigarettes.”
“Right. You want me to wait?”
“Not necessary. It’s only two blocks more. The walk will do me good.”
