Jacob set his mug down. “Are you kidding? There’s four of them.”
“So? I’m sick of these guys showing up everywhere and acting like they can get away with anything.”
Ethan never walked away from a fight, but he was pushing it now. Jacob turned back to the bar and sized the men up. They were clearly drunk; perhaps this wasn’t their first stop tonight. It was an open secret that the Brownshirts served as Hitler’s personal riot squad, bringing violence and destruction wherever they went, although they were not officially recognized by the government.
The Brownshirts brought their beers into the main room, where most of the people kept their eyes on the group, anxious to see what they’d do next. All the tables in the Augustiner were taken, someone would need to make way.
The largest one spoke up: “Any Jews in here?”
A hush fell over the room as people averted their eyes and focused on their drinks.
Jacob looked at Ethan, whose face had further darkened. Jacob felt his anger bubbling over and heard himself say, “Right here.”
The men turned toward their table. One of them cocked his head. “How about you get up, then?”
The other men laughed, and they took a few steps in Jacob and Ethan’s direction as the people around them held their breath.
Ethan was the first to react. “We’re okay here, but perhaps you want to knock another old man off his legs?” he nodded toward the bar.
The larger man scowled. “What did you say?” He stepped closer to Ethan, who stood up from his chair. Jacob did the same.
“You heard me. Nobody wants you here. Everybody was having a grand time until you stank the place up.” Ethan gestured across the room, where the stunned patrons were looking back at him.
The largest of the Brownshirts was taken aback for a few seconds, then quickly regained his posture and lunged at Ethan with surprising speed.
Ethan side-stepped and easily dodged the blow. He landed a punch to the side of the man’s head, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.
This only enraged the others.
The smallest of the three turned to Jacob, who managed to avert the man’s first attack but didn’t expect the off-hand blow that connected with his shoulder as he crouched down.
Bring it on—I can dodge your slow punches all night.
The attacker was panting and snarling. “Hit back, you kike,” he slurred.
Then came the moment Jacob was waiting for. His opponent stumbled into one of the tables and lost his balance. Jacob’s fist connected firmly with the man’s face before a satisfying crack followed. The man grabbed his face while he crashed down onto the table, glasses shattering around him as he slumped to the floor.
Jacob turned to see Ethan holding his own against the two other men—waiting for the perfect time to strike.
Suddenly, the tavern door burst open, and more Brownshirts piled into the Augustiner, pushing their way through the thick crowd. Jacob counted at least five.
“Ethan!” he shouted, pointing at the door. “Time to go!”
His friend gave him a quick nod. The two Brownshirts still blocked Ethan’s path out of the corner, so he took a step toward them and feinted an attack. Both men took the bait and swung wildly. Ethan ducked, and two quick stabs to the ribs doubled the men over. He kneed one in the face and the other in the groin, leaving them in pain, twisting on the floor.
Ethan skipped over them and joined Jacob. “Okay, now what?”
Jacob looked to the door and saw to his surprise that the new Brownshirts hadn’t gotten much closer. The people in the Augustiner had blocked their path, forming a human wall.
“Quickly, over here!” One of the barkeeps waved from the side of the bar.
Jacob and Ethan hurried toward the man, deftly avoiding the overturned tables. The barkeeper lifted the bar and indicated the door behind it. Just as they passed, the elderly gentleman who had been almost toppled earlier placed a weak hand on Jacob’s shoulder.
“If only more people stood up to them, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he said.
Jacob smiled as he hurried through the door Ethan had left open behind the bar. The cold evening air hit his face as he stepped outside. Ethan was already halfway down the deserted alley, and Jacob rushed after him.
2
It had been a while since Jacob and Ethan had been in a fight. Fortunately, the previous night’s damage was restricted to a few bruises, and Jacob wondered how their opponents had spent their day. It felt good to put some of the Brownshirts in their place and get away with it.
Jacob opened the door to the pharmacy as he returned from the last delivery, his father busy at the counter, helping a regular customer pick up her prescription.
“Jacob! What took you so long?” The handful of customers in Kagan & Sons Medicine turned to look at Hermann Kagan—a small, stout man. “You only needed to cross Kreuzberg! It’s been more than an hour!”
Jacob gave the customers a reassuring smile and went behind the counter to hug his father.
“I’m here now, safe and well,” he said, grinning as Hermann tried to wrestle free from his grasp.
“Wonderful. Now let me go!” Hermann protested as Jacob released him. He was no match for his much taller and stronger son, and it was an odd sight—the pharmacist and his son jousting behind the counter. An elderly lady at the counter smiled knowingly.
Jacob casually tossed his bag behind the counter. “Any more deliveries?”
“No, we’re done,” Hermann said as he handed a small bag of medicine to the elderly lady. A modest bell clanged as the door closed on her way out.
Jacob watched as his father rang up orders for the last customers. Hermann had taken over the pharmacy twenty years ago from his father, who had built it from the ground up, and the business soon thrived. Then Hermann had worked hard to grow it into one of the largest pharmacies in the city.
“Jacob, can you help carry these to the back?” His father pointed to some boxes next to the door.
Jacob took them to the empty storeroom behind the counter—getting a steady stream of medication to the pharmacy was tough.
They stepped outside, and Hermann locked the door. It was already dark, and a chill hung in the air. Their neighbor, Herr Wagner, closed the door to his law office as well.
“Did you hear about vom Rath?” Wagner looked concerned.
Jacob tensed. “Is he still in the hospital?”
Ernst vom Rath, a diplomat, was shot inside the German embassy in Paris a few days ago. A young German-Jewish man named Herschel Grynszpan was arrested on the spot and admitted to the shooting. According to the newspapers, his original target was the ambassador, but he had not been present. Vom Rath had been in critical condition since, and the story dominated the German news.
Wagner shook his head. “He passed away a few hours ago. Goebbels was just on the radio.” He checked the lock on his door. “He’s calling it a Jewish attack on Germany.”
Jacob looked at his father. Hermann’s face was ashen in the glow of a street-lamp.
“Goebbels said the Jews should feel the anger of the people,” Wagner continued. “I’m sorry, Hermann—I don’t know what that means.”
The words were a punch in the gut to Jacob.