The Schmidt family shivered at the terrifying orders, shouting and screaming echoing down Oranienburger Strasse. Once or twice a pistol went off. The Jewish quarter was alive with fear, the Star of David daubed on doors, the painted swastikas, street by street, every night for days. Now it was their turn, the rap on the door speaking volumes of doom.
"We have been expecting you," Schmidt said resignedly to the solitary tall, thin blond man in the black leather coat of an officer of the SS. He nodded back before speaking.
"Trick or treat?" the officer cackled.
"What?"
"It's a pagan-Christian thing, being All Saints Day tomorrow, so the demons apparently rule unchecked tonight. So, give me some sweet offerings or else suffer the consequences. I'll give you a clue, you will not much like the forfeit."
"Er, I have a bag of sweets somewhere, on the mantelpiece I think."
"Good. Are you going to invite me into your house, Herr Abraham Schmidt?"
"Er, do I have any choice?"
"None whatsoever."
"Come in, then, of course."
Schmidt stood to one side, the officer ascended the steps and entered the doorway, squeezing his thin frame past the fat jeweller, limping slightly, aiding his progress with the help of a silver-topped cane. Schmidt looked up the street, where families were being hounded from their houses by loud fully-armed soldiers with bayonets fitted to rifles or poking prisoners with their stumpy sten guns, and herded them tightly packed into canvas covered wagons. One drove by, its canvas flapping, loaded with his friends and neighbours, packed in like sardines.
The rumours had abounded ever since the new national party won a landslide victory in the elections. Since then, they had been unchecked. There were hushed tones shared between the Jewish community of long train journeys, far from home, separation, placed into concentration camps, ghettos, and worse, whispered talk of quiet clearings in the woods. The officer waited for Schmidt to close the door to the efficient commotion and consignment shipping in the street.
"We will not be disturbed," the officer smiled, standing in Schmidt's darkened hallway. It was a cold, detached, frightening arrangement of pale lips and white teeth, his words quiet but full of unquestioned authority. "Shall we move to where the rest of your family await you in the warm drawing room?"
He held out his open leather-gloved hand, indicating along the hall towards the innards of the house. It was not a request.
The jeweller led the way to the drawing room, lit by a couple of dim lamps plus the warm flicker of a fire, keeping at bay the autumn chill outside. In the room, Frau Schmidt stood with her back to the fire, her arms wrapped around her youngest daughter, of middle school age. Both were crying, fearing the worst of the stories they had heard.
