Douglas Kolaki

In general we don't allow explicit violence or blatant political bigotry in our publication because of our Young Adult audience, but frankly I think the story loses a lot of its impact and relevance without it, so I am including this violence/political correctness disclaimer. Use your own discretion.

                                                                                                                                             -- 4 Star Stories Co-Editor

DAY OF THE INVENTIONS, 1933

by Douglas Kolacki

1 April 1933

Willy knew there was--something--about the shop the moment he first saw it. Perhaps it was because he'd hurried around a corner after Heinz, who always marched as if starting to run, and saw it all at once, as if it was thrown in his face. It blurred his vision; he had to stop and focus. If not for the toughness beaten into him by street brawls with the communists, he might have flinched.

But flinched at what? He scanned the storefront in the quick, precise manner he used for intruders at party meetings. It was a small shop. Single-story. Its display window took up two-thirds of the storefront, all smoked glass--no merchandise showed through it. The remaining third was a flimsy wooden door on the left. Bare wood, no paint save a name curved in a white arch of capitals on the window: DIE ERFINDUNGEN.

He folded his arms. "'The Inventions?'"

Heinz hovered at his side. Less than two weeks in the Sturmabteilung, or Storm Detachment, his was the starchiest uniform, the blackest and reddest hooked-cross armband, his hair combed into solid gold, his boots polished with actual spit.

Before Heinz could bark out another quote from Mein Kampf, Willy said, "Curious place." He squinted; he'd finally brought the letters DIE ERFINDUNGEN into clear focus, but now it seemed like they were blurring again.

People milled to and fro on the sidewalk. Some gave peculiar looks to the Brownshirts with the boots and the caps and the armbands. Others hurried past, keeping their gazes ahead. Others strolled casually as if not noticing anything.

Weizmann, the third man assigned here today, walked up and joined them. Never in a hurry, he often straggled. "Ever seen this place?" he asked, chinstrap fastened tight although his cap tilted a little. "Does anyone even work here?"

Heinz was standing rigid, if not at actual attention. "From down the block, I saw two customers hurry out." As if recounting an incident for the police. "They were men wearing robes, and sandals. They carried a gold table between them. At least it looked golden."

"Then I hope," said Willy, "the collectors for the winter relief drive can find them."

"I'm not joking! It was like they were going to a costume party. And on top of the table was a lampstand with seven candles. It was unmistakable--I saw a picture of it once, it's on the Arch of Titus in Rome. A menorah."

So there you have it, Willy thought, favoring his comrade with a nod.

Heinz lifted his head, draped its rope over his shoulders and lowered it, a breastplate of printed words. GERMANS, DEFEND YOURSELVES FROM JEWISH ATROCITY PROPAGANDA! DO NOT BUY FROM JEWISH SHOPS! The top half in German, the bottom half in English.

Heinz seemed to grow a foot taller, as if he just put on the Iron Cross First Class, and positively smirked. Willy scowled. Does he think we're here to act like clowns? He wanted to strike this boy.

Perhaps Heinz noticed this, for his face fell. "I try to help in any way I can. My older brother, he died in the 1919 uprising."

Oh--the violent, short-lived communist takeover of Bavaria. "I must have forgotten that," Willy said.

"I don't want to advertise it. People don't look at me the same way when they know. I decided then I had to do all I could to drive out the Bolsheviks, the Jews, everyone who threatens us. If we let them get the upper hand, more of us will die." His eyes found the paint can and brushes Weizmann had set down.

"You're already wearing the sign," Weizmann pointed out.

"I can do ten things at once if the Fatherland needs it." Spoken with stern face, like a true dedicated soldier. Yes, the man in him was coming through. Willy was starting to like this lad.

"Well, Heinz." Willy picked up a paintbrush and, as if handing on the baton of a great tradition, presented it to him. "Consider yourself off to a good start."

Heinz looked at the brush for a moment, then accepted it with deliberate care.

"Be careful with it," Weizmann joked. "In fifty years these will be shown in museums, and tourists from England and America will come look at them."

"Ah, yes! Yes!" Heinz laughed now, the easy, unfeigned laugh of true brotherhood. "And they'll see our clean, advanced cities and sigh, and they'll say, "And we're still stuck with our Jews!"

Willy chuckled. He inspected Heinz's work as the younger man dipped the brush in the can and raised it, dripping on the sidewalk to paint a slow, careful diagonal line sloping down to the left, then touched the line's top again to drag the brush down to the right. Drawing the brush evenly across the bottom, he made a wet triangle of yellow.

Willy nodded his approval. "You're very careful, Heinz."

Heinz dipped his brush in the bucket. "What we do for the Fatherland, we should always do with the utmost care, however small it is."

Ah, back to mouthing his platitudes. But Willy had seen another side of him now. Heinz was the eager young type, probably never struck anyone or been struck, but spoiled for a fight nonetheless. He felt like he had passed a milestone with this young man. Heinz would settle down, grow into his new role, and he would make a good stormtrooper and honor his brother's memory.

"Men." Heinz stood rigid with the brush still dripping in his hand.

Willy, Weizmann turned.

Someone was approaching the shop. Like the ones with the menorah Heinz had mentioned, he was in costume except that this looked Sixteenth Century, along with a chest-length beard and a cap lined around its base with fur. A costume shop, that's what Die Erfindungen was, Willy decided. For plays? Films? But there was something else...and then he realized what it was. This man, he walked like he owned the street. Willy was startled; he hadn't even noticed the change this past year. People minded their steps now, took care how they talked around their Brownshirt sons. Willy had noticed that with his own tailor father, who he dropped in on from time to time.

Willy stepped between the man and the shop door. "You are interestingly dressed, sir."

The man stopped with a jolt. His face blurred into a baffled look. Blinking his eyes, he seemed for the first time to notice the uniformed guards outside this mystery establishment. He stared at them, then his eyes darted about, to the star painted on the window, the sign, to Heinz, and finally back to Willy.

"Sir." Heinz spoke a little too loudly. "We must remind you this is a Jewish shop." That was the idea--refrain from force, only remind citizens courteously where they were about to do business.

The man appraised the stormtroopers for a few seconds. Then his mouth opened, his beard jiggling up and down as he spoke. "Young men, I shall need your help carrying it out."

And before they could say anything else, he slipped past them and inside, banging the door behind himself.

Now people were stopping to watch. Heinz's face began to flush pink. He bent close to Willy and hissed, "What good are we doing here?"

Willy pondered speeches he had heard, the words of the Führer that set his heart racing and making him feel as though he could conquer the world. How to phrase this himself? He managed an "um," and an "uh," could not seem to get past them. He began to feel very small and self-conscious in his brown shirt with the tan tie, his breeches tucked into his boots, and the necktie he always unfailingly knotted into the perfect envy of all his comrades--he outdid even Heinz at this. 

Heinz waited. The passersby stood behind him, watching. Now a burning started in the pit of Willy's stomach.

The door banged open again, and the bearded costumed fellow stood in the doorway. "Boys? I cannot carry it out myself."

Two of the civilians present, stout young dark-haired men, raised their hands. Before Willy could speak they ran into the shop, through whose open door he soon heard grunts, clunks, and a curse.

After a minute, the old man stuck his head out the door. "We need one more."

"Ah." Willy straightened up, hands clasped behind his back. "Perhaps you should have thought of this before you wasted your money here."

More passersby stopped. They craned their necks to see over the burly stormtroopers. They spoke among themselves:

"What place is that?"

"I didn't know there was a store there."

"'Inventions?' What kind?"

Willy could almost hear coins jingling in pockets, Reischmarks riffling in hands. He, Heinz and Weizmann looked at each other.

"Well..." Heinz looked over his shoulder at the bearded man. He lifted off his sign and leaned it against the shop window. "They're drawing too much attention. Maybe if I...very quickly...?"

"Go," Willy hissed, and practically shoved Heinz toward the door.

"Move along, everyone, please," Weizmann called out as Heinz ran inside. "Nothing to see here."

A minute later Heinz and the men lugged out ancient machinery, something Willy would expect to see in a museum. That was only the first part. They carried it to a horse-drawn wagon--where did that come from?--drawn up by the curb. They loaded on the machinery until the wagon creaked under it.

"Thank you," the costumed man mopped sweat from his face with an old cloth. Everything about him seemed to come from centuries ago. Heinz leaned forward, hands propped on his knees, catching his breath.

"So what is all that junk," Willy asked, "that you betrayed the German people by buying it from Jews?"

The man did not seem to hear him. Then he murmured, "Jew?"

"Yes, yes, didn't you see the star, read our sign, any of it?"

Heinz, still panting, elbowed through his comrades to confront the man. "This shop sells menorahs. Things for synagogues--"

The older man's ears pricked up. "The menorah--the tabernacle furniture?"

"Jewish shop," Willy repeated. He was starting to think he would have to emphasize everything two or three times to get through to this fellow. Heinz retrieved his sign and held it up before the man, but the elder was lost in thought, stroking his beard. "Moses. Could it have been him? When was this, lads?"

"What's that got to do with it?" Heinz shouted. Willy motioned to him, calm down.

The man shook his head, climbed up into his wagon and picked up the reins.

"Wait," Weizmann called after him. "What is your name?"

"Ah." The fellow perked up. "Gutenberg." He touched his cap. "Johannes Gutenberg."

"What?" Willy watched the horses clop off, the wagon's wheels squeaking as they turned, the iron apparatus bumping in back. In moments it was gone.

At last the passersby moved along, and Willy could breathe normally again. If he kept his back to that accursed shop, he could hold to a thread of normalcy and count the minutes until this day ended and he could go home.

"It must be some play about Gutenberg," Heinz offered. "With a mock-up of his printing press. There were all sorts of things in there, cluttered and shoved together, glass and tin, some books, you name it. Strange, I didn't see the owner, or any employees--"

"Quiet." Willy stiffened. Another man was approaching, same sort of garb, same appearance like he'd landed in the wrong century, cap on his head, young, smallish, walking at a hurried pace straight toward them. When he neared, Heinz moved between him and the door.

"Sir." Heinz shook a finger at the star on the window. Willy expected him to regale the newcomer with all the details of the Jewish atrocity propaganda inciting nations to boycott Germany, that a national response was needed, Germans must defend themselves; but he only blurted, "This is a Jewish shop!"

The man did not even slow down, pushing past him and Weizmann. He did allow them a glance, not a very friendly one. "Well, yes. To whom the word of God first came--" and he vanished inside. Bang went the door.

Heinz went red in the face, fists clenched. Before his normal color returned, the door opened again, and the man in the cap reappeared, lugging a big, heavy book. He stopped in front of Willy and opened it. He appeared friendly enough now, eyes shining.

"Look, look! We have it in our own language now, both the Old and the New Testaments!" Laughing, he thudded the book shut and bounded away.

And then Willy realized who the man was. Or supposed to be, at least. "Didn't you translate it?" he shouted. It was the first thing that came to mind.

"Now I can." The man called this over his shoulder, but did not slow down.

Now he could? Wait--wait. If he just got it here already translated, then how could...but now Willy remembered something else.

"Wait!" he shouted. "What about later in Luther's life? You, he, you'll realize the truth about the Jews..."

But the fellow was gone.

Willy faced his comrades. "This has gone on long enough. From now on no one goes in, whoever they think they are. No one! Till the end of the day."

He had hardly finished speaking when two men appeared--normal men, one of them wearing spectacles and close-cropped hair, the other man's hair receding, both wearing modern suits and ties, thank God.

Willy took charge, positioning himself squarely in front of the door. "I'm sorry, but this is a Jewish establishment."

They stopped side by side, giving him identical quizzical looks. The one with the retreating hair spoke. "Young man, you must be mistaken. This place--"

Willy pointed to star and sign. "That tells you all you need to know."

"Well--well yes, but, this is the time for us to--are you sure this store is Jewish?"

Willy's fists clenched. He was not going to explain about the menorah again. The man in the spectacles said, "I am Kurt Diebner. This is Walther Gerlach."

"Those names mean nothing to me," Willy said.

"We're physicists. What we're here to purchase, Germany needs--"

"Germany doesn't need Jews," Heinz retorted over the sign on his chest, "or anything they have to sell."

Diebner shook his head violently. "No, no. We're only here for one thing--"

"And what is that?" Heinz leaned into him, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of Willy.

"It's--how shall I describe it--"

"Get out of here, now!" Heinz clenched his fists. "If you're not out of sight in thirty seconds, you're going to be sorry you were born!"

Gerlach spoke, face tilted downward, peering up. "Is that a threat, young man?"

"It is." Willy drew himself up and crossed his arms.

Passersby were stopping. Two, six, a dozen men flanked the latest newcomers, their eyes on Heinz. Willy glanced from face to face. Communists? Jews? Their eyes were hard, and one man's fist clenched. The street was suddenly quiet.

Willy stepped to Heinz's side. "Now, everyone, move along--"

The man with the fist reached into his pocket. Or might have, Willy wasn't sure, but Heinz pulled out the truncheon he probably practiced quick-drawing in front of the mirror, and brought it down on the man's head. The fellow cried out and fell, clutching the spot; Willy glimpsed red between the fingers. The mob burst into shouts and now it was like fighting off Bolsheviks who'd tried to disrupt meetings, Willy leaped upon people and they sprang at him, fists pounding his head and one cracking his jaw, as he swung blindly for all he was worth. His chinstrap loosened and he lost his cap, someone bear-hugging him from behind, he wriggled, he cursed and head-butted another man who had jostled into him. Heinz and his sign disappeared under a pile of bodies, men jumping on top of him one after another, as if trying to crush him beneath their collective weight.

More shouts. Brown and tan flashed beyond the crowd, the red and black armbands of stormtroopers, Weizmann leading them. The bear-hugger released Willy, citizens slipped off of him and scrambled clear of Heinz and scattered, faces scuffed and shirttails flapping, while Brownshirts shouted after them.

Willy panted for breath. His jaw throbbed; he rubbed it. Three hats and a shoe littered the sidewalk, but no sign of those two newcomers. Stormtroopers were helping Heinz to his feet, who'd received a black eye, hair tousled, shirt rumpled and untucked. The sign he'd worn lay flat on the sidewalk. Willy chuckled.

"What?" Heinz shook off his helpers, looked around. "My cap. Where is it?"

"Heinz, Heinz!" Willy shook his head. "If you see a cap, it's probably mine. And to see you as you are now, it's the strangest thing of all today. I wish I could take a picture." He turned to Weizmann. "Thank you."

"I'm glad help was close by. Evidently the Jews decided they'd have to attack us with more than atrocity propaganda."

A boy of eight or nine years came up, wriggled through the throng of uniformed men.

Willy clasped his hands behind his back. "Do you have something to tell us? Is this happening elsewhere?"

The boy shook his head. "No, no. A minute ago, while you were fighting, someone else went in. He ran back out carrying a suitcase."

Heinz stooped closer. "I think I know you--Jurgen? You live on Blumenstrasse?"

"Yes, yes. I tried to stop him--"

"Then you were a good German," Heinz said.

"But wait. He did stop, and he talked to me. He was an American. I asked him his name, and he said Julius Robert Oppenheimer."

Willy screwed up his face. "An American. Well, after today he can go home and tell everyone Germany does not shrink from defending herself."

"He said he was going home, then he ran away."

"Just out of curiosity," asked Weizmann, "did he say what he had bought?"

"Yes, he did. That's what I wanted to tell you. It was plans for some sort of weapon. He called it an 'atomic bomb.'"

The End

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