Berlin, February 1933
Papa saw the flames. Bright orange, tall, fiery flames in the middle of the Bebelplatz Square. Dark smoke floated through the humid air and combined with the violent screaming of young men. He glanced back at his daughter Ida, and his heart sank when he looked into her innocent eyes, glistening a bright blue as she tried to hold back her tears. He knew what she was feeling. Fear. Anxiety. Panic.
He squeezed her small hand tightly as he pulled her through the roaring crowd. Young university students towered over them, sweaty and spirited. “Verbrenne sie!” they chanted. Burn them.
He didn’t want to think about what that meant for them. What it meant for his children’s Jewish education. His Jewish business. Their Jewish rights. He picked up his pace, trying to see over tall, lanky bodies and a sea full of arms held up toward the flames. When Ida dropped her mother’s linen bag filled with fresh sunny rye bread and bierwurst they had just bought from the market a few blocks down, he turned around and told her to leave it. His dark eyebrows were curved up in worry and his forehead was wrinkled in distress. He knew he was scaring Ida even more. She never saw him worried.
After they made it through the square, neither of them spoke for the rest of the walk home. Papa’s heartbeat did the talking, rapid and deafening in his ears. Every so often, he looked back at Ida, her lips quivering as he gripped her hand firmly. She knew something wasn’t right.
Echoes of chants filled the Mitte district as they raced home, finally dwindling away as they reached their small apartment building at the end of Franz Street. They made the long trek up the three flights of stairs and walked through the creaky wooden door of apartment 53 where Mama and their son, Walter, sat waiting at the kitchen table. Mama dropped her needle and thread as soon as the two walked in.
“What is it?” Mama asked when she saw the look on Papa’s face. He didn’t answer. Instead, he began rummaging through cabinets in search of something they could eat for supper. He thought about the bread and meat they had just bought. About how they had probably been stepped on by hundreds of men. How Mama’s tote bag was probably scuffed and stained with muddy footprints.
Mama sprung from her chair. “What are they doing?” she asked again desperately.
“There’s a fire in the square,” he replied shortly.
Mama ran to the window. In the distance, a dark gray smoke cloud lingered above buildings, fading away slowly as her eyes followed its path through the gloomy dusk sky.
“A fire? They’re burning something?”
“Bücher,” he replied. Books.
Sorina Gantt is a senior at the University of Alabama studying Biology and English. In her free time, she enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction, hiking, and travelling. She is passionate about medicine, especially women’s health, and is preparing to apply to medical school.