turned and ran.
Behind her, she heard the Communists’ feet thundering on the sidewalk. Ahead, she saw Reinhard and a group of SA fellows, standing in a bunch, laughing and talking, then turning, their faces slackening in surprise when they saw her.
“Communists!” she screamed. “Help!”
They rushed past her. She kept running, but someone grabbed her arm, and she nearly snatched it back before she saw who it was.
SA chief Röhm. He had lost his cap, so she could see how his hair had been shaved so close to the scalp that his pale skin showed, a fresh-scrubbed pink like a pig’s hide. His small eyes focused on hers. Pockmarks disfigured his broad, florid face. From shrapnel, she’d heard, but she didn’t know if the injuries had occurred during the Great War or while he had lived as a mercenary soldier in Bolivia during the twenties. The deep gouges had always unsettled her, ever since she’d seen him again in April, after Hitler summoned him back to Munich to take over the SA.
“Fräulein Müller, this is no place for you.” His voice sounded as rough as pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Come.”
His grip was tight on her wrist as he pulled her along. Stumbling, she broke into a light jog to match his pace. Ahead, the avenue stretched out like a gray ribbon before it fell into darkness, and behind, the men’s cries and grunts started to fade.
“Don’t look so frightened, Fräulein.” Röhm stopped, his heavy chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He grinned, startling her. “Street fights are to be celebrated, not feared. That’s one of the many things the Führer and I argue about. The trouble with you is the same trouble with most Germans: Our countrymen have forgotten how to hate.” He ran a broad hand over his brown tunic, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Your brother understands.”
She recalled Reinhard’s blank eyes meeting hers across the kitchen table as he casually told their mother how much Gretchen must like Yids. She shuddered. Yes, he understood hatred. Sometimes she even wondered if he hated her . Or if he thought his tricks were a bizarre form of brotherly teasing—
The shrill blast of police whistles pierced the air. Röhm cursed. “I must get the men to scatter. I’ll send Kurt to ferry you home.”
“No! That’s not necessary!” But she was speaking to his back; he was already jogging back to the melee. More men ran from the direction of the Circus Krone to join the fight. Thirty or forty men now spilled across the street, punching and shouting.
A few yards away, Reinhard smashed his fist into a man’s face, watching emotionlessly as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man flung himself onto Reinhard’s back, but the added weight barely moved her brother. With one quick motion, he reached back, seizing his attacker’s arms before flipping him overhead and throwing him down to the pavement.
Gretchen couldn’t look away. He made it look so easy , crushing men with a few well-aimed punches. As he stepped into the golden light of a streetlamp, she saw how calm and impassive his face looked; his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for a possible threat, and his jaw clenched, but no anger tightened his expression, no fear contorted his features. And yet . . . Gretchen scanned the other men. All of them looked furious or scared, sometimes both. Reinhard was the only one who appeared untouched.
More police whistles sounded. The men broke apart, racing into the shadows. As quickly as it had begun, the fight seemed over. Gretchen released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Shaking, she turned away.
“Gretchen!” Kurt called behind her.
So Röhm hadn’t forgotten his promise to find her a chauffeur. The thought of getting back into Kurt’s car was more than she could bear. She remembered the Daimler-Benz skidding across the cobblestones, its headlamps illuminating the Jew’s face, frozen with shock, for one terrifying second
Behind her, she heard the Communists’ feet thundering on the sidewalk. Ahead, she saw Reinhard and a group of SA fellows, standing in a bunch, laughing and talking, then turning, their faces slackening in surprise when they saw her.
“Communists!” she screamed. “Help!”
They rushed past her. She kept running, but someone grabbed her arm, and she nearly snatched it back before she saw who it was.
SA chief Röhm. He had lost his cap, so she could see how his hair had been shaved so close to the scalp that his pale skin showed, a fresh-scrubbed pink like a pig’s hide. His small eyes focused on hers. Pockmarks disfigured his broad, florid face. From shrapnel, she’d heard, but she didn’t know if the injuries had occurred during the Great War or while he had lived as a mercenary soldier in Bolivia during the twenties. The deep gouges had always unsettled her, ever since she’d seen him again in April, after Hitler summoned him back to Munich to take over the SA.
“Fräulein Müller, this is no place for you.” His voice sounded as rough as pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Come.”
His grip was tight on her wrist as he pulled her along. Stumbling, she broke into a light jog to match his pace. Ahead, the avenue stretched out like a gray ribbon before it fell into darkness, and behind, the men’s cries and grunts started to fade.
“Don’t look so frightened, Fräulein.” Röhm stopped, his heavy chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He grinned, startling her. “Street fights are to be celebrated, not feared. That’s one of the many things the Führer and I argue about. The trouble with you is the same trouble with most Germans: Our countrymen have forgotten how to hate.” He ran a broad hand over his brown tunic, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Your brother understands.”
She recalled Reinhard’s blank eyes meeting hers across the kitchen table as he casually told their mother how much Gretchen must like Yids. She shuddered. Yes, he understood hatred. Sometimes she even wondered if he hated her . Or if he thought his tricks were a bizarre form of brotherly teasing—
The shrill blast of police whistles pierced the air. Röhm cursed. “I must get the men to scatter. I’ll send Kurt to ferry you home.”
“No! That’s not necessary!” But she was speaking to his back; he was already jogging back to the melee. More men ran from the direction of the Circus Krone to join the fight. Thirty or forty men now spilled across the street, punching and shouting.
A few yards away, Reinhard smashed his fist into a man’s face, watching emotionlessly as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man flung himself onto Reinhard’s back, but the added weight barely moved her brother. With one quick motion, he reached back, seizing his attacker’s arms before flipping him overhead and throwing him down to the pavement.
Gretchen couldn’t look away. He made it look so easy , crushing men with a few well-aimed punches. As he stepped into the golden light of a streetlamp, she saw how calm and impassive his face looked; his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for a possible threat, and his jaw clenched, but no anger tightened his expression, no fear contorted his features. And yet . . . Gretchen scanned the other men. All of them looked furious or scared, sometimes both. Reinhard was the only one who appeared untouched.
More police whistles sounded. The men broke apart, racing into the shadows. As quickly as it had begun, the fight seemed over. Gretchen released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Shaking, she turned away.
“Gretchen!” Kurt called behind her.
So Röhm hadn’t forgotten his promise to find her a chauffeur. The thought of getting back into Kurt’s car was more than she could bear. She remembered the Daimler-Benz skidding across the cobblestones, its headlamps illuminating the Jew’s face, frozen with shock, for one terrifying second
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