And Paul Schumann insisted on paying the price for this hypocrisy. He suffered from the proximity of killing. The deaths sickened him, sent him into a tunnel of sorrow and guilt. Every time he killed, another part of him died too. Once, drunk in a shabby West Side Irish bar, he concluded that he was the opposite of Christ; he died so that others might die too. He wished he’d been too smoked on hooch to remember that thought. But it’d stuck with him.
Still, he supposed Morgan was right about using the rifle. His buddy Damon Runyon had once said that a man could be a winner only if he was willing to step over the edge. Paul sure did that often enough, but he also knew when to stop walking. He’d never been suicidal. On a number of occasions he’d postponed the touch-off when he sensed the odds were bad. Maybe six to five against was acceptable. But worse than that? He didn’t -
A loud crash startled him. Something flew through a bookstore window onto the sidewalk a few yards away. A bookcase. Some books followed. He glanced inside the shop and saw a middle-aged man holding his bloody face. He appeared to have been struck on the cheek. A woman, crying, gripped his arm. They were both terrified. Four large men in light brown uniforms stood around them. Paul supposed they were Stormtroopers, Brownshirts. One of them was holding a book and shouting at the man. “You are not allowed to sell this shit! They’re illegal. They’re a ticket to Oranienburg.”
“It’s Thomas Mann,” the man protested. “It means nothing against the Leader or our Party. I-”
The Brownshirt slapped the bookseller in his face with the open book. He spoke in a mocking voice. “It’s…” Another furious slap. “Thomas…” Another, and the spine of the book broke. “Mann…”
The bullying angered Paul but it wasn’t his problem. He could hardly afford to draw attention to himself here. He started on. But suddenly one of the Brownshirts grabbed the woman by the arm and pushed her out the door. She fell hard into Paul and dropped to the sidewalk. She was so terrified she didn’t even seem to notice him. Blood ran from her knees and palms where the window glass had cut her skin.
The apparent leader of the Stormtroopers dragged the man outside. “Destroy the place,” he called to his friends, who began to push over the counters and shelves, rip the pictures from the walls, slam the sturdy chairs onto the floor, trying to break them. The leader glanced at Paul then delivered a powerful blow to the midsection of the bookseller, who gave a grunt, rolled over on his stomach and vomited. The Brownshirt stepped toward the woman. He grabbed her by the hair and was about to strike her in the face when Paul, out of instinct, grabbed his arm.
The man spun around, spittle flying from his mouth, set in a large, square face. He stared into Paul’s blue eyes. “Who are you? Do you know who I am? Hugo Felstedt of the Berlin Castle Stormtrooper Brigade. Alexander! Stefan!”
Paul eased the woman aside. She bent and helped up the other bookseller, who was wiping his mouth, tears falling from the pain, the humiliation.
Two Stormtroopers emerged from the store. “Who is this?” one asked.
“Your card! Now!” Felstedt cried.
Although he’d boxed all his life, Paul avoided street brawls. His father used to sternly lecture the boy that he should never compete in any event where no one oversaw the rules. He was forbidden to fight in school yards and alleyways. “You listening to me, son?” Paul had dutifully replied, “Sure, Pa, you bet.” But sometimes there was nothing to do but meet Jake McGuire or Little Bill Carter and take and give some knuckle. He wasn’t sure what made those times different. But somehow you knew without a doubt that you couldn’t walk away.
And sometimes – maybe a lot of times – you could, but you just plain didn’t want to.
He sized up the man; he was like the kid lieutenant, Vincent Manielli, Paul decided. Young and muscled, but mostly talk. The American eased his weight to his toes, balanced himself and struck Felstedt’s midsection with a nearly invisible straight right.
The man’s jaw dropped and he backed up, struggling for breath, tapping his chest as if searching for his heart.
“You swine,” one of the others cried in a high voice, shocked, reaching for his pistol. Paul danced forward, grabbed the man’s right hand, pulled it from the holster cover, and popped a left hook into his face. In boxing there is no pain worse than a solid blow to the nose and, as the cartilage snapped and the blood flowed onto his camel-brown uniform, the man gave a keening howl and staggered back against the wall, tears pouring from his eyes.
Hugo Felstedt had by now dropped to his knees and was no longer interested in his heart; he was gripping his belly as he retched pathetically.
The third trooper went for his gun.
Paul stepped forward fast, fists closed. “Don’t,” he warned calmly. The Brownshirt suddenly bolted up the street, crying, “I’ll get some help… I’ll get some help…”
The fourth Stormtrooper stepped outside. Paul moved toward him and he cried, “Please, don’t hurt me!”
Eyes fixed on the Brownshirt, Paul knelt, opened the satchel and began rummaging through the papers inside to find the pistol.
His eyes dipped for a moment and the Stormtrooper bent suddenly, grabbed some shards of window glass and flung them toward Paul. He ducked but the man launched himself into the American and caught him on the cheek with his brass-knuckled fist. It was a glancing blow but Paul was stunned and fell backward over his briefcase into a small weedy garden next to the store. The Brownshirt leapt after him. They grappled. The man was not particularly strong nor was he a trained fighter but, still, it took Paul a moment to struggle to his feet. Angry that he’d been caught off guard, he grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted sharply and heard a snap.
“Oh,” the man whispered. He sagged to the ground and passed out.
Felstedt was rolling into a sitting position, wiping vomit from his face.
Paul pulled the man’s pistol from his belt and flung it onto the roof of a low building nearby. He turned to the bookseller and the woman. “Leave now. Go.”
Speechless, they stared at him.
“Now!” he muttered sharply.
A whistle sounded up the street. Some shouts.
Paul said, “Run!”
The bookseller wiped his mouth again and glanced at the remains of their shop one last time. The woman put her arm around his shoulders and they hurried away.
Looking in the opposite direction down Rosenthaler Street, Paul noted a half dozen Brownshirts running in his direction.
“You Jew swine,” the man with the broken nose muttered. “Oh, you’re done for now.”
Paul grabbed the satchel, scooped the scattered contents back inside and began running toward a nearby alley. A glance behind. The clutch of large men was in pursuit. Where the hell had they all come from? Breaking from the alley, he found himself on a street of residential buildings, pushcarts, decrepit restaurants and tawdry shops. He paused, looking around the crowded street.
He stepped past a vendor selling secondhand clothing and, when the man was looking away, slipped a dark green jacket off a rack of men’s garments. He rolled it up and started into another alley to put it on. But he heard shouts from nearby. “There! Is that him?… You! Stop!”
To his left he saw three more Stormtroopers pointing his way. Word had spread of the incident. He hurried into the alley, longer and darker than the first. More shouts behind him. Then a gunshot. He heard a sharp snap as the bullet hit brick near his head. He glanced back. Another three or four uniformed men had joined his pursuers.
There are far too many people in this country who will chase you simply because you are running…
Paul spit hard against the wall and struggled to suck air into his lungs. A moment later he burst out of the alley into another street, more crowded than the first. He inhaled deeply and lost himself in the crowds of Saturday shoppers. Looking up and down the avenue, he saw three or four alleys branching off.