Shattered Glass

PROLOGUE

     Alfons Kreider was thirty-one years old in 1938, the year he vanished into thin air.

     Tall, blond, Vienna-born, with an air of cocky arrogance and a loaded Walther P-38 in a black leather holster on his belt, the young SS captain brushed the ash from the sleeve of his black tunic and tossed away his cigarette as he emerged from the crowded street car on Stuttgart's Wilhelmsplatz one grey November morning. He set his black peaked cap with its silver eagle-and-swastika badge and Death's Head insignia at a rakish angle, then turned left on Fehlingstrasse and, somewhere between Karsten's apothecary and Mohn's bakery, and in full view of about half a dozen people, suddenly disappeared without a trace....

ONE

November 12, 1938

     Rana Fleischinger walked quickly, but kept close to the buildings, so as not to draw too much attention to herself. She would not have even ventured out, had she not been out of so many staples: sugar, flour, salt, lard. And pears, of course. She ducked into the little alley that connected Koenigstrasse with the Marktplatz and made for the back door of Scheuer's Market. Stuttgart seemed darker these days, even when the sun was out. The imposing Koenigsbau, with its massive Greek portico and Ionic pillars, once a pleasant reminder of Strauss waltzes and concerts of Brahms and Hayden, now somehow seemed to her like a gigantic shooting gallery. The old Hotel Silber on Dorotheenstrasse, with its white gingerbread facade, was now Gestapo headquarters. The synagogue on Hospitalstrasse, while still appearing largely intact, had been thoroughly gutted by fire three days earlier. The Nazis, incensed by what they considered to be a half-finished job, had hired the architect Ernst Guggenheimer to dismantle what was left of the centuries-old landmark, stone by stone. Each time Rana passed it she would pause to watch, tearfully, as the workers -- Jewish prisoners from Welzheim and Dachau; thin, ragged, grey as weathered limestone -- struggled to pull it down, little by little, one stone at a time. A labor of hate, Avi had called it.

     Today's shopping expedition was more important than usual, however. It was Avi's birthday, an occasin that called for one of her pear tartes. She knocked once, then once more. After what seemed an eternity the back door opened and the shop clerk, tall, bald, with skin like rare parchment, stuck his head out.

     "Yeah?"

     "Yes, I'd like three tins of pears and a bottle of vanilla, please," said Rana.

     "Sorry, no vanilla," he said with no trace of sorrow in his voice. "And I can only sell you two tins of pears. Rationing regulations."

     No point in arguing. "Fine; I'll take them. And whatever amount of flour, salt, sugar and fat I'm allowed." Every day there seemed to be a new humiliation, a new regulation banning Jews from this or that, a new cut to her heart. It seemed the Nazis were determined to tear down the Jews of Germany, little by little. One stone at a time.

     It wasn't safe to be on the streets for too long, these days, but that wasn't the only reason Rana hurried home. Eugen Scheele had promised to come by, to celebrate Avi's birthday. When he was still a prosecuting attorney, Avi Fleischinger had come to respect the Order Police lieutenant's diligence and phenomenal memory. Lt. Eugen Scheele, in turn, had appreciated Avi's fairness and blunt, artless manner, in and out of the court room. More to the point, Eugen had found himself drawn increasingly toward Rana.

     Avi was stretched out on the couch when she got home, the newspaper spread out before him, just as she had left him. Since his release from protective custody on the 11th, two days after his arrest, Avi had not left the house. She even had to fetch in the mail and buy his daily paper. Despite her attempts to draw him out, he refused to talk about his detention, although he was otherwise the same old Avi: handsome, sarcastic, prone to teasing her about her clothes or her fondness for popular movies and jazz (Django Reinhardt was her favorite).