His mind was awhirl, shuffling through a dwindling list of options. Berg could think of only one place to bring him. It wasn't a terribly good solution, but it was the only one he had.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

By the time the Kraftrad reached the cigarette house, the first group of Brownshirts were filtering into the streets, waving sticks and beer bottles, their chanting and drunken singing drowning out any ambient noise. There wasn't a police officer to be found.

Berg remained concerned about the welfare of Muller and Storf, as they had been stationed in the center of the rioting. It had been a long time since either of them had been on the streets. He remembered the helpless feeling of being outnumbered, the relentless punches and kicks; a limp and constant pain still plagued him. Surviving the trenches and mustard gas only to be beaten by bloodthirsty hoodlums, residents of the city that Berg had sworn to protect-punks with no jobs, no skills, and small brains occupied only with hate.

Braking the Kraftrad in front of the broken-down structure, tires splashing mud and muck onto his boots, he brought the machine to a halt. The blue wash that had once colored the strips of siding was almost nonexistent, and the wood framework had splintered and rotted. The shutters were drawn tightly over the windows. Stagnant rainwater had pooled in front of the entrance and formed a dirty, rank moat around the entire building. Each puff of wind brought up another putrid stench. Berg wrinkled his nose in disgust. His hip throbbed dully. He was uncomfortable, but if the pain stayed at this level, he could live with it.

He retrieved the pocketknife from his boot and told Gottlieb to get out of the sidecar. "Help me drag the scooter into the vestibule."

Gottlieb grabbed the cart as Berg hefted the motorcycle. Together, they carried the machine up the rotted stairs of the stoop. "What now?" the Jew asked.

"Don't talk," Berg barked out.

Gottlieb glanced with darting eyes at the streets swarming with Brownshirts. Berg tried the door, but it was locked. He banged on the wood, announcing that he was police and ordering that the door be opened immediately.

There was no response.

"Herrjemine, what next?" He looked at Gottlieb. "We'll have to break it down."

"Whatever you say."

Berg counted to three, then both men rushed the door, right shoulders serving as battering rams. Pain shot through Berg's torso when his body was met with resistance. So be it-he'd nurse his wounds later.

"Again. Eins, Zwei-"

The door swung open. The fat desk attendant staring at them through small, hooded eyes, his pocked face covered with sweat. "Sind Sie verruckt?"

Are you crazy?

"Help us get this thing inside now! If you don't, I'll tell the boys outside that you harbor Jewish whores."

"And don't you think they know that already?" the attendant said. "Why do you think the place is locked?"

He tried to close the door on them, but Berg was too quick, slamming his body against the portal so hard that the wood cracked. Once inside, Berg butted his head into his opponent's stomach, causing the fat man to double over in pain. Berg pushed the attendant against the wall, grabbed a shock of his hair, and lifted his face, sticking the point of his knife into the layers of fat underneath his chin. Red liquid trickled down Berg's arm. Still leaning hard on the man and speaking just inches away from his face.

"If you move, I will cut your throat. Verstanden?"

The fat man whispered a hoarse yes. From the corner of his eye, Berg noticed that Gottlieb had not been idle. While he was dealing with the proprietor, the Jew had managed to drag the motorbike inside and bolt the splintered door. The Jew was panting.

Berg was breathing hard as well. "None of us wants this place to be raided by the police or vandalized by thugs, correct?"

In lieu of a nod, the fat man lifted his eyes. Had he moved, the knife would have glided through his fat as if it were warm butter.

Berg eased up the pressure. "Is she upstairs?"

Again the fat man croaked out a yes.

"Ah, very good!" Berg turned his head, his eyes sizing up the room while never leaving the attendant or the point of his knife. He spotted a door that was slightly ajar. "What's inside that room?"

"Broom closet."

"That'll do. Put your hands up."

The fat man hesitated. Berg kneed him hard in the stomach. When he doubled over in pain, Berg turned him around, pushed him face-first against the wall, then yanked his arms around his back. The clerk was so overweight that his hands did not touch. From the jacket of his uniform, Berg took out a pair of handcuffs and linked the proprietor's hands together. Yanking him upright, he marched the man into the closet. Before Berg locked the door, he said, "You'll be safer in here anyway."

Berg bolted the front door, his mind jumping from issue to issue. "Help me put my Kraftrad behind the counter. If the Nazis break in and see it, they will know that a policeman is here."

"Isn't that good?" Gottlieb asked.

"I told you not to talk." Berg was nervous and angry. "Right now the police are the enemy. Not as bad as the Jews, though. They'll attack you before me. Let's move."

Together, they lifted the motorcycle and stowed it behind the counter so it wasn't visible.

"Upstairs," Berg ordered. It was a three-flight climb, then Berg knocked at the familiar door. "Open up, Margot!" Another bang. "Open this minute!" A sliver of light came through the doorway. Again, Berg pushed his way in, knocking Margot's shoulder and causing her to stumble backward. "Sorry."

Her eyes were wide with fear. Even terrified, she was beautiful, incredibly delicious in fright and weakness-a lithe angelic body and a face so pale she was otherworldly. She wore a heavy blue sweater over her blue work dress. Solid shoes encased her feet. She was shaking so hard, she had to clasp her hands to keep her balance.

"We heard the shouting from work, Axel. The others tried to make it home, but I didn't want to take the chance. How bad is it?"

"Bad."

"Another putsch?"

"Another murder-"

Margot gasped.

"Two murders, one just a young girl. Hitler is using the slayings to whip the people into a frenzy."

"And where are the police?"

"We are badly outnumbered. We'll have to wait it out until morning, when people should be restored to their senses."

"Until morning?" Margot was shaking. "Night has just fallen." She looked around, her eyes landing on Gottlieb. "Who is this man?"

"A Jew. You have to hide him-"

"Are you insane? I came here to hide myself."

"If you don't, he will die."

"Better him than me."

"He has two young daughters. If he dies, they are orphans."

"And how old do I look?"

Indeed, she looked much younger than her eighteen years. Berg said, "Let him hide under the trapdoor, and you hide under the bed. If they break into the room looking for whores, I'll flash my badge and send them away."

"I am not stupid, Axel. I remember '23. I remember how effective the police were."

Her nettled barbs tore straight into his gut. Still, he postured. "We are more prepared now, my love." He lowered his voice. "Listen to me, Margot. Hide under the bed. I will protect you."

"Why should I listen to you?" she shot back. "You're a cheat and a liar. I know what will happen if they see you here. Both of us will die. First they will kill you. Then they will find me under the bed and rape and kill me."

Outside the words of hate grew louder.

Margot shook with revulsion. Abruptly, she moved aside the end table and lifted the trapdoor. She looked at Gottlieb. "Get inside." When the Jew paused, she said, "Go before I change my mind. Pray for all of us."

Berg pushed Gottlieb forward. "Stay inside until morning, then get out of the country. Don't get caught, and don't ever come back!"

Gottlieb wiped his wet eyes. "I won't forget this."

"Yes, you will, but it doesn't matter. Take care of your daughters. Go!"

Carefully, the Jew lowered himself beneath the floor. When he had cleared the opening, Margot shut the door tightly and put the end table back over it. She glanced out the window. "They're coming in!" Her face was white with dread. "You have children, Axel. Hide under the bed-"

"Absolutely not!"

"If you don't, I will betray the Jew." Margot was breathing quickly. "Then it will all be for nothing."

"Bist du verruckt?" Berg laughed. "You wouldn't do that!"

"Try me!" Her eyes were adamant. "If God is with me, all that will happen is I'll get raped!"

A loud crash echoed through the interior of the cigarette house, the din causing both of them to jump, the clomp of footsteps as the thugs climbed the stairs. Doors opened and slammed shut. The sudden screams of the Jewish whores hiding within.

"Under the bed!" Margot yelled. "Now!"

Still Berg waited.

"Do it!" she commanded. "And don't come out no matter what you hear. You have a choice, Axel. Choose life!"

Knife in hand, Berg dropped to the floor and squeezed between the rough wooden planks of the underside of the bed, settling himself on his back just as he heard the door break open.

Margot screamed as the mattress suddenly sagged, dipping so low that it nearly touched Berg's stomach. Hellish screams mixed with low, drunken laughter. The stink of beer and rye permeated the small room. Berg could hear the awful sounds of flesh slapping skin and loud, hard blows mixed with softer screams.

More drunken laughter. More sharp slaps.

Words penetrating his skull . . .

Jew bitch.

Over and over and over as the bed bounced up and down.

Up and down, up and down amid Margot's pleas to stop, her moans that begged for mercy.

You like it, don't you . . . disgusting Jew bitch.

Another crack.

More sounds-grunts and snorts and squawks mixed with weeping.

Berg pressed his fingers to his ears, praying that he could muffle the sounds-the horrible and pitiful groans. He closed his eyes. Still, he could sense the motion of the bed.

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The ghastly sounds of a man reaching climax-more grunts and snorts and squawks.

Berg's blood began to boil.

Think of your children. Don't be stupid. She will survive.

Another hard crack! He startled upward, his feet hitting the frame of the bed, but no one above appeared to feel it.

Margot's screams had subsided to simpering moans.

Again the bed started to move.

He opened his eyes, but all he could see was hot white stars.

His body temperature rising!

His head pounding!

Up and down, up and down.

He closed his eyes and again tried to plug his ears, but the racket was too loud to be silenced by two fingertips. He broke into a rich, ripe sweat. It stank but what difference did that make? The entire room reeked from male violence and discharge. As the perspiration evaporated from his skin, he felt clammy . . . buried alive.

Up and down, up and down.

Grunting and groaning. Snorting . . . oinking like a pig.

Think of your family! Think of your children! She's not worth dying for!

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

He could no longer hear Margot. There were no more screams, no sobs, no moans. Her silence was all the more devastating: a life snuffed out as her soul died.

Up and down, up and down.