The Schmidt family shivered at the terrifying orders, shouting and screaming echoing down Oranienburger Strasse. Once or twice a pistol went off. The Jewish quarter was alive with fear, the Star of David daubed on doors, the painted swastikas, street by street, every night for days. Now it was their turn, the rap on the door speaking volumes of doom.

“We have been expecting you,” Schmidt said resignedly to the solitary tall, thin blond man in the black leather coat of an officer of the Waffen SS. He nodded back before speaking.

“Trick or treat?” the officer cackled.

“What?”

“It’s a pagan-Christian thing, being All Saints Day tomorrow, so the demons apparently rule unchecked tonight. So, give me some sweet offerings or else suffer the consequences. I’ll give you a clue, you will not much like the forfeit.”

“Er, I have a bag of candies somewhere, on the mantelpiece, I think.”

“Good. Are you going to invite me into your house, Herr Abraham Schmidt?”

“Er, do I have any choice?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Come in, then, of course.”

Schmidt stood to one side, the officer ascended the steps and entered the doorway, easily squeezing his thin frame past the fat jeweller, limping slightly, aiding his progress with the help of a silver-topped cane. Schmidt looked up the street, where families were being hounded from their houses by loud, fully-armed soldiers with bayonets fitted to rifles, or poking prisoners with their stumpy MP40 machine guns, and herded them tightly-packed into canvas covered wagons. One truck drove by, its canvas flapping, loaded with Schmidt’d friends and neighbours, packed in like sardines heading for the canning factory.

The rumours had abounded ever since the new national socialist party won a landslide victory in the elections. Since then, the Nazis had been unchecked. There were hushed tones shared between the Jewish community of long train journeys, far from home, separation of families, placed into concentration camps, ghettos, and worse, whispered talk of quiet clearings and mass graves in the woods. The officer waited for Schmidt to close the door on the efficient commotion and consignment shipping in the street.

“We will not be disturbed,” the officer smiled, standing in Schmidt’s darkened hallway. It was a cold, detached, frightening arrangement of pale lips and white teeth, his words quiet but full of unquestioned authority. “Shall we move to where the rest of your family await you, in the warmth of the drawing room?”

He held out his open leather-gloved hand, indicating along the hall towards the innards of the house. It was not a request.

The jeweller led the way to the drawing room, lit by a couple of dim lamps plus the warm flicker of a fire, keeping at bay the autumn chill outside. In the room, Frau Schmidt stood with her back to the fire, her arms wrapped around her youngest daughter, of middle school age. Both were crying, fearing the worst, in line with the stories they had heard.

A dark haired girl, more a youth on the threshold of womanhood, stood up calm and erect from her chair and stepped boldly forward. The officer held up his gloved hand, and indicated with a wave of a couple of fingers that the girl step to one side, away from the fire and the light, where he joined her as close as possible without them touching. They spoke in quiet whispers, heads close together, so that the others couldn’t hear. At the end, both nodded in agreement, though still neither had touched the other. It was clear to the family that the girl, late in forming any attachment with the respectable boys introduced to her, had some relationship with this representative of a hostile government. The girl strode to her mother and sister, and shooed them confidently out the door into the hallway. Both were too terrified to resist the girl’s bidding.

The officer indicated that Schmidt should sit by the fire, which he did, while the officer eased himself into the matching chair on the other end of the hearth, resting his cane against the chair within easy reach. Schmidt watched the firelight dance off the silver top.

“Your wife and daughters are packing suitcases for your departure, sir; they are packing lightly, as if for no more than a week in a cool climate, with an expectation of sophisticated company, including dressing for a formal dinner or two, and perhaps a book for relaxing on the journey. Take only sufficient cash justifiable for a short stay. You will have to leave everything else behind, furniture, paintings, books, and valuables. I may be able to have this house assigned to me, in which case I will preserve what I can; but it is a fine house and there is much unchecked greed among the victors, who will want their ... spoils ... be prepared to lose everything. Do you understand, Herr Schmidt?”

“It looks like I have no choice.”

“Choice!” the officer laughed. It was a laugh without hint of humour. “Yes, you have no choice. None of us has. I hope you realise that now?”

Schmidt could see clearly now that the officer was very young indeed, not much older than his daughter Elizabetta. He did not know the officer or his family. Ordinarily he would be confident that his daughter wouldn’t move in the same circles as his visitor. But they appeared to be very familiar with each other. Why did they speak? What did they say in their brief but clearly positive exchange? Schmidt’s mouth was too dry with fear to ask. He could only nod his acquiescence to the status quo as explained.

The officer reached into his coat pocket and brought out a thick envelope. He tapped it on his gloved palm, perhaps considering his options before handing it over.

“You have diamonds, locked away here in your safe,” the officer said.

It was a statement, not a question, but Schmidt nodded once more in confirmation. Most were secure at the shop ready for setting, but the better ones were here; probably all was lost anyway. At least his eldest daughter got away before the borders were sealed, serving her apprentice as an indentured milliner in Paris.