The young man gazed thoughtfully at his reflection in one of the two full length mirrors on the doors of the elegant veneered wardrobe in his parents’ bedroom. He hoped no-one would come in. 

He viewed himself from the front, and then - moving both doors slightly - from the sides. He tried to check his back … but the two mirrors don’t quite … Oh well. Nevertheless he was pleased with his appearance. He rubbed his hand up the back of his neck right up to the crown of his head, and felt the clean, satisfying prickle of bristles. He hoped his friends would notice this new short haircut of his, the fashion lately amongst go-ahead young men. He flicked the tousle of fair hair that had been left on the top. Not too much Brilliantine?  No. Just right. Then he smoothed his hands down over his new, crisply ironed shirt and trousers - shiny, black, smart, noticeable.

My, I do look the part. The girls won’t stand a chance. He smiled at these thoughts, though not without a great deal of irony. Such comments had always been used by and about his older brother. They had never applied to him - the shy younger sibling who gabbled like an an idiot when he tried to talk to girls. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps tonight they’ll notice me.

“I say, darling, you really do look the part.” His mother was there, standing right behind him, smiling, both of them there in the mirrors. “Off somewhere nice tonight, then?" 

“Oh it’s you, Mum! I’m … erm … well … I’m just meeting up with my mates.” He turned and glanced across at the porcelain clock on the mantlepiece with its delicate figures picked out in gold that had so fascinated him when he was a child. “They’re probably waiting for me now, I’d better be off.”

“Take care.”

Outside the house the young man breathed in the cold Autumn air. It was the 9th November. The northern winds were already making their mark. He drew the collar up on his long coat, puffed out his chest and started to walk. 

He had gone only a few blocks when he spotted a group of chatting girls walking towards him. A couple of them had been at the school he’d left a couple of years before. He forced himself to actually look at them, and he even formed a grin, well a sort of grin, but he kept on walking. They went quiet as he passed. Then he heard their giggling behind him. Yes. He could feel them looking back. He could sense their admiring glances.

It was only a few moments later that he heard the first crashes of glass. Oh! They’ve started. Well it's only to be expected, I suppose. He increased his pace. But he didn’t run. There were people rushing away from the noise.  Others were scurrying past him, overtaking him, eager to see what was going on. More glass was being smashed and now there were shouts and screams. Swirls of grey and black smoke appeared expanding upwards over the sharp edges of the tall apartment blocks either side of him. Then pulses of orange began edging into the base of the smoke. They're already starting fires. I must hurry.

He arrived at the street just as arranged. He spotted the dark figures. He recognised some of them - his friends - as they hacked at the shop windows with their wooden batons. They were shouting, whooping, wild. He made out other shapes - sacks on the ground. But the sacks were moving. No, they aren’t sacks, they’re … people. And the dark figures were kicking them, stamping on them.

“Oi! I shouldn’t try to interfere if I were you, not if you know what’s good for you.” He found himself speaking sharply to a stocky, middle-aged policeman who was moving forward, clearly wanting to stop the beatings. My voice, he thought, it sounds so strong, so clear. The officer turned, looked at him, then slithered away to the other side of the street, joining a silent crowd that was watching as their neighbourhood and their friends were being smashed to pieces.

So there he stood in the middle of Schilderstrasse. And it was he, he alone, who was stopping those people from interfering, whilst his comrades, his new friends, in their plain clothes, were shattering those windows and pounding those subhuman shapes. The young man felt such a surge of pride and power. He fingered his insignia, the sign of the Schutzstaffel, the twin lightning bolts of the SS, on the arm of his new black uniform. 

All around him glittering shards of glass flashed like crystal in the guttering light of this burning Jewish quarter.