Mrs Hitler

By Sarah Schultz

Sarah Schultz has a shoplifting problem. For weeks she's ignored and excused; like most Germans, her head is full of Nazi horror films and she's self-consciously white. Terrified of being branded a racist and ostracised. The boy taking the gum is an immigrant. She's tongue-tied. The problem's snowballing. Until today. Today she is going to say something..

Her intervention becomes a clash with the 'new Germans', becomes a local media catastrophe. She's ostracised, her life ruined, shop destroyed. She flees to a cottage in the central hills of Germany. Two years pass. Recovering, thinking, planning. A similar clash exposes her whereabouts and journalists flock, keen to pillory her once more. She escapes to London with grand revenge in mind.

Sarah runs for an independent seat in parliament. Her speeches, her debates, her scrapes with death and rebellious beliefs. Protestors, would-be assassins, devotees, and journalists, they both help and hate her. She evolves from a sideshow into a serious threat. Her poll numbers grow.

Post-election she travels to the US, invited to appear on a talk show. Every step causes controversy, from New York to Los Angeles - and it's there, in the heart of Hollywood, in front of a global audience, she has her climactic debate, with her harshest opponents, and where her fate will be determined in more ways than one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Schultz
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215354902

Sarah Schultz

resides Monterey, Californiafrom Sachsenburg, Germanyvia London & New YorkPhotoart, poems & pithy comments:https://gettr.com/user/Sarah_Schultzhttps://gab.com/Sarah_Schultzhttps://parler.com/SarahSchultz1REVIEWS ENCOURAGED, even brutal [e-mail]

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Mrs Hitler

Copyright 2021 Sarah Schultz

Distributed by Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Sachsenburg

Denkenstadt

England

Long Campaign

Short Campaign

New York

Heartland

California

Prologue

All autobiographies are biased, and so is this. My journey from Sachsenburg, to London, to New York, and from obscurity to icon of adoration and utter loathing.

Sachsenburg

1

It was a pack of chewing gum. He barely hid his theft. Not surprising, since I'd let him get away with it before, reminding myself it was inexpensive, and he'd probably had a tough life, and it was important to be tolerant of immigrants - the usual appeasements. A dark-haired boy of seven or eight, his cardigan with horizontal hoops, easy to spot. He spoke with his mother in his native tongue, never German, and kept his head low. Occasionally he glanced to see if I was watching.

Each theft caused a spike of annoyance. I'd never let a German boy get away with it, I reminded myself. Not once. It'd be strong words, maybe the police. But I was tongue-tied. The mere thought of confrontation made me anxious. Accusations of intolerance. Hating immigrants. Being a NAZI. For weeks I'd grinned and ignored it. Until today. Today I was gonna say something. I ran a convenience store - newspapers, magazines, milk. I was born in this town, and whilst I never thought I'd be back here at this age, my mid thirties, running a store, here I was..

About five percent of my customers were immigrants. My town had seen a large influx in the last decade and many had settled in the neighbourhood where my store was located, the town's CBD, my store occupying the ground floor of an older two-storey structure. The boy's mother was short, wearing a body-length outfit. Not a burqa, but similar, face exposed, colourful fabric. She had dark moles on one cheek and a certain hustle. Fine, thank you, This correct price? she spoke confidently. I always reached for approval, keen to show I wasn't prejudiced, plus I desperately wanted to open a dialogue about her son's behaviour. The best I could manage was, How has your day been?, Is your son enjoying school?

Fuck. Why am I so weak and she so assertive? Anybody'd think I'd landed in her country! Surely she knows he's taking the gum. What gives her such confidence and why am I so pathetic? I couldn't get my head around it, and couldn't resist, in case it was wrong. I swallowed my doubts, full of politeness and hospitality, more than I afford my German customers. Keen to avoid discrimination. Yet, the business ain't a gold mine, and word must've gotten around I was a pushover because magazines, treats and cola were disappearing. Yesterday a similar boy tried to take the gum, but withdrew when I gave a look. It's gotta stop. Turning a blind eye brought it to this. No more dithering.

I trembled, little experience with confrontation, worried of recriminations, heart pounding as she placed her milk, pita bread, and foreign newspaper on the counter. Sure enough, right on cue, out the corner of my eye, the boy's hand grabbed a pack of gum. Straight into his pocket.

I'm sorry, you'll have to pay for that, I said, with an internal cheer. Nothing. The mother didn't even look at me. I almost let it go. Excuse me, sorry, I asked. She gave four Euros but it didn't cover the gum. Your son took some gum, you'll have to pay for that. She squinted, her grasp of German deteriorating. The chewing gum, I explained, but the conversation muddled. Can't remember exactly. She denied he had anything, but I didn't believe her. He'd done it before. She didn't want me growing a spine. I'll show you, I said and leant over the counter, reaching for the boy's pocket.

Don't touch! she exclaimed, eyes ablaze, but I had weeks of pent up annoyance and grabbed his pocket.

I can feel it.

No! she screamed, whacking my hand. But I held on, feet off the floor! No! she yanked him away, nearly dragging me over the counter. "Hands off! You don't touch! You racist!" she exclaimed.

You have to pay.. I tried, my rivets rattling, but the gum was lost. She swept her items off the counter and shuffled her boy out of the store, babbling;

Don't touch, Hasad! You loose woman! she waved an arm, like sweeping me away. I felt dizzy, replaying the incident, pacing. They got the gum, but I felt better. I couldn't believe I'd said something! But I was naive. I really didn't have the faintest notion. Not the slightest twinkling of exactly where that pack of chewing gum was going to lead. If I had've known, there's a good chance I would never have said a thing..

2

Problem solved, I assumed. But as the high wore off.. embarrassment. I had a deep soil within me, seeded with values that disapproved. I battled guilt. They've probably had a hard life, I admonished. I don't want to seem intolerant. I should've put the gum behind the counter!.. Yet the kid was brazen. Where would it end? I had to say something.. But I shouldn't have grabbed him. Maybe she'll call the police?.. Yet, if I went to her country and stole, they'd probably cut my hand off!

I gnawed my fingernails, customers interrupting. I caught my reflection in the shop window and had one of those moments where you wonder, how the fuck has my life come to this? Mid-thirties and wrestling with a kid over stolen gum. PATHETIC! I hadn't been to a salon in a while and my hair looked like straw, medium-length blonde. I wore a cotton apron so my blouses wouldn't get marred with newsprint, which looked like a uniform. I was dull. My life definitely wasn't what I'd imagined as a fresh-faced graduate.

My shop was on a corner, en route from a train station; a convenient spot to grab something. An awning covered the footpath and there was a central door with large windows either side. The counter was tucked to the left, customers passing as they entered. The store was long and narrow, a magazine rack extending the length - anyone shorter than five feet was invisible on the opposite side. A blind spot, but I felt I could handle it.

That afternoon two similar boys came in, aged about twelve. I'll call them Brat1 and Brat2. Hands deep in pockets, no eye contact; the 'shoplifter posture', applicable regardless of skin tone. I'd seen these two before. Sometimes they'd peruse the football magazines, then abruptly leave.

Brat1 glanced at newspapers, whilst Brat2 was quickly out of sight behind the magazine rack. A bow of tension drew back. My earlier confrontation had loosened something. More arrows were possible. I watched keenly and noticed a fridge door gently open and close. I waited, fingers tapping the counter. Brat1 approached with a newspaper, advertising brochures falling out.

Careful- I tried, but the guts of the paper hit the floor. Tch, pick it up, I said, leaning forward. He fumbled the mess as I held my tongue, figuring he was about to buy it anyway. The front door opened - Brat2 was slipping out with something under his jacket.

Hey! I called, but he was gone. Brat1 then casually followed, uttering something in his native tongue. I drew a sharp breath, but said nothing. It took a minute to realise what'd happened - Brat1 dropped the newspaper to distract me, so his friend could nip out with a free drink. It piqued me. I thrust the newspaper in the garbage.

3

Ten-thirty the following morning Brat1 and Brat2 strolled in like nothing'd happened. I started blinking rapidly, serving a customer, before following. I caught up with Brat1 towards the back, surprising him. Brat2 immediately ducked around the magazine rack, heading for the front of the store. I hurried to cut him off. Brat1 yelled a warning and Brat2 broke into a run. I rushed but Brat2 was too quick, ducking out the door. Are you gonna pay for that?! I yelled, assuming he'd stolen something. I turned to grab Brat1, but he twisted and dodged, and slipped out. I almost yelled, but a customer was gawking. I smiled, like it was a game.

The next day three boys came in, aged about fourteen. Dear Shoplifter; glancing out the corner of your eye is a dead giveaway. They disappeared behind the magazine rack. I excused myself from a customer and followed them. Straight down one side, straight back along the other, the trio out the door in under a minute. The boy at the rear gave the evil eye; he wasn't afraid. Not one bit. The waiting customer wondered what the hell was going on. I should mention, I noticed a drop in ethnic customers. Word must've gotten around regarding the cranky German woman who grapples children.

Next morning I noticed damage to the rear door that led in from the alley. I was fuming. Compared with the world's problems, this certainly was a storm in a teacup, but don't expect to fuck with someone's livelihood and get a warm reception. Around lunchtime, clearing a line of customers, I spotted Brat1 inside.. again! This had gone on long enough. I had work to do. He was parked in front of the football magazines. He saw me coming and looked nervous, yet determined. I intended to frogmarch him out of there, but baulked at laying hands.

What are you looking for? I demanded, like a school teacher. You want a magazine? He shrugged. Which one..? The absurdity was not lost; I was in a test of wills with a child! Show me what you want and I'll get it for you, I said. A flabby white German man approached, watching. Come on, I haven't got all day, I said. The flabby man, a middle-management type, stuck his nose in.

Why don't you let him shop? he asked.

I don't want him stealing anything, I said firmly.

You weren't worried about the German kid that just left.

This one's stolen before, I said curtly.

He's got a name, you know.

Mind your business, I'll mind mine.

Tsch! the man shook his head, frustrated. Here.. he said, shouldering past. D'you want this? he asked the boy, showing a magazine. The boy nodded innocently. I opened my mouth but a tumour of shame clogged it. I stood there like a warm cadaver, gutless, unable to lock horns with another adult. The man wrestled out his wallet, retrieved a ten Euro note and slapped it against my chest, my heart muscle squelching like a chicken's.

I'm ashamed Germany still has people like you. You won't be seeing me again! He left in a storm of indignation, slamming the door.

I felt crushed. Like such an idiot. I prayed he wouldn't tell anyone. No, he surely would. He'll tell everybody about the racist ogre he confronted and they'll applaud his courage, and word'll pass around, and I'll be starved of customers, and reap nothing but hatred and contempt, people gawking through the glass, sneering. I feared being called a racist. There's no way back from that. The damage is irreparable. Retractions, appeasements and generosity never completely remove the stain. Like a heretic in the Middle Ages - they may forgive, but never forget. I chastised myself the rest of the day. I just wanted to get home. How the fuck did I get here?

4

I inhaled chocolate. I had a right to protect my business. Undeniable. Failure to rebuff the flabby white fellow was a misstep, not defeat. In fact, he'd defended wrongdoing. In my twenties I'd considered journalism as a career, exposing corruption and ignorance. I was a good person. I knew it. Instead of journalism I chose to study graphic design, but it was never a passion. I was clutching at hats. I wanted to conquer the world, but my grip kept slipping. I knew if I didn't find a chair soon I'd miss out, slide into a gutter. Eventually I discovered art history. Two years studying in Berlin, one in London, and I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in art history. An anchor, but unsure where to set it. I backpacked around Australia and New Zealand for eleven months. Picked fruit, drank some, smoked a little, had some laughs, and a few minor adventures. In NZ I met fellow German, Thorsten Wreck, who dreamed of designing automobiles. We returned home, got married, started working. But once the alcohol of our travelling days wore off, we realised we didn't get along so well. He was obsessed with cars, but I didn't care. I liked art galleries and music festivals, he didn't. The marriage lasted barely a year. I suspected he was seeing someone else. My period was late and I was terrified; a child would bind us. I desperately wanted to leave him. There was no baby and the marriage ended. I moved to Spain for two years, where I met a charming Spaniard. Eventually we lived together, but that ended even more abruptly, when he was killed in a train accident. I moved back to Sachsenburg, lived with my parents, battled depression, and dissatisfying jobs, before stumbling into a convenience store, where I've been ever since. Six years. Nearly seven..

Of course, it was meant to be a temporary gig, but like most decisions made when young, I was unaware how it'd shape the course of my life. When the owner passed away his widow offered half ownership to run it. I accepted, mostly to retain the job, which I needed. Later I owned the business outright, and created a sign, Zitronestraße Convenience, swearing this wasn't the gutter I'd always feared. Twice I'd stepped out into the world, and found love, and searched for a career, and twice it had crashed down. I felt burned, standing behind that counter, in the very town I was born in. Not that I'd quit on life. I kept fit and was diligent about the store, but deep down I knew I could've been more. Destiny had eluded me..

5

The ethnic boys kept coming. In their parochial world I was the resident ogre. That flabby German idiot had cast them as victims. My frustration their sport. The best tactic was to remain at the counter and challenge them as they left. No hands involved. I hoped they'd get bored. The police seemed pointless; ethnic gangs had clashed with police over vandalism and harassment of drunk Germans visiting nightclubs. The 'new locals' had shown no fear of the authorities; not the peacemakers of their community. Most store owners and office workers were people from the suburbs, dispersing after 5:30, but these ethnic groups lived locally and would hang out, watching as I shut the store. I rarely saw the police - afraid of 'harassing' immigrants. The atmosphere was not one of security. It felt very much like they had control of the neighbourhood after dark. They had immigrant-only accommodations and support institutions, and that exclusive environment felt like it now included the CBD after hours.

My home was within walking distance, perhaps a thirty-minute walk, but I usually took the bus. As winter approached and the days grew shorter, it would be dark when I closed up. Should I hide in the store and dash out when I saw the bus? I'd have to adapt my behaviour, because of them.

6

All anxiety with no outlet. I was a grenade with a shaky pin. One day I noticed Brat1 and Brat2 at the sporting magazines, and the pin slipped. Without thinking I grabbed Brat2 by the scruff.

Ahh! he cried, twisting. My knuckles cracked, but I hung on. 'Clunk', a can of coke fell out of his jacket.

Uh-ha! I grabbed it. You have to pay for this! I said, but he tried to bite my hand. Oh! I gasped, letting go. They made for the exit. I pursued, blood hot, and caught Brat1 in front of the service counter, by his hoodie, almost choking him.

Err! he gagged. Brat2 barrelled into me and we grappled, feet slipping, the boys struggling for the door. We tumbled into the counter, confectionary shelf collapsing, gum all over the place, trampled. I held on.

I'm gonna tell my cousin! one exclaimed. Brat2 escaped through the door, Brat1 right on his heels, leaning, almost tearing his hoodie. He was almost outside when I lost my balance and fell against the door, jamming his fingers.

AHH!!!! he yelped, jerking his hand free before scurrying off, cradling his agony. I sat on the floor, catching my breath, huffing. A German woman outside was staring, mouth agape, wondering what the drama was. Maybe Brat1 broke some fingers. I didn't care. I felt wicked. Let's see if he comes back!

That same day, just before closing, two men entered, whom I recognised. Previous customers. The same ethnic background as the boys, aged about thirty. The stronger one bore shoulder length, dark hair, tied in a ponytail. He had intense eyes and a mouth ripe with disdain, and kept his head high, shoulders square, projecting power. But he wasn't so impressive, five-feet eight with an average built. Though, admittedly, my heart skipped. Is this the cousin? On previous visits I'd sensed a hunger for recognition; newspaper and soda he'd verbalise, underlining his items, because they were his. Previously he'd showed little interest in me. Today I had his full attention, eyes burning. I think his name was Muzaffer. Today he had a companion, a 'second in command'. Shorter, skinnier, with thinning hair, a cocky smirk inhabiting one corner of his mouth, and big eyelids. He was a thinker, crafty. His name was Savas. Muzaffer began perusing a revolving stand of postcards. Phew... Nothing to worr- he casually pushed the stand over, scattering the postcards.

What are you doing?! I cried, emerging from the counter. Tch, oh! I exasperated. "That's it, out!" I ordered, grabbing his arm. The next thing I knew my ears were ringing and I could see stars. I realised I was on the floor, a figure standing over me, shouting a fog. Was I punched..? I wondered. One of them trod on my arm as they left, door closing. A third figure appeared, a woman, helping me, my vision unsteady.

He's gone, the woman said, offering a tissue, blood on my cheek, throbbing jaw. I felt nauseas. It took a minute to realise I knew her; it was Mrs Benevolent, the widow I'd bought the business from. She still owned the building, which I leased. She belonged on a biscuit tin, with her spectacles, hands in front of her chest, defending from harshness. She lived in a terrace a hundred yards from mine, where she fed the neighbourhood cats. Now she was rescuing me. She said the man with the intense eyes had swung a fist across my face, sending me to the floor. My arms had gone rigid, as though having a seizure. He’d told me to keep my dirty hands off him, then spat as he left. Mrs Benevolent called an ambulance, my head swimming.

7

Nurses scanned my head. Awaiting the results, two police officers arrived to interview me, and I got a shock; they'd already spoken to Muzaffer. Savas had called them first. Clever.

"They said you assaulted a young boy," said the male officer.

What?

You slammed his fingers in the door, said the female officer, a stinky tone. One of the nurses turned, listening.

He was shoplifting. That was an accident, I tried explaining.

The gentleman said you grabbed him as well.

That's a lie, I said, feeling two stitches in my cheek.

All they want is an apology, suggested the male officer.

No way, I blurted.

But-

I'm not apologising, I barked. I just want them to go away.

Silence. The police exchanged a judgmental glance.

"Well, they're not going away," said the female officer, assuming I was racist, anti-immigrant. The nurse had a filthy expression.

Leave me alone, I said.

Excuse me? asked the male officer.

Just get lost, I said. I don't need your help. I laid back and looked at the ceiling. I wasn't going to apologise, back down, or compromise. They started it. I'd done nothing wrong. Indeed, I'd shown patience and generosity! Now I was the bad guy. I had months, nay, years of pent up frustration rising within me, like a chamber of magma.

8

The following day I arrived early. As I disembarked my regular bus, my bruised jaw dropped; a black swastika six feet high was spray-painted on my shop's side wall. Crude, but effective. I felt embarrassed, but that evolved into anger. I'd crossed a threshold. Yes, I'd hesitated, and regretted, and wondered, but there really was no turning back. Fellow passengers craned their necks. It's hard for outsiders to understand the swastika's impact on Germans. A visceral reminder of our WWII shame, and it can't be repressed, degraded, torn down enough. To have it so prominently displayed is quite shocking. Yet there it was, six feet of German disgrace. I was glad I'd come early. I grabbed some cleaning products and got to work.

I scrubbed, sponges disintegrating, their black, red and gold foam everywhere. I realised it would take hours. Soon a wave of commuters approached from the train station. I gave up, squirting the scouring cream over the swastika, obscuring it, like abstract art. Good enough!

It was a Friday. Things seemed normal. But an hour later pedestrians started gawking. A break in customers and I went outside; the scouring cream had dripped away, the swastika plainly visible. I grabbed a newspaper and taped it over the graffiti. Nobody asked what was going on. People kept their distance, paranoid of the stigma.

By lunch time the newspaper had been torn off, the ethnic boys up the street, laughing. No matter what I did, they'd remove it. My daily take was down by a fifth.

9

Six o'clock the following morning, a Saturday, I was back, and discovered 'rassist' scrawled next to the swastika. More work. I cracked my knuckles and got scrubbing. Nobody spoke to me. I began hoping somebody would ask, so I could explain. I sort eye contact, but people turned away. I felt contagious. I was a Nazi.

A police car drifted by. I heard their thoughts; she jammed his fingers, they deserve their revenge.

Then a forest of footsteps approached, and I turned. Nearly had an arrhythmia; Muzaffer and Savas were striding, a juvenile entourage in tow. Muzaffer had confident feet, the teenagers full of smiles. I seized, expecting an attack, but they burst out laughing. Muzaffer's eyes flashed lava. He wasn't that big, but, as a lone woman, he was intimidating enough.

This is our street, Savas blurted. One of the teens pulled his pants down and showed his arse, to raucous laughter. Absolutely no fear. They disappeared around the corner, tattered bits of sponge trailing.

I gave up cleaning the wall. For all the scrubbing, they could graffiti something else in seconds. I bought some brown paint and covered everything. Mrs Benevolent would understand. I didn't know how long this fight would last, but I wasn't throwing in the towel. I had a right to protect my business.

10

Sunday night I could barely sleep, an illegitimate pregnancy within, conceived by 'what the hell'. I paced in front of my terrace, on the street, in the dark, eager. Ever had an outrageous fantasy, an anger that unshackles you, lets you skate without ice, blades cutting through the crap. Little chance of sleep. They weren't gonna beat me. As I finally went to bed, I suspected I might change my mind by morning.

Sunrise. Nope, still there. Like an observer to my own actions, I set off for work. I discovered 'schwein', 'lavire' and 'domuz' sprayed on the side wall. Didn't care. I had plenty of brown paint, and moreover, plans for a little sign of my own. I headed into my office at the back, and printed it. It's been inaccurately quoted by fans and foes alike. So for those seeking clarity, here's what it actually said:

'No unaccompanied ethnic children allowed in this store'

Take that you little brats. I laminated it and stuck it on the front door. We'll see whose street this is. Of course, I knew it meant trouble, but fuck it. I held my breath each time the door opened, expecting a tirade, but no one noticed! Regulars breezed in and out. The sign was a standard sheet of white paper. Eventually a businessman spotted it, halting, one foot inside. I felt a flush of adrenalin, anticipating a confrontation - the gall to display such a notice! My heart trembled. I bowed my head, all fear and doubt. He stepped to the counter. I didn't look up. He paid for a newspaper and left, double-checking the notice.

Traffic increased, but nobody said anything! Then a group of schoolgirls took a picture. Eventually a woman my age inquired, Is that for real?

Yes, I stated, chin raised, expecting an argument. She flicked her eyebrows and left. Maybe people won't care..? Then a proper confrontation. I noticed a woman outside, scanning the sign, hands on hips, forties. She entered, something important in her throat.

Excuse me, she asked in pointed English. Are you the proprietor?

I am.

That sign in your window, she began, firm eye contact, educating herself on evil. I was restocking sweets, no counter to protect me. "Am I reading that correctly? It says, 'No ethnic children allowed in this store'."

That's correct, I said. I'm protecting my business.

"Well, where I'm from, this is not the done thing."

Are you American?

Canadian.

Well Miss Canada, take a look at the side of my shop.

"Nothing justifies racism, she pointed out, especially against children."

They've been shoplifting, and look at my face, I instructed, stitches protruding.

These children have been through worse than that!

Am I supposed to go out of business to prove I'm not racist?

Have German kids ever stolen from you? she asked.

Yes, but-

Then why aren't they banned?

Get out! I pointed to the door.

"You are unbelievable! she said, triumphant. The sign was taped on the inside of the glass. She tried to rip it off, but couldn't get her fingernails under. She turned and offered a parting shot, I guess it won't be long till Germany produces another Hitler," and with that she slammed the door.

What did you say? I yelled, fury flooding me. I pursued her outside, flinging the door, stomping onto the footpath, teeth bared as the priggish Canadian bitch strutted off. I drew a dragon's breath; "Hitler was from AUSTRIA!!!!!"

One guy spat on the sign. My turnover was down by a third, but at least the shop was standing. Not a single immigrant came in.

Oh, there was one other encounter worth mentioning. About 2:30 p.m a female journalist from the local TV station dropped by, Veronika something. Late twenties, high cheek bones, orthodontic perfection. I recognised her. She enjoyed offensive questions. Originally from Stuttgart, she spoke English with an American accent, donned a snappy, sky-blue outfit and preached entertainment first, facts whenever.

Fuck. Now the whole town would know. Sixty thousand. I couldn't hide, so I tried being positive; a chance to tell my side. I knew her style; pushy, heartless and perfunctory, eyes not participating in her professional smile. I was surprised how warmly she introduced herself.

Hi, I'm Veronika Slash, ElbeTV. She'd seen reports via Twitter of a curious sign in my shop front, and wondered if I'd be kind enough to discuss it. Disarmed, I agreed, stepping outside.

Why have you banned ethnic children?

Because they've been stealing, and I was punched in the face on Friday, I showed my stitches.

A child did that?

No, an older guy.

But you banned children?

Well, they were the initial cause of the problem.

Is it true you had a swastika on your shop?

Yes, but it's painted over.

Do you think people will call you a Nazi? her tone growing frigid.

They can if they like, I'm not backing down.

And what do you think about immigrants in general?

Well, I began, off the cuff. I'm becoming less tolerant of them.

Veronika's eyes flashed.

They should remember they're new to this country, and if they don't like the rules, I turned to the camera. If you don't like our rules, go back where you came from.

The camera guy's eyes popped open, and the sound guy grinned. Veronika looked like she was ready to pee herself.

Okay, that should do it, she concluded snappily. Thank you for your time, Sarah. She politely shook my hand then hustled into her van. They were pleased and I was pleased. Did I mention how naive I was back then..?

11

Finding a romantic partner had been my priority. Then I switched on the television.

..receiving word of a controversial sign, we found this.. said Veronika, with a close up; 'No unaccompanied ethnic children allowed in this store'

I should've removed my apron. I looked industrial.

What do you think about immigrants?

I'm becoming less tolerant, I watched myself say. Veronika interviewed some big-eyed eight-year-olds. I didn't recognise any of them.

Have you been stealing from her? she asked, and they all shook their heads. Then Brat1 appeared, showing off his bandaged fingers.

She jammed my fingers.

My organs were in meltdown.

Did you see a swastika? asked Veronika. Savas stuck his vulpine head in;

She painted it herself.

"You sly c#*t," I said aloud. The lens panned to Muzaffer;

She's been victimising us.

If you don't like our rules, go back where you came from.. I watched myself say.

"Ms Schultz doesn't like our rules either, Veronika contended. Violating anti-discrimination laws."

Shit. Didn't think of that. I was a thousand knots, no end to pick. I dropped the TV remote, batteries ejected.

12

I lapped the neighbourhood, on foot, in the dark, trying to calm down, fantasising about grabbing Veronika's hair, twisting her neck. Anger gave way to fatigue, and regret. I shrunk like polystyrene at a thousand fathoms. The shoplifting, I educated it. So passive! I should apologise, they're just kids. Best to swallow your pride and smooth things over. Assuage Muzaffer. He probably doesn't know any better. It's his culture. I took a shower and was ready for bed, figuring I'd remove the sign tomorrow. That'll solve it.

I couldn't make the drop, temples hardened. I'd pled guilty. I tossed for a couple of hours, gizzard grinding. Then tore out of bed.

That fucking bitch! I exclaimed, so loud my neighbour may've heard. Just 'cause she's got a camera. Don't be spineless! If you apologise, you'll be a contrite little racist for the rest of your life. No fucking way!

I went for another walk, in my pyjamas - not as mad as it seems - my neighbourhood is deserted after midnight, and quite safe. I strode up the road, through the cool air, resisting the pull of my education, those years of assignments and essays, and earnest teachers, urging me to subvert the next holocaust, and apologise. Show tolerance, no matter what. But my pride refused. I struggled. Education versus instinct. Eventually exhaustion set in, and I fell asleep around three a.m.

13

Worried I'd be recognised on the bus, I walked to work. Stress kept my energy high, a swastika ghosting me. How many people'd seen the news? I chuckled, drunk on the chaos, my life in the gutter. No surprise! Deep down I knew I'd remove the sign, figuring the police'd make me anyway.

Entering the CBD, my eyes flitted left and right, paranoid.

Schultz! I thought I heard. I spun, expecting Muzaffer, but found only pedestrians paying no attention. As I neared my shop, I got a shock; a crowd of young Germans milling under the awning, peering through the window, trying to see the racist bitch, slapping at the note, itching to remove it. The side wall bore more graffiti; another swastika, carefully painted.

I leant against the nearest wall, like a gecko. I wasn't getting any closer. Ten seconds of sprinting, they'd have me. A piñata, easily bashed. Nobody would sympathise, the lollies smashed outta me. My blonde hair as good as a swastika. I coordinated in the opposite direction, head lowered, pulling out my phone, pretending. I'll sneak back later and remove the sign, and hopefully that'll be the end of it. Who gives a fuck about right and wrong? I wanna survive..

I started home, a convoluted route. I passed a man as he hocked up phlegm, narrow eyes on me – a gesture of contempt? Panicked, I ducked into a pharmacy and galloped past shocked staff, bursting into a back alley. Eventually I found a public garden, then a bike path that led towards my neighbourhood. I walked for twenty minutes unchallenged. A group of teenagers, a couple of joggers. No one said anything. Then a cyclist approached, startling me. He kept pace, glancing at me.

Are you the woman on the news? he asked. My heart doubled in size. I walked faster. What's your name? I didn't respond, just kept going. How would you feel if someone targeted you?

They already did, I said with venom. Of course, that was an admission. I was Sarah Schultz. The NAZI. He veered his bike towards me. Oh! I jumped back. Piss off, I said, and left the path, onto grass. Running was no good, he could outpace.

Blonde bitch, he said, then turned and raced off, perhaps to summon reinforcements.

14

My terrace wasn't easy to find, even if you knew the address. There was a private gateway, then a courtyard with five other terraces. I was the middle terrace on the right. Plants helped conceal my whereabouts. I hoped. I spent the rest of that day expecting the mob, or the police, as I paced. I had no immediate family in Sachsenburg, my parents retiring to a coastal community in the north, and my younger brother in Berlin, studying. I had friends I'd met through tennis, and old school friends I'd bump into, but nobody I felt comfortable dragging into this mess. The shop had taken over my life. By nightfall my stomach settled enough to eat dinner. I couldn't resist turning on the television, hoping I'd been forgotten.. Nope. Veronika's garish face appeared, standing outside my shop.

What did you say? she asked the flabby German fellow, who'd defended wrongdoing.

"'He's got a name, you know'. Then I paid for the magazine myself."

You paid for it? asked Veronika.

Absolutely! he said proudly. She was harassing him because he's an immigrant. I wanted to kung-fu him in the head. You stuck up for a thief. Then Brat1;

I tried to get away, but she slammed my fingers.

Ohhh.. the crowd groaned sympathetically, Brat1 displaying his bandages, squeezing the udder. Poor devil. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Some of the comments were unbelievable, people believing I'd 'harassed' and 'abused' children, and was punched in the face for it. Good for them! Nobody cared about the truth, they just wanted to feel righteous.

What should be done? Veronika asked the German youths gathered in front of my store.

Take it down! they replied, quickly adopted as a chant; Take it down! Take it down! Take it down! There was thirty or forty people. I began to sweat. A bald guy popped into frame.

Sachsenburg needs to cleanse itself of racists!

Like Sarah Schultz? Veronika asked.

Yes! the crowd bellowed.

I gasped at my name, a carnival of fears. Everyone pissing on my head. I thought of self-harm. Veronika asked a policeman if charges were possible. He replied;

The proprietor should seriously consider removing the sign. Veronika rambled about Germany's international image, blah, blah. I had to wash my face.

What is your reaction? Veronika asked an older, dignified, ethnic gentleman.

I'm dismayed this kind of racism still exists in modern Germany, he desponded.

It surprises you?

Not really. We always knew these feelings were there, and it clearly demonstrates Germany isn't doing enough to stamp out racism.

Bang! I hit the 'off' button. Fuck you.. I shook my head, marvelling how it'd come to this. I remember the hatred of Nazis my education instilled, the shame and disgrace they brought upon this country, and the determination I'd felt to live a different kind of life, and combat discrimination, our atrocities forever taken to heart. But now I was one of them! A Nazi. Or at least, a convenient scapegoat the old sin could be pinned to and purged, yet again. Almost beyond living memory, but not far enough. Seventy years and it still haunts us, even those who weren't there. Perhaps especially those of us who weren't there, inheriting the guilt. A millstone, weighing on us, shaping us, submitting us. I felt very stressed. Drowning in a well.