December 6, 1930
Berlin
Gerhardt took a swig of beer and took out his cigarettes. Putting one into his mouth, he passed the box around the table to his men.
“A job well done with the convention, men. The delegates are on their way home, and we completed our guard assignment without anyone getting killed. I’m proud of every one of you guys.” He raised his glass. “To Germany!” The entire bar, which had been invaded by the
Reichsbanner, responded in kind and drank. Gerhardt lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, sighing contentedly as he exhaled.
Throughout the bar, his men were drinking, laughing, and talking happily.
Things seemed to be changing, he thought to himself.
Maybe this is finally the beginning of our recovery. God, do we deserve it after all this.
He looked over to the bar itself, where Fedor was perched on a bar stool and flirting with the server, a cute blonde girl. Gerhardt chuckled to himself. Fedor had noticed her as soon as the group had walked into the bar. Another group had begun singing, but as they were all singing in different keys and couldn’t remember the words to their songs, they were pelted with napkins and pretzels until they stopped. “If you don’t knock that off, I’ll start a revolution and send a shoe in your direction!” someone shouted to an uproar of laughter.
At long last, after a night of celebration, the time came for the bar to close. As the Reichsbanner men prepared to leave, Gerhardt had to drag Fedor away from the server girl. Apparently impressed by him, she gave him a kiss goodnight on the cheek. He turned beet red and Gerhardt had to support him to keep him from collapsing.
Guess he hasn’t had many girlfriends, Gerhardt thought as he groaned to support Fedor’s 6 foot 4 inch frame.
"Alright guys, let’s get going, the bar’s closing. Oh,
wonderful. Look who’s waiting for us.”
Outside the bar were no less than two dozen SA men, carrying clubs and rocks. As the men of the
Reichsbanner emerged and faced them, Gerhardt was the first to speak.
“What the hell do you all want? Can’t we have a night off from you people? I swear, every day, it’s you or the Reds.”
The leader of the SA group ignored his questions. “What were you doing in that bar? It’s a disgrace to this whole city!”
“Like hell it is!” boomed Fedor, completely drunk. “I love that place. The beer is cold, the schnapps is strong, and the server is absolutely beautiful. What do you have against it?”
“The owner is Polish! No good German should support that place. If you support them, you’re supporting a conspiracy to—“
The Nazi’s monologue was cut off by an enormous belch of Fedor’s. He looked bemusedly at the SA leader, who must have been an entire foot shorter than he was.
“Listen, what do you guys have against a good time? What, is that armband cutting off your circulation? Or maybe your stupid French-style cap is too tight?”
“French cap?” The Nazi’s face twitched with anger.
“Come to mention it, your brown, Frenchy uniforms make more sense now. You know what they say about the French, right? About how the British officers used to wear red so their men couldn’t see when they’d been shot, and how the French officers started wearing brown pants so their troops couldn’t see when they’d—“
The end of his joke was drowned out by the riotous laughter of the
Reichsbanner. Even Gerhardt, usually the voice of leadership and reason in the group, was doubled over.
“So, is that your reasons for the brown?” continued Fedor. “I guess your friend Hitler’s smarter than I thought!”
Finally, the SA had had enough. They charged, with the leader going right for Fedor with his club.
“What are you going to do, hit me in the ankles with that?” bellowed Fedor as he punched the short man in the face. As he collapsed, Fedor took his club and began hitting anything he saw. As Gerhardt felt the club whoosh by his face, he decided to give Fedor’s drunken club-fighting skills some more space.
The SA, though armed with clubs and rocks, were shocked to find themselves being beaten by a bunch of drunk
Reichsbanner men.
They picked the wrong group of us to fight, thought Gerhardt as he broke a Schnapps bottle over the head of an exceedingly fat Nazi. Looking for someone else to fight, he watched as two of his men picked up the unconscious SA commander and, stuffing him into a garbage can, rolled it down the street. The men of the
Reichsbanner laughed and cheered, pushing the SA back the whole time. Gerhardt found a club someone had dropped and picked it up. Standing back up, he took a punch right to the face.
Staggering backwards, he squinted to bring his vision back into focus, just in time to see one of his men tackle the Nazi who had just hit him. Gerhardt sprinted to help one of his men who had been surrounded by three SA; some quick club-work, and the situation was taken care of. Gerhardt looked quickly around to check on his men; it was nearly impossible to keep watch during a street fight, but as an officer, he had to do his best. His second-in-command, Fedor, certainly wasn’t capable of doing that at the moment, anyway. Still wildly drunk, he was bashing on the garbage can containing the SA commander with his club, yelling
“Hear that?! That’s what justice sounds like!”
The SA knew they had been beaten, and began to run back down the street. Three of them picked up the garbage can containing their leader and sprinted away with it. As they ran, the
Reichsbanner cheered.
“That’s right, this is
our bar! Come back and get some more any time you want!” Fedor bellowed and hurled his club down the street after the fleeing SA.
Shaking his head but smiling broadly, Gerhardt walked over to his friend and patted him on the back. “Nice work there, Fedor. And you get an extra reward. Your friend from the bar was watching us this whole time!” He pointed to the server girl, who was standing in the doorway of the bar. She smiled as she noticed the two of them looking at her.
“I’m going to go talk to her again! How do I look?” His hat was on sideways, one of his sleeves had been almost entirely torn off, and he was swaying on his feet from all the alcohol.
“You look great.”
Despite the fact that one of his eyes was swelling shut, Gerhardt still smiled.
Never a dull moment, he thought to himself.
Ever.