That night, Hans and his family sat in the kitchen at their house. They gathered around their big wooden Volksempfanger tabletop radio. Oma Greta, Hans’s grandmother, an elderly woman with bad knees and a bent back, was knitting, her angry hands flying with every stitch. Anna Vogner paced behind her.
Eddie shot marbles in the middle of the room on the braided rug. Vincent, Hans’ father, a scholarly man with glasses, read the paper. One headline read: “JEW MURDERS GERMAN EMBASSY OFFICIAL IN PARIS.”
Oma Greta turned up the radio volume. The voice of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, blasted forth, his hatred surging out of the radio’s speaker.
“The Fuhrer has decided that demonstrations should not be prepared or organized by the Party, but—” Goebbels shouted.
Eddie stopped playing marbles. “That man has a bad temper!” “Hush, Eddie,” Anna said, gently.
“—insofar as they erupt spontaneously, they are not to be stopped,” Goebbels’s voice continued.
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