President Bowmore had no clue where he was. It was dark and he heard the sounds of footsteps, and commotion, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. Could it be coming from all around? He seemed to be in an alleyway. It was cold and dark.
All of a sudden someone bumped into him, he was pushed agaisnt the damp brick wall behind him. He snapped his head around to see who'd almost run him over. A few youngsters had just rushed past him in a flurry, they were running down the alley. Right before they got to the bend, one of them, a handsome boy with a tilted hat, turned around and shouted something in Bowmore's direction. "Kommen Sie auch!" Hearing the German made his heart drop; was he in Nazi Germany again? The boy's clothes had looked like they came out of the late thirties.
Before thinking to much about it he broke into a jog and followed where the group of boys had gone. He regretted it immediatly upon turning the corner.
There were stings of people marching on the street. He recognized the uniforms, some held torches, most held bricks. At least a fourth of the people on the street were young men like the boys who'd passed him, and a good part of the rest weren't wearing any kind of uniform. They were civilians. There was a lot of shouting, orders or profinity. He caught a glimpse of the handsome young man's cap somewhere amongst the crowd. In his teenage hand he gripped a brick. The boy reached backwards, ran two steps and chucked the brick into the window he'd been marching past. It shattered, causing glass to fly onto the streets. The German boy ran away, covering his head. But although he took this saftey precaution, Bowmore was still sure he woulnd't complain about getting cut by the shards. He was angry.
The President had recognized the scene of terror immediately. It must be the ninth November, it had to be. And altough he had not the slightest idea in which part of Germany he was, he knew that this must be a place where many Jews lived or had their shops.
He took a step backwards and glanced down the alley he'd come from. The second he'd recognized this terrible night to be the Kristallnacht he knew he had to be careful. He could not allow himself to be seen by any of the SS-Men, they would surely sieze him. He had no documents, his German was accompanied by an accent. He would look like a Jewish man trying to flee. He would have to find a hiding place, one that wasn't a house or shop. He'd be captured in the untouched ones and would risked getting burned to death in an already cleared one. "Fuck," he swore. He made a move to run back down the alley but then changed his mind, his body freezing up mid-start.
There was another thing he could do. But the second it popped into his mind he felt terrible. Even though this was just a dream, he couldn't do this. But was it really just a dream? And for the first time, he admitted to himself that he didn't actually think it was a dream. Otherwise he would have lunged at Hitler first chance. But something in his gut had told him it was real, at least, real enough for him to lose his life in it.
And so he turned back to the street where SS and SA officers continued to march down, and he ran towards them. The other thing he could do was this. He could join them, that didn't mean he'd have to arrest anyone; he wasn't authorized to do that anyway, and he wouldn't even break any windows or hold a torch. He'd simply go along with the slithering mass of German people and officers.
Bowmore didn't remember much of the night. There was too much going on for his mind to take it in. He knew he was pushed from all sides, he knew he was handed a torch, one that he'd dropped the second the man who'd handed it to him had turned away. But to his dispair he'd been handed a second one only minutes later, minutes that he'd thought to be seconds. And he'd flung that one to the side, disgusted to be holding one of the flames that ignited the fire to the Jewish hate. Unluckily, a fire roared up beside him, and he realized he'd just tossed the torch into a window; and something in the house had been flammable. Someone clapped him on the shoulder before hurrying past.
Bowmore halted. Anxiously turning around, trying to look for a hole in the crowd of civilians he'd been jungled into; but he saw nothing through the smoke and the many bodies pressed around him. His ears had started to hurt. A fellow nazi saw his confusion and thought him to be waiting for a brick or too. So he was handed a big brick. And, being with the company he found himself in, was forced to slam it against the nearest house, where it broke a window. The scream that came from the inside told him that there was still a family cowerirng inside. But he was pushed further along before he could do anything about it.
Alistair closed his eyes. He tried hard to focus on waking up; he needed to get out of this horror. But though you can usually wake yourself up from dreams; espeicially nightmares, Alistair was unable to. He got out of the crowd by chance, and as he stood by the side it started to thin out, they turned a corner, into the next street, and the main bunch of nazis were gone. But youths and a few SS men still trailed behind. One of them holding a jewish man by the wrists, perhaps that had been the man who's window Alistair had ruined.
Alistair stared at the street. How could state officials do this? And how could the authorites simply look upon it and let it be? How could no one put an end to it? Tears formed in his eyes, but before they could spill over the brim he was grabbed from behind. His heart stopped for a second, was he being siezed? Had someone seen the reflection from the tears in his eyes, did the flames cast light on his horror? But the German who'd grabbed him was not an SS-Officer or a wicked boy with a cheshire grin.
It was a girl.