Series: Behind Closed Doors 2

Photo by Ben Prater

“Well, that’s odd,” Elaine murmured, slowing her pace. She pointed across the street to a singular storefront- stone facade, shuttered windows, a door that hadn’t been opened in decades. It stood like a forgotten relic in the center of a bustling retail district, flanked by cafés and boutiques humming with life.

“I wonder what the story is there?”

“Let’s find out,” Estella said, linking her arm through Elaine’s. The two crossed the street, heels clicking against the pavement.

As they neared, Estella stopped short. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Bullet holes.”

They were unmistakable- scattered across the door, the shutters, even the stone itself. Elaine reached out instinctively, her fingers grazing the weathered wood.

A voice behind them broke the silence.

“Most people don’t notice,” said an elderly man they’d seen sweeping the sidewalk two doors down.

“What happened?” Elaine asked.

“I’ll tell you,” the man replied, leaning heavily on his push broom.

“It was the ninth of November,” he began. “1938. Kristallnacht. The Night of Broken Glass. The city was already tense, but that night… it cracked wide open.”

He nodded toward the shuttered storefront.

“It was a cobbler’s shop then. Old place. Been in the same family for generations. The old Czech who ran it let a group of young men and women from the resistance use the cellar to print leaflets. The hatch was hidden beneath the cobbler’s bench, the same one he used to mend soles by day.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“At night, behind locked doors, the resistance would slide the bench aside, open the hatch, and descend. Once they were safely inside, their comrades would slide the bench back. Then return at a predetermined hour to do it all in reverse.”

Elaine and Estella stood silent, the weight of the story settling around them.

“On the eve of Kristallnacht,” the man continued, “the printers were already below when the Nazi’s and their civilian henchmen descended. The shop was empty. The bench in place. They riddled the door with bullets, smashed the windows, destroyed whatever they could in the shop- but they never noticed the hatch.”

“The printers stayed silent. All night. Listening to the world unravel above them. And then, just before dawn, after the Nazi’s had retreated and the streets quieted, their fellows returned. Moved the bench. Let them out.”

He looked at the building, then back at them.

“After the war, the old cobbler had passed. No known relatives returned to carry on the business. So the citizens proposed it remain untouched- a living monument to that night, and all the horror that followed.”

He gestured toward the bullet holes.

“That building stays sealed. Out of reverence. So we never forget.”

He resumed sweeping, slow strokes against the pavement.

“Most people walk past. But some stop. Some ask. And that’s enough. That’s how history survives.”

This is my contribution to Dan’s Thursday Doors

This is part of a series of stand alone vignettes.. You may navigate all entries in the series by clicking on Behind Closed Doors tab in the Category drop down list.

To learn more about Kristallnacht in the border regions click here.

48 thoughts on “Series: Behind Closed Doors 2”

  3. A beautiful story and a powerful message, Violet. These are things we should never forget, not only the damage and the evil, but the resistance. This is very well done. I love that you included the line about their heels clicking against the pavement. That drew me into the scene.

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  18. Jodi, this is really moving to me.

    The story of the cobbler’s shop pulled me right in, and then the history you linked about Kristallnacht in the Czech border regions widened the lens in such a powerful way. I love how you bring together the personal and the historical—it makes the remembering feel so alive. Thank you so much.

    ~David

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  19. Some of our combined family heritage is Czech. Back then though it just depended on which week where the borders were. So much loss. But then new history to be carried out by those who did survive. ~Thank you. Your story may be fiction, but I would bet it could be very, very real.

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