As he detoured from the main path to take the street leading to the bridge, Heinz heard a noise that sounded like hammering. It was coming from the narrow path to his left. Taking a few steps backward so that he could look down to the end of the pond, he observed two men with hammers pounding white signs into the ground by the benches. At first, he was not able to read the lettering, but as he came closer, he saw that the signs said in bold black lettering: JUDEN VERBOTEN.
Heinz shook his head; this was hard to believe. Why were Jews forbidden to sit on those benches? He had only seen this once, in a certain section of Berlin near the paper factory, when he had crossed through a small neighborhood park looking for a place to eat lunch. What were they doing, putting up signs in this little town where everybody knew each other? A shiver of unease ran through him, which he dismissed as he entered the section of town where he grew up.
While his parents had worked for the state and had always had enough to get by, the other people in the neighborhood had not fared as well. Heinz could still remember the long lines to the soup kitchens, his neighbors waiting patiently, their bowls in hand, to get the watery soup that would be the only meal of the day. Unemployment lines also had stretched out down the streets of town.
But that was before the Führer, Heinz thought with pride. The Führer had brought back prosperity to the Fatherland. He had not only corrected the mistakes of the Versailles Treaty, retaking the lands that legally belonged to the Germans, but he had built modern autobahns and bridges throughout the country, replacing Germany’s crumbling streets with one of the finest highway systems in the world. He had rearmed Germany and had created jobs for everyone. Yes, Hitler had taken poverty out of the country and had put all the hungry and desperate people to work, giving them back their pride and dignity. He was the one who had turned it all around. “In my heart,” Heinz thought, “I truly believe in the Führer.”