Broken Glass

Each morning, Otto swept the bricks on the little corner outside his little flat in his little town. He loved his idyllic town, one that would have fit tidily in one of the Brothers Grimm tales.

But today, as the bells of his parish rang, Otto stepped outside and had to clutch his hat against the gathering storm. Still, it was not yet so bad, and he went about his routine, sweeping the dust and dirt from the cobblestones.

Amongst the church bells came another jingle.

“Evening, Saul,” Otto said.

His neighbor bowed his head, beard blowing in the wind, “I respect your toil.”

Otto smiled and went back to his sweeping. “I do what I can to keep this place clean, little as it is.”

Another harsh gust of wind blew through their humble street, and Otto hid behind the fringe of his jacket. To his surprise, Saul stood firm against it, intently surveying the darkening horizon. His attention on the horizon, Otto stumbled on the curb, but a strong, friendly hand caught him before he could fall into the road. With a small, kind smile, Saul helped Otto to his feet.

“You should get inside, Saul. That storm looks to be a bad one,“ Otto said, returning to his sweeping.

“Ah, my friend, I’ve weathered more storms than you know. This is but the latest.”

Otto gave no reply. Satisfied, he set his broom down and went inside. After all, what could he do to keep such a storm from their little, idyllic town?

It arrived in the dark of night, ravaging their idyllic streets. Otto tried in vain to block out the sounds, but his feather pillow could only do so much. He was no fool, though, and he agreed with Saul. These storms came and went, and very soon, things would return to normal in his little, idyllic town.

Otto rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he picked up his broom. The street beyond his little door was devastated, and the storm clouds still hung menacingly above. Still shocked at the sight beyond his door, Otto began sweeping the bits of broken glass from between the cobblestones. Saul stood outside, staring back at his shop window. The wind whistled through the empty, broken panes that fronted his shop. As Otto swept, Saul reached in and pulled out a palm-sized rock, turning it silently in his hands. Otto paused his sweeping, searching in vain for words of comfort. Before he could say anything, Saul shook his head silently and disappeared up into his flat.

The next storm came throughout the following day in all of its self-righteous fury. Otto hid in his small cooking nook, doing his best to ignore the bangs and shouts from outside. He had lived in his little, idyllic town his whole life; what was there to fear from this storm? It would come to pass as all things did.

Emerging from his little flat, Otto found more glass covering the cobblestones, and now the smell of smoke clung heavy in the air. He watched as a group of his neighbors stood in front of what remained of the deli a little further up the little street. Scorch marks reached all the way to the top of the triangular timber skeleton. Saul was nowhere to be found, yet even more glass lay on the cobbles in front of his storefront. Otto began to sweep.

Bang!

Otto jumped as a gust of wind slammed Saul’s door against its frame, the handle broken and unable to latch securely.

“Hello?” he said sheepishly into the storefront. No response came. Against his better judgment but now overcome by curiosity, Otto’s feet carried him up into the flat. The only features that distinguished Saul’s flat from Otto’s own were the haphazardly discarded belongings the storm had littered across the floor. Trunks lay overturned, and feathers from a torn mattress swirled. Otto took another step, and a brass candle holder skidded across the floor. Leaning close, Otto recognized it as one of the nine matching holders on the Menorah Saul always had above the hearth. Sighing, Otto began to sweep.

For days, above and around them constantly, the storm persisted. It had become tolerated and even accepted as a part of Otto’s little, idyllic town in the same way the burned timbers and cracked windows were.

Otto stepped outside as he did every day, broom in hand.

He paused.

A faded yellow notice was hammered into his door. Over and over again, he read its words, first not comprehending them, then not believing them. It stated plainly and bureaucratically that he would have to report for questioning about his involvement in subversive activities.

Otto sighed and swept as he watched the storm he now realized had not come from the horizon but from these very same cobblestone streets. The storm clouds coalesced on the corners in their black and brown uniforms, and Otto knew the faces of these boys, for they had all grown up in the winding streets of this little, idyllic village. Up and down his once quiet street now hung a score of menacing red and black banners. Upon the doors that had not so openly allied themselves with the storm hung matching faded yellow notices.

A boy approached as Otto swept his once little, idyllic street outside his little corner flat. Laughing at him, hunched and elderly as he was, the boy pushed Otto to the ground before he could raise his voice in defense. Without a word, without a smile, he smashed Otto’s broom on the bricks of his flat. The boy walked away as uncaring as he had arrived, and no friendly hands helped Otto to his feet.

The next day, more bits of broken glass littered the cobblestones, yet no one came to sweep them.

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A/N:

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