Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 195: “Where they burn books, they will also burn people.”

Berlin.

3 February 1937

The streets of Berlin were clean, orderly, and cold.

Snow clung to the iron fences of the Oranienburgerstraße neighborhood, once bustling with cafés, now quiet.

In the Weiss household something changed their present future altogether and it was in the mail.

Miriam Weiss, a mother of three, stood at the dining table holding a brown envelope with a black eagle seal.

The edges were crisp.

The name on the front.

Dr. Samuel Weiss her husband.

But the contents inside were not crisp.

They were crumbling.

Samuel, once a pediatrician at St. Hedwig’s Hospital, now ran a small private clinic barely tolerated, his license questioned monthly.

He opened the letter with calm.

Then he read it.

And said nothing.

Miriam’s voice trembled. "Is it the medical council again?"

Samuel folded the letter slowly, hands shaking just slightly. "They’ve ’re-evaluated’ my status. Jews may no longer practice in Aryan clinics. My license is revoked. Permanently."

From the doorway, their eldest son Daniel, fifteen, stood frozen.

He had learned not to ask questions but he listened to everything.

Miriam reached for Samuel’s hand. "What now?"

"We find other ways," he said. "Quietly. I’ll see patients from here."

"They’re watching the apartment," she whispered. "They always are."

Later that afternoon, Daniel walked home from the library, books hidden beneath his coat.

A red placard was nailed outside the bakery next door.

"Aryan-Owned. Buy German."

He passed his old school.

New rules were posted.

"Jews may not attend after March 1st. Aryan spaces must be preserved."

Inside, children played.

Outside, Daniel stood in silence.

He thought of his teacher, Herr Blum, who had once praised his writing.

Now, Blum avoided eye contact entirely.

He saw his friend Erik across the street and raised a hand.

Erik hesitated, looked around, and then quickly ducked into a doorway.

At dinner, the family spoke quietly.

Rachel, eleven, asked if she could go to piano lessons.

"Not anymore," Miriam said gently. "Frau Lehnert says she’s... full."

"She used to say I had promise," Rachel murmured.

"She did," Samuel said. "But she also has Aryan clients."

Their youngest, Eli, asked why his friend Otto hadn’t come by.

"He’s... busy," Miriam lied.

Eli’s voice was small. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," she said. "They did."

That night, a knock came.

Three hard raps on the door.

Samuel opened it to find two men in black coats.

SS.

"Dr. Weiss?" the taller one said.

"I’m no longer permitted to practice," Samuel said quickly.

"We’re not here for your license. Just an inspection."

"Inspection of what?"

"Your home. Your library. Your guests."

Samuel stepped aside.

Miriam held Rachel tight.

Daniel stood stiff.

One SS man thumbed through bookshelves.

Another opened desk drawers.

"Zionist literature?" he asked.

"Religious only," Samuel said. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

"And the Vossische Zeitung?" the officer asked, holding a newspaper.

"It’s not banned."

"Not yet," the man said.

They left without another word.

But they left the door open.

At synagogue that Shabbat, pews were half-empty.

The rabbi’s sermon was short.

"They remove our rights in ink, but we remain in flesh. As long as we walk this city, as long as we remember who we are, we endure."

Daniel listened, his fists clenched.

Not in prayer, but in confusion.

Outside, three boys in brown shirts walked by and spat at the synagogue steps.

No one stopped them.

The next day, the Weiss family had guests the Rosenthals, who lived two floors up.

David Rosenthal had once been a lawyer his practice shuttered in 1936.

His wife Leah brought homemade bread, and their son Jonah sat with Daniel.

"My father wants to leave," Jonah whispered. "But there’s nowhere to go."

"We have cousins in Palestine," Daniel said. "My father says it’s getting harder to get papers."

"I heard someone at synagogue say the Americans are closing their doors," Jonah replied. "Too many of us, they say."

In the kitchen, the adults spoke in hushed tones.

"They took Hirschberg yesterday," David said. "The printer."

"Why?" Samuel asked.

"He was printing prayer books. Hebrew texts."

"That’s legal."

"Not anymore. They say Hebrew is ’subversive.’"

The next morning, a woman from the building across the courtyard was dragged into a truck.

No explanation.

Her daughter screamed.

No one intervened.

Samuel closed the shutters.

That afternoon, the Weiss family visited the Baums, an older couple known for hosting holiday dinners.

The Baums’ apartment was cluttered with books, candles, and photographs of distant relatives.

"I remember when this neighborhood was all laughter," Mrs. Baum said softly. "Now I hear doors closing more than I hear songs."

"My nephew in Danzig says things are worse there," Mr. Baum added. "Shops smashed. Men arrested in daylight."

"And here, it creeps like smoke," Miriam said. "You don’t know it’s there until you’re choking."

That evening, Daniel and Jonah walked the neighborhood.

They passed the Mendelsohn house shutters closed, mailbox stuffed.

They had left.

Or disappeared.

"We should leave too," Jonah said.

Daniel shook his head. "Where? To be rejected again? My father says we must survive. Stay quiet. Endure."

"But for how long?" Jonah asked.

Daniel had no answer.

On 8 February, a notice was posted on every apartment door.

"All Jews must register family property with local authorities by March 1st. This includes jewelry, art, savings, and heirlooms. Failure to comply will be prosecuted."

Samuel read it twice.

Then he turned to Miriam.

"They want the gold before they take the rest."

Miriam nodded. "They’re building the fire," she whispered. "And they’re starting with the quiet wood."

That night, the Weiss children slept in one room.

Miriam and Samuel sat by the window.

"Should we go?" she asked.

Samuel looked at the snow-covered streets, silent

"I don’t know anymore," he said. "But I know we must not disappear without memory."

In the basement, Daniel unpacked his books.

He paused at one.

Heinrich Heine.

"Where they burn books, they will also burn people."

He looked around.

They hadn’t burned anything yet.

But the matches were in their hands.