What had brought them together was a shared distaste for the social policies of Adolf Hitler. They used the mimeograph machine in the apartment to put out pamphlets with titles like “The Truth About National Socialism,” “What Hitler Intends,” and “Europe—Wake Up!” in six different languages, which they distributed to anyone who would read them. Since the members had little else in common, and their politics ranged from monarchist to communist, their meetings often dissolved into shouting contests, enlivened with occasional fisticuffs. Apparently, no one ever got seriously hurt, and the meetings broke up with everyone joining in the beer of forgiveness at the corner bierstube and agreeing that fighting Hitler was more important than fighting one another. Their ages ranged from the early twenties to the late seventies, with those years over fifty predominating. None of them looked like they had ever done any heavy lifting. A gaggle of them were gathered in that apartment, spilling out into the hallway and the apartment across the hall, when Brass and I returned to the scene of the crime at about nine that evening.
