The Nazis, Vigilantes and Me

A typical winter Saturday in small town, former Eastern Germany: grey, cold, nondescript. At least, until I accidentally walk straight into a Nazi demonstration.
And I’d only wanted a loaf of bread.
The atmosphere is haunting, filled with fear and unexorcised ghosts. The protest has not yet descended, but the streets are already littered with people, crowds of hundreds. These are just normal townsfolk, “anti-Nazis”, if you will: vigilantes gathered to actively voice their opinion against this whole charade. Some are dressed up for the occasion, adorned in painted faces and loud cartoon costumes. A swarm of bright yellow Teletubbies stride past with sombre faces, determinedly holding handmade signs proclaiming “Nazis? Nein Danke!” Mothers have brought hoards of children to the occasion, teenagers are setting off sirens, elderly men are smoking cigars and shaking sticks, faces contorted with anger. Surreal is not the word.
I’m afraid. I feel like I shouldn't be here, but I cannot leave. Within minutes, hoards of riot police emerge, ghostlike, quickly and silently blocking off parts of town with vans and shields. Their faces are blank and identical. I am trapped with the crowd of locals. I have no choice. Like them, I wait.
They arrive slowly, one by one, a funeral procession all in black. They smirk at their audience, brandishing signs of hatred above their heads. They are mainly teenagers, eyes hardened, hoping for a fight. A fight that can never happen; the riot police swarm them like bees. They have no choice but to walk, eerily silent as they shuffle. The crowds go wild, shouting and screaming.
We’ve gone back in time. I don't feel here; I can't believe I'm here. It's 2012. Ugly reminders of the past are still openly striding past in black, ripping off old scars with their arrogance. The town is angry, and united in their pain. Decades later, they still want to make this statement. I understand.
Like everyone else, I cheer when the protest leaves town.