For the Love of My Nazi
A tale of love, loss, and the prejudice that cant withstand true love.
Warning: The views of the characters in this story do not reflect my views. I love Jews. Ha-ha. That rhymed!
"You're nothing. Your country is everything," my father would say. He would puff on his pipe nonchalantly, the smoke turning his thin lips a pale grayish color, making him look worn and withered. His hair was wispy on his head, his small liver spots looking more visible with each passing day. But I loved the way he looked at me. That was one thing I always liked about him. He always looked at me with such pride and I knew his expectations of me were high. But too high. I knew this, though he'd never know it.
My father hated anything different. Which may have been why he hated the Jews. Or maybe his heart was just hardened by the fact that a Jew killed his mother. Either reason, hate them he did. And as I child, I observed his curses, his angry rants on all things Jewish and Jew-like. But I never really understood. I never really understood why my father, a man of much compassion, with such a caring nature, could hate anything.
Despite the beliefs of many, my father wasn't as cold hearted as he seemed. Carlisle Cullen, was a good man. Or at least in my eyes. But he always warned me each day before I departed, "Stay away from those no good filthy Jews."
And I always nodded, though I knew I wouldn't obey his direct orders. Because the truth was, my best friend, Isabella was a Jew. And I liked her. I was only 8, race didn't matter to me. And when I looked into her crystal clear brown eyes, all I saw was my friend. She wasn't some filthy Jew. At least she wasn't like the ones my father talked about. She wasn't one of the ones that were "just here until someone got the right idea to execute them all," as my father would say.
No, Isabella Yadin was my very best friend. And she deserved to live. She deserved it more than I did.
I remember the summer I turned 9. My mother, Esme, got me a bicycle. And it was the best bicycle I'd ever laid my eyes on. And Isabella just had to see it! She would be so jealous! So I rode it over to her house, but that's when I found my father shouting at the top of his lungs, his face a once pale peach, now a red tomato. He was cursing Isabella's parents, while she hid unsuccessfully behind her fathers pants leg.
Seeing me, she scurried over and hugged me tight, sobbing into my shoulder as she did. My father turned around outraged at the sight before him. Looking into his fury ridden eyes, I shoved Isabella from me, effectively knocking her to the ground.
"Filthy Jew." I muttered, turning my back on her.
"Edward…?" she whispered, looking up at me with tears in her eyes.
"Why are you still here? Nobody likes your kind." I never saw her face contort in such pain. And even at 9 years old, I knew I'd gone to far. But I wanted to please my father. And that's exactly what I did. I pleased him.
He grinned entirely too huge in my direction and smiled.
"That's my son."
My heart stopped cold in my chest at that moment. Because in that moment, my father called me something he never called me before.
He called me his son.
I never saw Isabella Yadin ever again after that day. That is, until I discovered her and her entire family hidden in an underground warehouse 17 years later. Until I became a cold blooded Nazi, and she a helpless Jew.