THIS STORY HAS BEEN SLIGHTLY EDITED TO MAKE MORE SENSE!
AND LONGER CHAPTERS!
I HOPE YOU LIKE THE CHANGES!
Hello! (Or should I say Hallo?) I commend you for clicking on my story! I've strayed away from my mafia obsession for a lil, although I have two more coming out and another Kenny/Kyle (a oneshot this time) waiting to be completed, and INSTEAD have decided to write a Holocaust fic. There's no better pairing for this story to revolve around than the bastard neo-Nazi himself and his favorite Jinger Jersey Joo friend/rival. I love to read Kyman, believe me… but I've never written a Kyman fic because let's get real here… it takes an awful lot of talent to get that pairing down perfectly. I'm gunna try as hard as I can, so don't yell if the update's are slow!
Anyway, the inspiration for this story came because, ironically, school's back in session aaaand I'm taking a semester course on the Holocaust. I'm going to make this story my top priority, at least for as long as I have the class, but after I'm out I don't know how much I'll update. I WISH I could promise you a chapter every week, but if I did that they'd most likely be all different lengths and inconsistent chapters annoy me when I read, so I wouldn't wanna do the same to you all. I don't wanna make this story super long just for the fast that I NEED it to be finished under all circumstances, but at the same time I do want it to be a looooong romance story, soooo we'll see.
Anyway, any questions, comments, or concerns about the A/N, please PM me or review and enjoy the first chapter! No short, teasing prologues for this baby!
Summary: Past and present collide in a swirl of conflicting outlooks when South Park's twelfth grade English class must study the tragic historic events that plagued Germany and the coutnries it conquered when WWII broke out. An autobiography assigned to Kyle and his friends called Realität des Völkermords, is a translation of a spoken tale from a man who survived the Holocaust. Although long dead, the man tells of a romance forbidden by God, his people, and the one's who enslaved and murdered millions, between the captured Jew himself and the Nazi General that ran his camp. Bright as Kyle is, he catches on to the similarities and questions his own feelings for his friend/rival Eric Cartman. Kyman. Other pairing implied but not really acted upon.
Rated M for a reason, I don't own South Park. If I did, it wouldn't be the South Park I love today because I'd corrupt it with yaoi goodness haha
Be prepared for a history lesson or two… or a lot. I'm a huge history nerd. Like, terribly so.
In this chapter, there's only introductions.
Warnings: Cursing, implied sexual acts, sexual content, not for anyone under 56. ..
Reality of Genocide
Chapter 1: Genocide
After listening to the brief explanation of what to busy ourselves with from our teacher, I reluctantly open my tattered notebook that I've been using since the beginning of the school year. I can't describe enough how angry I've become just at the mere mention of that word… it means such a great deal to me and all my people. As I chew lightly on the eraser top of my pencil, it doesn't take long for my quick mind to form the words nor my hands to write them out. Before I mark something down I'll instantaneously regret, I take one last drawn out look at what's written on the green chalkboard in front of the classroom and a few deep, calming breaths later I'm jotting down exactly how I feel about, not the word itself, but the terrible meaning and impact that one word can have.
When speaking of wars fought by people of all the generations of Earth, it's nearly nonpolitical in degree to not mention genocide. That's all warfare is—mass killings of the people another civilization doesn't get along with or hates for unfathomable reasons just to obtain something they want. Take into consideration American history and that's all we've ever done. The English killed off the Native Americans (first it was unintentional: Small Pox, Influenza, etc. They brought diseases that the Natives didn't have an immunity to.) because when they invaded the coasts of Pennsylvania and Virginia, they were forcing their way into the "New World" and not giving the Natives, the rightful owners of the land, any choice in the matter. And we can say, well, the Indians believe that the land belongs to everyone so they shouldn't have been offended at all by it, but really, what they did was ignorant. As time went on the Natives started to realize, 'hey, these people are down right hostile and are killing off our people, they call us savages when they're the ones being so vigorous, so it's time we step it up and demand our right to live on this land' and that inevitably got them killed because they were made up of hundreds of little, unorganized tribes and even with the Frenchmen's helpl, the English had big, thousand men armies. The angry pioneers couldn't have been happy with the Indian retaliation, either. Even though the Natives weren't killed all at once, and were instead seemingly pushed out of their homes and beaten, it's still a form of genocide. There are only a few tribes left, after all.
Still in American history, the Civil War was just as terrible. Historians calculate it to be one of the bloodiest battles ever fought on American soil. Not that there were many fought on this 'sacred' land under the protection of God. The northern Union verses the southern Confederacy, slavery against abolitionists, state against state, brothers fighting brothers! Throw in the Mexicans that are trying to win the land back that was taken from them and the Texans that are out for blood and the people in New York who like to call themselves the "Natives" because they were born in the U.S., but are really just a street fighting gang, and you got one hell of a fight going on there all around. Once again, it was practically genocide.
Then if you move onto WWI and WWII, there are things that happen in those wars… that make the American Civil War look like it was merely a shoot off between rival gangs. Think about it, if a conflict is so massive that it effects all of the world in one way or another, there's gotta be something wrong with mankind to let it get to such a huge problem. I think we should all take a deep breath, drink some tea with a little relaxation serum stirred into it, and think about what we're doing before we do it. Obviously some issues can't be resolved like that, but if we calm down enough to think rationally, we might actually be getting somewhere with it instead of focusing all of our hatred on one certain kind of people and committing genocide.
What sick terminology.
"Describe what emotions pass through you as you read this word to yourself." That's what the original directions were. Not that I mean to disobey her, but if I were to write exactly as she wants me to, she'd probably send me to the guidance counselor to discuss what the hell I've been smokin' and where the sudden burst of anger came from (she'd probably blame steroids—because scrawny nerd boys take pills all the time) then suggest I go to rehab. She'd call my parents… and it would just be an over all bad experience for all of us. Mom may even have heart failure if a teacher told her that her precious straight-A son who never, ever disobeys is causing problems in the classroom.
My race was killed by people who were ignorant and self-righteous, and to some degree either mentally disturbed or brainwashed. I don't think anyone who wasn't effected in some way by murder themselves can really comprehend my feelings. But that's alright because I understand that most people are unaware, and if they aren't they sometimes choose to be just for the bliss of not knowing. Even then though, I can only imagine how real it was for the actual victims of the time.
Even with my tiny, precise cursive handwriting, I fill up the front of a notebook sheet in no time at all—which is ultimately unnecessary because I only need one paragraph's worth of sentences on this topic. What can I say, I'm an overachiever—and very emotional.
In order to rip my mind from everything, I focus my undivided attention on every syllable our teacher forms, every sound she enunciates. "Yes, Kenneth?" I almost forgot about the world outside of my inner thoughts and debates until my teacher's voice crashes like ocean waves against the shore of my eardrums and thrusts my train of thought from my odium's negativity.
Shifting my gaze to Kenny, as it's the only thing I can do to clear my head, I see him rubbing the back of his scalp in uncertainty with a sheepish grin plastered on his sunken face. "What were we supposed to write about again?"
In the seventh grade Ken decided to rid himself of his signature orange parka, like the rest of us did away with our childhood identities, and for the first time since our superhero days we were able to fully understand what the hell he talked about. Since then, although his favorite color still remains, he's never put anything over his mouth to muffle the sound, so his voice now is just Kenny. Sultry, as though the heavens above wanted everything about the McCormick boy to be seductive. Wise, but childish and crackling. Intelligent, but with a hick drawl to it that counteracts. Masculine and misleading all at the same time, like he's two sides intertwining together to make a rather unique McCormick. But that's Kenny for you, perverted in nature, but a genius in maths.
Of course, I can't think of Kenny without my thoughts also jumping to another particularly important character in my life. Stan Marsh is also in my English class, and if there's one thing that's stayed the same through the years, it's our relationship as super best friends. We're always together, and if we aren't then we're constantly texting and calling one another. People in our school don't put us in separate categories, as in, nobody can talk about Stan without dropping something in about me, too, and visa versa. It's always 'Stan and Kyle,' or 'Kyle and Stan' and there just is no one without the other. Some even say we have a secret fling going on behind everyone's back (cough Cartman cough), which isn't the case. Stan's girlfriend Wendy Testaberger can verify that.
Even now, when we're just two measly seats away from each other, he's set his deep blue eyes on me and I, him, shaking our heads at Kenny and mouthing out our own, confidential language that the four amigo's made up in elementary school. Stan gets this glint of amusement in his navy orbs and says in words that only I and our two other friends can understand, "Kenny, dude."
If we weren't in the middle of class I'd let my laughter out, but since we are I chuckle to myself, straight, white teeth glowing in the florescent lighting, "Yeah, Kenny…"
Since I mentioned my two best friends, I might as well put in my two bits about the fourth amigo—Cartman. Eric happens to be in the seat behind me, and sees me interact with Stan. He, like us, knows what we're saying, but isn't much interested. I think he's still trying to figure out what to write for the bell ringer assignment the teacher only gave out to keep us busy while she takes role. Like the three of us, he's changed since we were kids, him more so than any of us, however. His once double chin has lengthened and thinned out, arms and legs are now mostly muscled, and his torso is no longer flabby. Now, he practically looks human. He's almost managed to turn all of his 'baby' fat into rock hard mass through weight training and football practice, and I can say this because in one of our more recent brawls I found that I couldn't beat him with my strength alone—Stan and Kenny had to pull him off of me.
Cartman joined football at the start of high school, and I think he's really miserable about having to stop once he graduates. He enjoys it, as it keeps his mind from other things. Still, his considerable transformation from two hundred fifty pounds of jiggly flab to two-ten of mighty power is almost unbelievable.
Eric and I don't fight as much as we used to. Of course, we only fought so much before because of my uncontrollable temper and his prejudice views of the Jews and his need to control everything like it's his—and also my need to control at least myself. In that way, we're a little alike. Nowadays we look onto ourselves as more of rivals than hated enemies, partially because I've mellowed out and partially because he did too. But still, we do sometimes fight, and it isn't at all measly weak competitions or arguments.
In order to rip my mind from them, I focus back into reality and let the teacher's lexis find me. "You're telling me what the word means to you. Where have you heard this word before? Where have you seen it being used? What are some of the most famous genocide cases you've learned about?" The teacher, Ms. Kiemal, explains. "Just write a few sentences down on what you feel or think about when you see this word."
"So what you're saying is that I need to give you a paragraph about an event like WWII… the Holocaust makes me feel? Ms. Kiemal, there isn't a paragraph long enough." Word, Kenny, word. That's exactly how I feel, only I wasn't straight to the point about it like you.
"Ah, while I approve of your upbeat enthusiasm about doing more work than I actually intended from you for once, I'm glad you brought up the Holocaust, Mr. McCormick. Someone was bound to; I just didn't expect it to be you." An interesting gleam sparkles in her eyes as she leans back against her desk to observe us. She instinctively pulls off her glasses as a means to look us all directly in the eye. From previous experiences, this usually means she's about to say something very important. Her demeanor changes and everything turns serious, in an innovative way. "But yes, young man, that is exactly what I meant."
"Then why not just say that instead of using awkward metaphors?"
"Teachers in Japan never tell their students exactly what they want and only use metaphors. It lets their students take their own perspective of the question and use their own minds, a philosophy I've decided to pick up."
"Is that why everyone over there is so smart and come up with crazy original ideas for video games and movies?"
"Mm… maybe. That also has to do with culture and mannerisms. This act definitely broadens their horizons, but there is creativity throughout the world, not just in Japan."
"Right, like with the Scottish and their sexy kilts."
The class erupts in snickers and giggles, Kenny's a character and even I bust out my own corny laugh. "Please, Kenneth, be respectful. Anyway, it's true that the Holocaust was one of the most famous mass genocides in the modern world, but there are others. Mao Zedong killed sixty-four million Chinese during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, his own people! That's way more than Hitler could've ever dreamed possible. Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin was just a couple million lives less guilty, but he killed people for political reasons during the Great Purge.
"Don't forget about the other horrible things that mankind had done, either. Such as the Egyptian Pharaohs who slaughtered down the number of their Hebrew slaves; some of the Romanian conquests that killed, raped, and enslaved even the innocent; and the kings and queens of old (and even the rulers of countries now) that were assassinated under orders of the most sinister kind.
"The thing you guys have to realize is that all of these people were sick in the head and killed people for the most ridiculous reasons and yet they still ended up killing so many because they were masters at manipulation. It's almost unbelievable that the people didn't rise against these deranged individuals.
"That's why speech classes are so important, and why the president has to be a great speaker. Otherwise, nobody listens to what they say. Hitler's superior speech giving, the emotions he used while he spoke to his people, even possibly the tense he spoke in, all contributed to why people loved hearing him, even now.
"Luckily for me and all of you, Kenneth made the connection that you all should've. I wasn't trying to get you to think about the Great Purge or the atomic bomb we dropped on Hiroshima. I was, in fact, implying towards one of the many genocides that happened in World War II, the deaths of about six million Jews and about five million others orchestrated by Adolf Hitler."
She's so lively during her speech, so direct and forthcoming that we all remain silent as she russles around in one of her big cabinets. You can see it in all of our eyes as we reflect on what just transpired. Yeah, mankind is a selfish, ignorant, tyrannical lot, we've heard that a million times throughout our history classes and internet and local and global news and just about anywhere else we can find past and recent articles on the horrible stuff we, as a human race, often do. A moment later she reemerges from behind the opened cabinet door, an old styled contraption within her grasps.
When I get a better look at it, I realize it's a projector. An ancient one, at that, one that looks like half of a pipe organ and stands on three triangular legs. It's got to date clear back to the eighteen hundreds, which is so incredibly odd and I'm sure half the class has no idea what the fuck this thing is. "Someone hit the lights." As the teacher walks to the front of the room to pull down the paper-like white screen that rolls up to the ceiling when its not in use, Token Black, one of the only colored students in all of South Park, walks over towards the door to cast the entire room into complete darkness.
The clacking of the brown heels Ms. Kiemal wore today drags on as she walks back to the antique. At first I think that something that old shouldn't be able to work properly, if at all, but when the teacher takes the pump in her hands, it works just as well as any projector here in school. A gut-wrenching gasp threatens to escape out of my throat when I see the picture on the screen before me. I nearly jump out of my seat when the huge, unmistakable face of Adolf Hitler meets my eyes.
"I'm well-aware that all of you have learned just about everything about the horrific events that plagued our earth during World War II. Somebody give me a brief summary of what the Holocaust was to refresh everyone's memories."
A few people raise their hands, but the teacher ultimately calls on just one person—the only one person that takes pleasure from talking about this particular event in history, Eric Cartman. "It was the annihilation, the attempted end, to all of the Jewrats that wanted to ruin the German country with their greed and disgusting religion."
The instant that sentence registers in my brain, I'm snapping around to spit in his face, "my people aren't insane pricks who like to murder millions of citizens just because they're a little different. That's the Nazi's, Cartman. That's you." He sets my blood on fire, even when I know he says these types of things to rile me up. Whether he believes them or not it up for debate.
"You lot are a bunch of nasty ginger Jews, too greedy to care what race you fuck up, Kahl."
"Don't belittle my people, fatass!"
"Well, I'm sorry, Kahl. I can't help it if your ugly Jewish family are a bunch of Jersey-born dumbasses that believe a star named after some hobo is a symbol of greatness."
"Gah, Cartman, you fucking—"
That's enough, both of you, or I'll send you to the principal." I grind my pearly teeth in frustration, an endeavor to keep in my rage. Slowly, stiffly, I ease back around in my chair, and reluctantly I keep my mouth shut from sending back a retort. "But, yes, Eric, you're almost correct." I can practically feel his pink tongue poke out at me between his lips in taunt from behind me.
"This man in front of us is obviously Hitler, the man known notoriously throughout the nations as the man who wanted perfection in the German race, and wished to eradicate the "impurities," which not only pertains to the Jews, but also the blacks, the homosexuals, and the ladies of the evening.
"I apologize, this isn't a history lesson, but for the next five months we will be reading and discussing one of my favorite books of all time. It just so happens that this book takes place during the time of and centers on the Holocaust, so I figured a little history review wouldn't hurt.
"He looks so human here, doesn't he?" A moment of a dreaded sense of nostalgia sweeps through the isles of seats. Yeah, he does look... just like anyone else. Minus that creepy mustache, of course. I'm really glad that style of facial hair is now taboo. Before he was Hitler, I'm sure he had a semi normal life, albeit trying to raise himself up the ladder in politics. I think of the family he may have had(that I'm sure I've already learned about but can't place the knowledge coherently where it belongs) who knew him as a child—a child—and also his friends. Ordinary people interacted with him on a daily basis; sold him groceries, asked how his day was going, bandaged his scuffed knees, the works.
My thoughtful brooding is interrupted with, "your favorite book is about the Holocaust?"
"Well, it isn't really so much about the events, as… the portrayed characters. Plus, it's based on a real story so that makes it ten times better."
"So… it's like Anne Frank?"
"No, another autobiography? Those things are so depressing, I don't want to read another one."
"No, no, it's not really like an autobiography at all, either."
"Then… what is it?"
Ms. Kiemal sighs as she looks over the students. The period is almost over, we've wasted the majority of it on petty talking and useless nonsense. "As I'm sure you're all aware, there were many survivors of the Holocaust, each with their own stories to tell. One of the Jewish boys who escaped to America when our soldiers rescued him and the other people in his camp died in 1993, but before he did he wrote a book of his time spent in the concentration camp. It's not the average Holocaust tale, but I don't want to give anything away, so the only thing I can guarantee is that you've never read anything like this before. Plainly speaking, it's a biography."
"As long as it isn't anything like 'The Star of David,' then I'm okay."
"Yeah, I don't want to cry throughout the entire book."
"Oh, I can assure you, you'll cry. But you'll also learn valuable lessons, and hopefully cherish this book for a long time. The name's have been changed, some scenes edited, added, and cut out, but the story still remains. This book will stay with you for the rest of your lives once you've read it."
"If it's so great, why isn't it as famous as Twilight?"
"Twilight's about vampires, it has no connection to this story at all. Except maybe the romance aspects." At this, many of the girls who are suckers for love perk up. I can tell their interests have been peeked. "But this isn't the kind of book… that people typically read. It's… a little edgier. Also, Twilight was made based on the conception of what's popular, and more importantly the audience to which the book would sell the most. Think about it, teenage girls are generally more interested in books compared to their male counterpart, and even their older versions, because it helps them cope with emotions they're otherwise unsure of how to handle. If it weren't for books, most of us wouldn't know of the opinions of people half way across the world and what they deal with on a daily. Circumstances like the trials of women, and even death."
"So it isn't interesting at all?"
"No, no, it's very much so. It's just that this book is… often times in certain places, unacceptable literature. I guess you can use that to describe it. What I mean to say is, the… actions and doings in this book conflict with what most countries and people see as wrong and unholy and abominable. America is one of the few places where this book is actually allowed to be copied, let alone read." The teacher explains as the atmosphere of the room drops to something forlorn.
"So… if it's that bad, why are we going to read it?" Stan speaks.
"Well, Stanley, this class is made up of entirely seniors. You'll all be adults soon if you aren't already, and I feel that even if this book has quite a few scenes that are… risqué, it's one that will have an impact on you so strong that it will stay with you for the rest of your life. And that's what I'm aiming for as an educator."
Nobody utters a sound more as Ms. Kiemal walks to the back of the room to retrieve a cardboard box with a few bends and holes broken into it to show that it's been used for quite a long time. The slam of the box as it hits a desktop pierces through the silence of the space. From the open top I can see the covers of the rows of books placed within the container. "You'll each get your own copy, just one, so take very good care of it. I'd like you to read the first chapter over the weekend, just to get a feel of what it's about. I'll pass these around, and you can look at them on your own time. But please, don't read ahead. At times this book will be so interesting you'll want to keep reading just so you can see what happens next, but try to keep that urge at bay."
Just as she finishes talking, the bell signaling the end of class rings throughout the school. We gather our stuff, taking a minute to grab a book, and before we leave the classroom the teacher wishes us a good weekend, to which we reply the same to her.
As I walk to my locker to get my stuff for the next class, I take a peak at the assigned book. The front cover has a series of numbers, much like those that are engraved in concentration camp dwellers arms to keep track of who they are, partial to prisons where they wear numbers on the backs of their uniforms. A swastika is placed delicately on the right hand corner of the cover, making my blood temperature rise, symbolizing just what this book has in it. There's also a screenshot of a boy… with the curly red hair that only one in every thousand Jews have, with chocolate eyes and a dust of freckles over his cheekbones. Odd, as I imagine this is the main character, but not too many people were red heads during that time in Germany. The publishers must have photo-shopped the picture, though, because colored pictures weren't popular back then.
The title of the book is Realität des Völkermords by Kai Von Hignam, so the boy on the front might be the author. She did say that this book is based off a true story. An odd name in both aspects, but this is German, and a common name for a man in Europe. I don't know how well I'll like this book, but I'll read some of it tonight to see how it is, see if I'll like it.
Reality of Genocide.
BREAK! You're half way through!
"Excuse me, Ms. Kiemal, where did you get that camera thingy?"
"You mean my epidioscope?"
"Is that what that thing's called?"
"Technically, I suppose you can call them that. The correct name for them is opaque, but you can call it a camera thingy if you want."
"Where'd you get it?"
"My grandfather collected old antiques like this, more so as he got older. When he died, he willed them all to me—his only daughter."
"That was nice of him… so you got a slide of Adolf Hitler?"
"Yes, obviously, I showed it off in class."
"Right, right… but… the opaque projector came out way before his time. And it's unlikely anyone created a slide for him to fit. Who would? So… how did you get a picture of him on a slide?"
"I pulled some strings."
"You mean you really have no idea how to reply because you know something's off here and it was most likely the author's fault?"
(Maybe some people still used them around 1930-45).
Prior to the end of the school day Kenny invites me over to his to chill with our other bros, Stan and Eric. I've done it thousands of times before, as I often get asked to go to one or the other two's houses, so I don't hesitate to answer yes, inevitably knowing that no matter where we're at, the four of us will have a kick ass time. That's just how the four of us are, well, sometimes when Eric isn't being a complete dick to Stan, Kenny, and me. We're teenage boys, in our last year of high school, and future men of America!
The halls fill up; people swerve around each other to get to their destination without colliding. It's a case of maneuvering, twisting my body to avoid impact of someone bigger, much less smaller who I might knock over then feel bad for immediately after. My locker may be straight down the corridor from my last period classroom, but it's a workout trying to get there, like I'm climbing a rock wall with no rope to catch me if I fall or crawling through a mile of muck that cakes to my arms and knees, weighing and slowing me down. Okay, so I'm dramatizing it a little, sue me. Getting around this school is a loaded chore.
A color impossible to miss, a color I'm more familiar with than any other, a tall, awkward figure clad in orange supports himself on my locker while he talks to an equally tall, athletic built raven haired boy. My friends, I recognize, but not all of them. "Where's Cartman?" I ask as I approach Kenny and Stan, unable to see any traits resembling his through the crowds of people.
The blond shrugs, widening his crystal blue orbs at me. "Should be coming, but I saw him with his girl earlier so they might be hangin'." Oh, yeah, Eric's girlfriend, Red. Her real name's Rebecca but everyone calls her by her nickname because she's pretty with auburn hair and hazel eyes and a slim build with C cups—almost too pretty for the fatass, or so I think until I bear in mind how much he's changed over the years. Six three, two hundred ten pounds of muscle, and dark, mysterious eyes to top it all off. His teeth are straight, white, perfect after wearing braces for three years in middle school, his hair frosted, much like it was in his metro-sexual days, but only because his girl Red made him for Homecoming. How I can recall all of these facts without him in front of me is of no surprise as I always pay attention to my surroundings, but it's a little strange that he's not here yet.
"Should we wait for him?" I waste no time in opening my red locker to put away my stuff and grab my backpack, which I fill with homework to the maximum amount it can carry before zipping it up and slamming the door closed. A chain reaction of locker door slamming echoes off the walls around us, but we pay no mind, as it's the norm. Mixtures of women's perfume and men's Axe body spray streams into our noses, but once again it's okay. We're used to the headaches it and the noise limits they exceed brings to us.
I can barely hear Kenny's answer over everything else, but still, I retained my ability to translate his mumbling from when we were kids, so I know he's replied in the negative. No, we shouldn't wait for him because he's definitely with Red and won't be joining us after school today.
Damn. Ask me six years ago if I could handle Cartman leaving our group of friends, and I wouldn't care. Not at all. But he's grown on me, like my hair has. It kept growing and eventually the hatred I had for my long hair died a little day by day as I got used to it. Now I'd hate to get it cut, as I'd hate for Eric to ditch me now. The two other boys look a little off, a little down, and I'm sure the guy's feel the same as I do without me having to ask them.
It's like an emotional attachment to a blanket or a stuffed animal, although Eric is far from a harmless plush.
It's an unwritten rule in our Oral Friendship Code that I always take shotgun when Stan's driving, and vice versa, although sometimes, like today, I let Kenny sit up front. I needed more room for my bookbag, anyway. What would've normally taken us twenty minute to walk, we made it to Shakey's in less than five in Stan's car. Shakey's was closed for a number of month in my childhood for rats and cockroaches, but opened back up once the health department marked it acceptable… acceptable as in, clean enough to not catch anything from the food you eat. It's still pretty dirty, in fact, I can't tell the difference from before and after. But that hasn't stopped it from being one of our favorite hang out spots.
"We should come up with some crazy exciting story about how awesome our day went to make Cartman jealous that he isn't here." Kenny jokes as we walk into the restaurant, the bell hanging from the door ringing in our ears. The smell of grease, the sounds of the cable TV, the sight of dirt and food crumbs on the floor, the feel of a mystery sticky substance stuck on the table top, all are familiar. All are a relief, believe it or not.
"You mean lie to him?" I ask, accepting the menu that one of the slutty waitress's, whose name escapes me, passes me. I didn't need to open it, though, to tell her my usual order. Unsweetened tea and the crispiest french fries the cook could fry.
"No," he said after placing his order, too. The customary smirk that belongs solely to Kenny graces his lips, and I falter, almost getting a massive nose bleed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not attracted to him, but damn can he be one sexy beast without even trying. I'm almost jealous. "Just stretching the truth." The sultry, seductive rasp of his voice has me taking back what I thought. If that's the voice he uses on his many female conquests, I am jealous of his sex appeal.
"Right, right, I'll text him now." Stan pulls out his phone, pulls us all in a hug, and snaps a picture of our goofy faces to send to Cartman with the caption under it saying, Jealous of how much fun we're having? To which we all crack up about.
A reply comes a few minutes later, Missin' me that much, Stanley?
As if, fatass. Our drinks come, our food shortly after, in the large amount of time it take Eric to reply to the raven's text message.
Well, you, po' boy and jinger Jew should come up tonight. I'm throwin' a party for Red. You'll get your fill of the day of my sexi as hella body.
"A party?" I ask.
"I guess so," Stan replies.
"Sweet." Kenny drags on, stuffing one of my fries into his mouth.
"Well," I continue, "I'm down." And really, if I'm up for a party, we all are. I'm not the one for social gatherings, but this is different.
A quick text of OK is sent, then we're back to our food. Seemingly inhaling it in an effort to hurry and shovel it all down. Knowing Cartman, he's got booze, and knowing my low tolerance for it, I'll be out like a light after only a couple of drinks and most likely end up crashing at his place, so I need to get home and pack—as do the other two. We're well acquainted with what goes down at Cartman's legendary parties.
Sometime during this night I drank so much alcohol I can barely remember how I got here, let alone how a red solo cup full of a rank, uninviting odor made its way into my outstretched palm or how my arm betrayed me into persuading my elbow into bending and pouring the liquid down my throat.
I can't recall a time I've ever drank this stuff, let alone so freaking much of it—I'm diabetic, afterall.
Yet, somehow, satisfying.
The sluggish state I've resolved myself to is annoying, but welcome this night. In the words of Kenny, it's time to let loose all of one's worries and just have a great time. I never thought I'd stoop so low as to be determined by my peers. Underage? Who cares. Low alcohol tolerance? A concern at the bottom of my list right now. Seeing Eric go up the stairs with Red all alone presumably to do the nasty? For some reason, perfectly okay in my mind to go follow.
I try to walk up the stairs all nonchalant and stable at least to someone a couple yards away who can barely make out my face let alone how I'm walking, but by the time I get up to the third step out of fifteen people start to notice. I hear whispers of, 'oh my god, is Kyle actually drunk?' and, 'there's a first for everything, that's for sure.' There are more, but every single one of them is ignored in favor of my influenced objective. Also, I could been hearing things. Not just my words are slurring.
However, my disregard for them is short lived as none other than Stan Marsh rushes to assist me up the obstacle's path. "Never thought I'd actually see you drunk, friend." He jokes, taking my arm and putting it around his shoulder. His other hand sneaks behind my back to take hold of a belt loop. One measly belt loop isn't gunna hold me up! It'd rip first, and then I'd... then I'd fall. My life is too short lived, I don't want to fall to my doom three steps below me! "You're not going to fall, calm down, Kyle." Oh, I must've said that out loud. Must've sounded like a dumbass. "Yeah, but hey, big tough football player's got your skinny ass, 'kay?"
"'Kay." I smile humbly and goofily, probably blushing from the embarrassment and influence.
Stan just looks at me, unabashed, and drags me up the carpeted steps beside him. We walk a little ways down the hallway to pause before a closed door when we hear irate voices on the other side. Both of us keep quiet in order to listen, in case it's an argument we (as in Stan) would have to intervene in.
"-this! You're a pig!"
"Don't take it as a rejection."
It takes my disabled motor skills a few seconds longer than normal, and longer than Stan's I'm sure, to recognize that the voices belong to Cartman and Red. Nothing more is said, unless they're whispering, until a squeeking doorknob twists and the hinges bend in movement. Red, living up to her name, is flushed in what I assume to be anger. Her brown eyes penetrate mine with a huff, and just as quickly, she stomps down the stairs to a place we can no longer see her. I didn't even have enough time to ask her if she is okay. Then again, she'd probably tell me to butt out, anyway.
"Cartman?" I slur.
The door isn't opened wide enough for me to see him, but he lazily strides out after a few more seconds, surprised to see our faces. "What are you two faggots doing? Did you finally confess your infatuated love, Jew?"
Being drunk does nothing to stop my anger, no matter how hard I try to swallow it down. It's nothing, it's just a joke. I don't really have feelings of the romantic nature for my best friend and I'm sure everyone believes me. I reason with myself, draw in deep breaths, and glare instead of argue.
"Why are you outside my bedroom? I bet you assholes were hoping to get an earful of Red's hot as hell moans while I pound her into the wall?"
Aaaaaaand something in me snaps. "Cartman! You fucking lunatic, I'm gunna kick your ass!" I jump after him, a very uncoordinated and clumsy maneuver. Stan tries to grab my arm to pull be back before I can attack, but the moderate amount of alcohol he's had also slows his reflexes. Besides, I'm unpredictable. I launch myself at the object of my unadulterated fury! I stumble into him pretty solidly which makes my head spin, but my formed fist takes a blind swing despite it. I think I knock him in the chin, but all further attempts of my assault on the monster are suspended when Stans arms restrict mine behind my back. I make one final attempt and, using the strong grip on my arms as momentum, my converse covered foot lands a semi-okay kick to his midsection. I'm too far away for any further physical attacks.
"Are you drunk, Kyle?" He doesn't even drawl my name out in his usual way, astonishment evident in his tone.
I retort with a growl, "drunk enough to still rip you a new one. Not drunk enough to put up with your shit."
"Humph. You look like you could pass out at any se-"
I don't even feel the bile stinging my throat as I upchuck not only down my shirt and on the carpet, but some also makes it as far as to land somewhere upon Cartman. No, I don't even feel the ache in my belly—only the sweet, sweet victory.
I die laughing.
When I get home the next day, the first thing I do is shower. I can't shower at Cartmans, not after the time his mother walked in on me. The emotional scar still lingers... So, when I woke up in Eric's bed and dressed in clothes that weren't mine, I thanked the bastard (I slept away any memory of our previous engagement) and quickly gathered my things to leave. I could smell the bile before I saw it, and if I needed any further proof, the gritty foul taste and smell in my mouth was enough to knock out an entire room.
Afterwards, I take a few minutes to figure out what to do, opting for homework, but then I remember the book. I can't remember where it's at at first, but then I also recall my overstuffed bookbag. The second I unzip it, papers and binders and books spring out like a jack in the box and scatter across my floor. Cursing, I bend over to gather them all up and put them in a stack next to my bed. My assigned book is the last thing I grab before settling on my stomach and examining the book.
The cover is still the same as I remember. Swastika, black and white turned colored portrait, the tattooed number, and the Star of David all delicately placed on the cover, all fitting perfectly in some artistically organized collage.
Realität des Völkermords
Told in German by Kai Von Hignam
Translated and Recorded by Naomi Pearce
Always meticulous and precise, I almost dread making the very first crease in this new issue of the paperback. As it is, I have to so that the thicker cover page doesn't flop back over and I lose my place and patience. I'm gentle with the copy, treating it as if it is feeble as a tissue, as I press my thumb over the binding to fold it back. Dusty airstreams with the fragrance of a new book waft into my senses, one of my favorite smells in the world, which may be part of why I visit libraries so often, or it could be that it's one of my favorite smells because of libraries. Either way, I love books.
Green eyes scan analytically over the title page first. Why the manufacturers reprint the title onto a separate page in the book is something I'll never understand. Fortunately, I don't stay on that page for very long until I'm turning it again to a new page.
The next sheet is the dedications, to which I find myself reading over twice just to make sure I didn't miss a thing.
This story is dedicated to the many souls who've perished and suffered in the Holocaust—may Judith bless the families of the deceased and the survivors—and to those who've chosen to stand against the norm and aren't afraid to be who they are.
And to my love, who also was not afraid.
It's heartfelt—real and sentimental—like how a dedication should be. Usually authors thank their parents or their siblings, a certain person with a specific name that detaches me from the novelist. Like they expect us to know who their mother is and how she's affected his or her life. When I see a dedication from the author to a certain kind of people, as addressed on this page, it helps me connect to the thoughts and opinions of the writer himself. Of course, he mentions his lover, but also tells us so much about him with just a few words.
By letting you see into the very heart of the author, dedications are always worth the read. Five stars for this one, Kai, five stars.
I carry on to the next page.
A few words...
It's appalling, these unforgettable trials of events in history. Proceedings that will stick with us throughout the ages, even as the people who were a part of them die off. The stories will be carried on—every one of them—for generations to come, and hopefully they will be remembered by the last people on Earth, so that these appalling actions of mankind will not be repeated again.
It all started in his cozy living room over a cup of tea and his miraculous violin. Originally I believed it to be another quiet day with a lonely old man in need of some company, so when he turned away from his favored instrument and relayed his tale to me, I was genuinely surprised and immediately intrigued.
"A strike conjures animosity, which breeds plans for vengeance, and when revenge is taken, it only makes more hatred form in the people that a single person has wronged. There is no peace in warfare, though I wish there was so that man nor woman has to feel the pain I've felt, I've lived, I've died with. For I have not taken my revenge, though you would not believe how strong the urge is. Peacetime, salvation, will never come unless people can conquer their emotions and let the strike end with the animosity. Lest genocide become inevitable." -Kai once said this to me as a side note to his tale. A lesson I've learned from his life's story, one that turned me into an active pacifist.
While you're reading, I hope this story brings you, the reader, to your own conclusions of life… your own sense of who you are, and teaches you the greatest value in hope and humanity. Love plays a part in this, but that love is in its purest and darkest forms throughout this story.
Do not be deterred, do not be afraid, do not forget.
This is real, these things have happened. They are the dark romances of the human psyche and of human history, and this is Kai's story.
How very true is Kai's quote. I feel the same, though I'm not against war. Even now, years passed WWII, I feel nothing but anger at the Nazi's and the neo-Nazi's that still exist now.
Naomi must've been closer to Kai than I originally perceived. My mind must be in the gutter today after spending so much time with Kenny, so I shrug away my suspicions and turn the page once more. 'Heh, Kenny…' I think.
Now, it's time for the real story.
Sunlight, brighter than a thousand flames that illumed from the village's nighttime candles, casted its golden morning rays through the slight breaks in the clustered forests that our village dwelled within. The heat it produced threatened to evaporate the droplets that formed overtop the surface of all that slumbered under the moonlit night. Tears of dew glistened on the luscious greens and rooftops they encompass when the light spread its range wider as the day progressed. Time passed and I couldn't hide my face in the comforters any further to get away from the brightness I was subconsciously willing away.
Birds' melodies vibrated irately in my ears, piercing. Normally, the gentle chirping would have rustled me awake in the kindest of ways and I'd welcome the sound into my room, but as it was I hardly caught a wink of sleep that night. Something—a mysterious force—compelled me to lie awake in bed long after the red sun had set and the stars became covered in ghostly clouds. In truth, I believe I didn't even really sleep, instead only drifted once or twice, but would jolt back awake a minute later by seemingly nothing at all. Which explains why, then, the noise made my head ache in pain.
The soft plushness of the material I laid upon beckoned me never to move again, and I very nearly listened, but the responsibility of my morning chores weighed on my shivering shoulders and called to me greater than the pleasant warmth of my bed. Relishing in one more moment of complete comfort, I summoned all of my will to persuade my body into action. Goosebumps formed along my skin as it exposed itself to the elements. Out of habit, I opened the one window I had in my bedroom and forgot to shut it again after bathing the night before, hence the morning chill.
Subsequent to stretching my muscles, popping my joints, and bending my bones, I was finally able to produce some form of energy when a flash of red slammed through my solid, wooden door. Red that one such as I could never forget, even though she is long dead. My mother had the most vibrant crimson hair our village had ever seen; in any kind of light, it shined pink and orange, a rebellious flame in the center of the greatest darkness. Wetted by her evening bath, it looked as though blood literally cascaded down her back. It was a rarity and incredibly astonishing to me that I received the same curly hair as her, only mine a variation of her color as it was a little more coppery than scarlet.
I had obtained a good many of my features from my mother. My chestnut hair, chocolate-green eyes, high cheekbones, and pale, freckled skin all came from her. I had a few reasonable qualities from my dad, however, and one's I'd rather not have, like my lanky physique, bony hands, and the insufferable gap between my two front teeth. My parents always told me that each attribute gave me character, and I wish now that I paid more mind to my well-being because having a gap was much more bearable than having no teeth at all.
"Get up or you'll be late to school, Kai-koff." Even since I was a minuscule lad, my mother had always said that prefix with my name, sort of like a cute nickname for her "cute little boy." Inside I dreaded it, the embarrassment I felt when she referred to me as such facing company would make my entire upper body heat up, my skin to take a pinkish shade which was very noticeable considering how white my skin was, and I'd curse the day I was born with such a mother. On the exterior I'd smile at the name, welcome it, all to not aggravate the upset.
I lived to impress my mother, my father. They were my life, the reason I did the things I did. They taught me right from wrong, fed me well, kept the house warm for me. Up until I turned nine, they were my mentors, my teachers, since I was homeschooled. They may have been strict, they may not have understood me the way I wished they did, but I would've done anything for them. I loved them.
When I was eight, I got a new neighbor, and I would constantly find myself watching him from out my window. I wanted to meet him and make him my first official friend, but his parents sent him to public school so there was no way, as a home-bound rascal, that I'd be able to play with him. I had a plan, however, so in order to be closer to him, to make my first ever friend, I no longer wanted my parents to tutor me. It took a lot of convincing. I never knew exactly why until a few years later once the teachers started teaching the new curriculum, but I was never angry about it. In fact, as long as I had my friend, I didn't care about what was going on in a world that seemed so far away from my own. My parents were too overprotective, but they eventually came around and he and I became inseparable. I was able to be with my friend always.
He was there that morning, waiting on my front steps just like he does every morning, even when there wasn't any school. After I got ready—brushing my teeth, washing my face, and changing my clothes had only taken a couple of minutes—I rushed down the stairs. There were few Jewish families at that time who had the dignity to keep their poster of Hitler off their walls, and unfortunately, mine was no different. As I took one cautious step down after another, I stared at him, him back at me as if he'd come to life at any second, jump right out of two-dimensional space and condemn me for my religion, hate me, take me away and kill me for believing in Abraham. There were only twelve steps to the second floor, but it might as well have been twelve hundred with how slow I walked down them. He'd struck fear into the hearts' of us all, but people like me most of all.
I eventually reached the front door, tossing on my polished school shoes and windbreaker, all the while fearing what that day would bring. The sight of our leader's face first thing in the morning always gave me the creeps. I grabbed one last thing before deciding not to dwell on it any longer. Without further ado, I opened the entryway and was greeted with the caring brown eyes of my best friend.
"Guten morgen, Kai." He pulled me in for a hug, as he always did, which I accepted and returned. We released each other and I gave him the biggest, brightest smile I could muster at the time.
I forced on my replacement, my worn out hat and favorite possession, of my kippah over my curls. Sometimes I'd wonder if it was because I'd had it since I was a tike, or if it, in some way, was actually a metaphorical barrier to hide my Jewish heritage. Either way, there were other means to identify my religion, such as my stereotypical curls or the yellow Star of David I was legally inclined to sew into all of my shirts. "Sven! Hallo, how are you this morning?"
"Freezing. I woke up in bed with frost in my hair." Even with our jackets it was rather chilly out, shivers racked our bodies with each and every passing breeze. In our houses as well, it was cold. Not for lack of fire wood or coal, but for one law that was annually reinforced by the one person assigned to our neighborhood to ensure there was no light in any of the houses, so that overhead aircrafts that flew only at night could not see our village.
"Damn Storm Troopers… If it weren't for them we could be cozy in our family rooms with a burning fire, roasting nuts and waking up to melting coziness instead of stiff bones and frosted hair." We shared a laugh, warming our hearts just a bit.
We started walking in silence down the dirt and gravel road, eventually hitting pavement, until one of us broke it. "Do you want to be bombed? Because I sure don't. That reminds me…"
The tone of his voice was so forlorn and detached that I dreaded asking him what was on his mind. Looking back now, I shouldn't have. I should've just ignored him and continued on with our walk to school and let him forget about what he was saying, but I didn't. "…What is it?" I institute, not knowing the full consequences such a loaded question would bring me.
"Well… They visited my neighbor this past night." It was almost an instant reaction, my awareness of what he spoke of. There's only one thing, one organization, he could be referring to and that was never a good thing. Even uttering their name seemed to be taboo at the time. How could it not? If there was one thing we Jews feared more than Hitler, it was the ranks upon ranks of men he controlled, one group in particular. The Gestapo.
"Did they…" Did the Gestapo take her away. That's what I wanted to ask, but couldn't articulate, my voice shrinking as my terror grew.
There was a moment of suffocating quiet that closed around my throat in a vice before he finally announced, "No, they didn't take her away. I believe they were there to scope out her living conditions." Reading his mind as he had read mine, right away I knew my dear friend was referring to something almost unrelated to cleanliness. The Gestapo were there at Ms. Rienger's house to make sure her personal photo of Adolf Hitler was hung up in her family room, make sure it's seen by those living in the adobe to worship. To worship. They were there to assess exactly where her loyalties resided.
To this day, I don't know what possessed me to ask such a question, but I kept my eyes downcast as I said, "Please tell me you don't worship his portrait."
I can't recall now the reason I asked such a laden question, all I can say is the answer made me madder than I should've been. I knew I wouldn't like the answer he'd give, I knew by Hitler's law that my friendship with Sven was forbidden, blasphemy in the eyes of our dictator, and I knew that Sven cared not of my Jewish heritage at the time, but I also knew that he had to carry out a will that was not his own. "…My parents are a different story…"
Where my green eyes had shifted to his brown ones, to make sure I understood his reaction, they once again casted downward to the path we walked upon, watching blasé as our tattered shoes appeared and disappeared from my vision. Amid the hate for what our government had turned into, sadness plagued my heart for my friend, who seemed to be drifting further and further away from me without my permission. I didn't want him to leave my side. If it weren't for the times we were in, he never would've.
Unable to accept what parts of this suspicion I carried could have truth inside, I asked him not to continue. "No, don't say it." I didn't want to acknowledge it.
"Sven, keep your filthy mouth shut. I don't care what they say! You aren't seriously going to do any of it, are you?" All sound swept away by the chilled October breeze as we stopped dead in our tracks. The moment of stillness a much needed part in that conversation. "Are you?" I broke it first. "I thought we were friends, Sven. Don't you remember… when we were children? Hoffnung, Hoffnung aus Alpträume Wirklichkeit."
"Kai, please, we were stupid kids. That saying means nothing now because you know I have to obey so that not a soul has reasonable doubt. You know my parents won't hesitate to turn me in if I didn't… and if they knew I'm still your friend. But you know in your heart as well that I never mean it when I praise him or when I speak flattery onto him." My real anger stemmed from the knowledge that Sven's and my relationship would never be accepted by our neighbors, our friends (if I had any left at the time), our families, nor our country. My real anger formed because of ignorance that directly affected my people and me, ignorance that depicted us as savages unfit for life itself. Our "crime against humanity" for existing, in our leader's eyes, was punishable only by death.
It was something I didn't understand, and yet the hate they had for us came so naturally to them, as if we were the cause of all of their misfortune. As far as I knew, I did nothing to them, nothing personal, that is. I can't remember a single mean thing I've said to them, about them, did anything hurtful to them, or even been in a Nazi soldier's presence, and yet the hate I feel emitting from them even as we spoke of them made me wonder why.
Why do they hate? They hate so many different races, different kinds of people, and it's difficult to accept that it's for the benefit of a brighter future.
What did I do?
Why do they hate me?
It's always the Jews, isn't it?
Always us, and yet I'm starting to think that there's a reason. Maybe we do deserve it, maybe we always have. But why would God curse us to such brutally raw human accusations and trials? Couldn't He just damn us Himself, instead of making us endure such fruitless punishments?
I'd much more gladly accept damnation from Him than from a corrupt leader, and yet perhaps, just perhaps, it was God's plan, after all. To Him, it was probably all some sick joke. We killed His son, so there is no chastisement great enough for revenge.
When I turned my emerald eyes to Sven's brown, I realized I could see into his soul, as if his deepest thoughts were projected out in front of me. A twinkle from the sunlight sparked my instincts to get closer to him, take a closer look, and in that moment I knew without him having to ever say it aloud that he loved me. He loved me for the best friend I was to him, the brother he never had. For that love, that unyielding devotion to me even as our people discriminate against each other (yes, we are all still one people, whether Jewish or Roma or Bolsheviks or colored or blonde or short or missing a leg, we are all still human), I will be forever grateful.
"Yeah," As overwhelmed with the happiest foreboding as I was at the time, as my emotions pulled in opposite directions, I was surprised I could even manage to utter a single syllable as I did. "Yeah, I know."
Together we arrived at school at the same time as always, which was around eight fifteen in the morning, give or take. Sven never really cared much for punctuality, but I made it my responsibility to keep him on task so we always made it inside the classroom before the bell signaling the beginning of the day would ring. Ironically for the time, Sven and I, a Christian and a Jew, had the same homeroom. In the cities there were separate buildings for Jews so that the pureness stayed pure and the corrupt stayed away, and sometimes Jews weren't even allowed to study at all, period, and would have to be tutored under secrecy of night and privacy of home. That had yet to happen in the remote places such as my village, but I knew that sooner or later it would happen and Sven would be forced to leave me behind in his studies.
When things such as that were brought up in conversation between the two of us, he'd pledge promises of sneaking next door to teach me the criteria they covered in school that day, but though I was deeply flattered, I could not let him risk his own safety for my education. I reassured him by saying that if that were to ever happen and I could no longer go to school with him, that I'd use all of my free time in the day to read—to keep up my knowledge base.
My dark haired friend walked into the room before me, but when he should've continued on passed the doorway and to his seat—as it seemed as normal a day as any—he stopped dead.
I didn't realize he had stopped until I had stopped, and when my curiosity as to why was peaked, I stood on my toes and glanced around his shoulder to get a better look at Sven's face. Almost as unnerving as his stillness, a bead of sweat had rolled down his defined jaw from his brow line. I pointedly wondered if the thing that made him so frightened was really worth it, but immediately my concern for my long time best friend overshadowed all others and I placed my own clammy hand on his clothed shoulder.
"Was, Sven? Bist du okay?" German rolled off my tongue in a flurry.
In that moment something clicked in him and he turned his attention back to me. His eyes were a frenzy of dilating pupils and shifting irises as he spoke two words I'd never forget. "Don't panic," he said. "Whatever you do, don't panic."
At first I was confused, what did he mean? Of course, Sven's been known to overreact to many things, especially when it came to the girls he liked, and I figured that whatever was happening I would take it ten times better. Just as I was about to question him, he moved out of my way and ushered me in after him. I barely caught a glimpse of something unfamiliar in the classroom before Sven had taken hold of my hand and redirected my attention back to him.
"I mean it," his voice but a whisper as his warm, warm hand as gentle as the morning breeze squeezed mine in reassurance.
Looking into eyes as blue and as unpredictable as the ocean I've only seen in pictures, I joked. "Am I ever going to see what all the fuss is about?"
But those eyes didn't upturn in laughter. Instead they narrowed almost in agitation for my humor in a time when seriousness was required. With that I gulped down any further comedy, taking in the solemn situation for what it was. "Okay," I nodded finally, to which he responded by letting me go.
The bell rang to cover my loud inhale of oxygen when I saw what I was in store for.
For in the very room I'd never thought one of them would be, right in front, scrutinizing us, looking upon us with sinister intent that I was sure should only be reserved for a person who has done a terrible crime, was a soldier. With his eyes a piercing darkness as black and evil as the things he's most likely done to my kind, he glanced around the room settling them on every human who was forced to wear their religion on their sleeve.
A German Nazi soldier.
That was the end of chapter one.
Reluctantly, I pull myself from the story. How well only the first couple of pages have pulled me in, my attention never wavering from the text even as an itch formed on the bawl of my foot or when a knock came from my door—presumably from my little brother as an announcement for dinner, but I didn't pay an ounce of attention to him. I shift my eyes to the alarm clock setting on my nightstand. Hesitantly, second guessing my choice not to continue, I finally close the book and reach over to lay it next to my blinking red timepiece and bounce off my mattress. A quick rumbling of my tummy tells me I'm well overdo for a meal.
I have to say that as tired as I am, the book caught my attention so well that I'm tempted to continue on and keep it a secret from Ms. Kiemal. As it is, I can also act surprised should the need arise and pretend as though I didn't already know that was going to happen.
Heaven above knows I want to.
But for now, I'll stay true to my morals and, well, be truthful.
Deciding it's too much of a temptation when it's sitting out in a place I can see it, I slide the book into my book bag, which incidentally is leaning against the side of my bed frame.
The novel's left alone in the ominous darkness.
Extras~ (not part of the story)
I may be wrong, my opinions a little off… but I believe that everyone should know how horrible the Holocaust was so that what happened then will never be repeated. Does anyone else think that way? The reason I ask is because I want to tell you all about something… something that'll make you realize just how terrible it really was.
I'm about to tell you something that will bring the Nazi's even further towards the ultimate low, if they weren't there already.
Some of you might already know this, and if you do then that means you're more desensitized to it than the people who don't.
This thing is so inapt it's almost ludicrous, but the depth of the meaning behind it is so traumatizing… I almost don't want to say it for fear of my own mentality. But you all deserve to know just how cruel people can be.
Ready? Here it is…
There is a board game, made by the Nazi's.
Why is this so horrible?
Well for one it's made by a group known for it's hatred against anything non-Aryan and possibly is one of the BIGGEST racially discriminating groups ever, but as a player, you are this little wooden Nazi-Germany citizen character and the object of the game is to break into Jewish stores…
Hold your breath…
To win the game, you have to break into the stores and kill six Jews—who are represented by little hats with the stereotypical "Jew face" painted on them (black curly hair, crooked noses) that the wooden Nazi places on his head after each kill. First one with six hats wins.
Just the thought of a family playing this game… of parent's letting their kids play this game… make's me sick to my stomach.
Now, not to support Anti-Semitism, but if you want to look up more about this game, it's called Juden Raus, which literally translates to Jews, Out! AND THEY ACTUALLY HAVE AN UPDATED VERSION! How disturbing… It's a recreation of the board game Monopoly, only it takes the Jewish player piece around ruins, concentration camps, gas chambers, and a picture of Adolf Hitler. The famous Monopoly man is replaced with a skeleton dressed in a Nazi uniform, and I believe that it was made in the 90's as a fundraiser for neo-Nazi projects.
Here is a link to information about this game: www . theworld 2011/12/ nazi-board-game-out-with-the-jews/ (Remove spaces)
Another thing… If you thought that was gruesome… there's also a children's book called the Poison Mushroom.
I don't want to get too much into detail about that because… well, let's just say that there's a picture in it of these Jews slaughtering a cow… IN A CHILDREN'S BOOK! But if you're interested in it just send me a PM. I won't judge you just because you want to know about it, I mean, curious and naïve me wanted to read it, too. Until I actually did read it and then wanted to tear the thing to pieces… or poke at my brain until I erased my memory. So if you ask, I'll definitely tell you about it, otherwise I don't want to completely destroy someone's innocent mind.
Sorry everyone, I'm not completely sane in the brain. If I messed up on some history facts or have grammar mistakes, don't hesitate to correct me. I don't bite haha and constructive criticism is much much much appreciated.
Anyway, I hope I didn't scar anyone too bad, but I think everyone has the right to know exactly what the Holocaust was, and frankly, everybody NEEDS to know so it's never, ever repeated. But I already said that, so THANK YOU FOR READING! I'm soooo happy I finally posted this!
Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I'm looking forward to seeing you again in the next chapter!
Bye bye for now, and please review! I want to know what you truly think! I love getting feedback. It's half the joy of writing.
If you want to review but don't know what to say, try asking yourself questions like "What was my favorite part? What was my least favorite part? Do I like the way Yuruki portrayed the characters? Do I want to see more of a certain character?" Just things like that.
I also don't want to offend anyone.
Until next time… Auf Wiedersehen!