A few days passed, and I laid in my bed, wishing and hoping I could escape from reality for just a moment. I felt as though my whole life, I had trusted a lie that my father couldn't help but tell me. I hated feeling like a helpless child. I wanted people to see more than my age. I knew the people around me were trying to protect me, but I didn't want to be protected, I wanted to help. I wanted to do something. The only thing I knew for sure was that the Jews were not the problem. But I had friends who were Nazis that I had never seen do any harm to anyone. I felt like I was being torn in ten different directions, and I didn't know where I stood on any of them.
Everyone seemed to have an opinion on everything, and I felt like I was standing in the middle of an endless traffic jam. If I wanted to do anything, I was risking not only my life but also the lives of the people I loved. It was all so overwhelming. I had no idea where to start or what to think, so I didn't think. I lay in my bed, motionless and speechless. The only thing I truly knew to be entirely true was Mr. Becker died an innocent man, and my father was the reason. The thought of living in a world where people like Mr. Becker were considered the enemy made me not want to live at all.
My life had been thrown into chaos. I hardly slept, and when I did try to sleep, I always woke up in the middle of the night screaming, completely out of breath with tears streaming down my face. My mother begged me to eat. She tried to force me to eat, but nothing worked. I sometimes felt like I was screaming all the time, and yet no one heard me. I was so lost, I never thought I would ever find my way back.
One night my father came to my bedside when he thought I was asleep. He took my cold hand in his, he knelt to my side, and all of a sudden, I heard him begin to pray. "Lord, save this child, please." My father paused for a long moment like he was waiting for a response.
He stood and was about to leave the room when I opened my eyes, and I looked at him and said, "God can't hear you."
When he looked at me, I saw my words strike him, but he said nothing in return. He saw my rage and knew that he could say nothing to change what had happened, so he walked out of the room. I felt disgusted by his very presence, and yet there was a part of me that screamed for him to come back and make everything better. There was a part of me that still had hope in
his promise to keep me safe. I knew it was pathetic to hold on so tight to that idea, but even though my father was a killer, he was still my father, and I was still his daughter, who wanted desperately to love him. But my admiration had been replaced with fury.
They say that without pain, there can be no growth. Well, in the days that followed after Mr. Becker's death, I grew up faster than anyone should have. I stopped trusting anyone. I saw the world for what it was: a world at war. The people were scared and tired and desperate. My safe haven had turned into a war zone. The Jews that once lived, there were nearly all gone or "missing." People no longer took long walks in the evenings, or greeted one another in the streets; everyone spoke in hushed voices, and did their best to keep to themselves. War was all that was on anyone's mind. Hitler and the Nazis were the topic of every conversation. Friends I had grown up with joined the Hitler youth and not because they were asked no nicely, but because if they refused, they were seen as a sympathizer to our enemies who seemed to be growing in number with every passing day. My supposed "loyalty" wasn't questioned because of who my father was, and therefore I was never directly asked to join the Hitler youth. I guess looking back.
The Gestapo must have believed it was only a matter of time till I joined the party. The pressure to join the Nazi party and have a child in the Hitler youth was immense. The point was for all the families to show off their children and to put them on display so the government could show the best of what Germany had to offer. When a child was chosen, they were not asked to join, they were told, and it was assumed that they would comply. Those that didn't join ended up under intense scrutiny from the Gestapo and the surrounding Nazi soldiers that loitered the streets during the night and day. Some families were even taken away in trucks like the Jews when they were accused of being Jewish sympathizers. It didn't matter who you were. The Gestapo was always watching.
All of this had been happening long before Mr. Becker died. Unfortunately, it took me witnessing my father committing a ruthless murder for me to pay attention to what had been happening for months and even years.
The days that followed Mr. Becker's death felt like a blur. My father stayed away from the house for as much time as he could, obviously attempting to ease his own consciousness before trying once again to explain to me why he did what he did. I felt like I was suffocating; the pain came in waves. Some moments I felt like I might be alright, then other moments I wanted to show my father the same kindness, he showed Mr. Becker. I hated that I hated him. I hated that he had done this to me, to us. My father had ruined everything, and for a cause, I knew even at the young age of 16 was wrong.
I have spent so much of my life trying to understand why he did what he did. I have attempting to grasp how he managed to become so twisted and manipulated. My father never lacked pride, and he was willing to do almost anything to prove his usefulness in any situation, whether or not what he was doing was right. I suppose a child always views their parents through rose-colored lenses, until we see them falter.
I hadn't been the only one to mourn for Mr. Becker. John had lost him as well, and when he found out what happened, I had to stop him from killing my father right then and there. He was tall and robust and could almost match my father in stubbornness and pride. But nothing worthwhile would come from my father's death. And as much faith as I had that John would do anything to kill my father, I also didn't doubt that my father wouldn't have hesitated to shoot John at the first chance he got. My father didn't dislike John, but he wouldn't hesitate to squash any threat. Even if John somehow succeeded at killing my father, I knew that there would be a worse person in line waiting to take his place.
John had been struggling with the consequences of the war long before I became aware of them. John was a young, strong boy who was the ideal image of what a German should look like and be. I think this weighed on him more than I could understand. John and I found solace in each other's company much more than we had before, and it felt like the only time we both could let our walls down, so we tried to find small moments of peace together.
One day, John and I sat side by side by the river that ran alongside the far end of town. There was still a brisk winter bite in the air that kept our feet out of the water. But we both knew that the cold would keep everyone away from the water's edge. During summer, it was a favorite place for all the young kids in my town to go and play in. The riverbank would be full of children and families playing and splashing around. But the air was still too cold, and the snow had only just melted enough to even sit by the river without slipping in. I remember the ground being wet beneath my coat, but it didn't bother me much. John and I sat in silence for a long while. It had been happening a lot since Mr. Becker's death. Neither of us knew what to say to one another, but we knew that nowhere else would be safer.
"I heard Friedrich Gerhard signed up," John said despondently.
I looked at him in disbelief, "What? How? He is six months younger than I am, and I'm only just about to be 17." I said with bewilderment.
"I suppose he lied about his age or something, perhaps Hitler no longer cares who joins as long as they' re--" He stopped for a moment, "Perfect." he finished with a sigh and threw a stone in the freezing water below.
"I feel helpless. Completely and utterly helpless, and I wouldn't say I like it. What am I, a Nazi's daughter, supposed to do?" I said, gritting my teeth.
John shook his head, throwing a stone into the nearly thawed river. "You need to do nothing. Be quiet; keep your head low, and survive." John said, sounding all grown up. It scared me. He had been growing up before my very eyes, and yet I had been too blind to see it.
"I can't just do nothing." I looked at him with surprise.
"Beth, you have no choice. I can't afford to worry about you right now. I am doing everything I can to keep my mother and me safe, and I don't need to be worrying about you too." John said, while looking at me very intensely.
"Well I never asked you to worry about me; I can take care of myself." I said, deeply irritated to be seen as such a burden when I never asked him to worry about me. I knew I was unreasonable, but I didn't know how else to react.
"Beth, I will always worry about you. I have and always will worry about you, and nothing you do will stop that. But you going and getting yourself in trouble won't help anything." John insisted.
"Mr. Becker died, my father killed him, and who knows how many others? What am I to do? Sit around in my house and pretend not to know?" I said with annoyance in my voice.
"Yes." John said he looked at me with complete seriousness, "You are in danger every day your father is in your home. You can do nothing to stop or prevent him from killing anyone else,"
"John, really!" I exclaimed, cutting him off.
"No!" John yelled at me before I could cut him off again, "Mr. Becker didn't die so that you could go and get yourself killed, you hear me, Beth Schmidt?" He had my hand in a firm grasp. "I cannot lose you too. Too much death has already been happening, and you getting yourself killed would destroy me."
The fear I saw in John's eyes was more than I could handle. He may have only been 17 at the time, but that day I saw a grown man sitting beside me attempting to stay strong for the people he loved. His father wasn't around to take on the burden, and therefore the job passed to him.
He had no choice but to put on a brave face. A tear appeared in the corner of his eye and he quickly brushed it away, and tried to stop his bottom lip from quivering. I could feel his body tense up as he fought the urge to break. I looped my arm with his, and I gently brushed a strand of hair out of his face, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
He struggled for air, but after a moment, he seemed to find his words again. "For what?" He said, still sounding stern.
"You lost Mr. Becker too," I said, understanding that I was not the only one suffering.
"I…I don't know what to do, Beth," John ran both his hands through his hair and hid his face in his hands in an attempt to hide his weakness from me.
I fought back my own tears, "Neither do I." I responded. "But I have to do something." John looked up at me, his eyes were red from the tears he was so desperately fighting against.
"Like what?" John asked.
"I'm not sure yet," I answered weakly, "Mr. Becker would have wanted me to stand up for what was right, just like he was doing. He never backed down even in his last moments, so why should I?"
"You're stronger than I am," John said, shaking his head.
"No, I'm not." I said, shaking my head and moving away from him, "I have been choosing to be blind to what my father was doing and what he was a part of. I'm not brave…I'm guilty." I said through gritted teeth.
John moved closer to me, "You are not guilty for your father's crimes Beth. You are no more guilty for what happened to Mr. Becker than I am." He said frankly.
"Except the man who committed the murder wasn't your father," I replied in a bitter tone.
"So? What could you have done if you had known? What could you have possibly changed?" John asked with exasperation.
"But you knew!" I shouted louder than I intended. I heard a few birds fly away at the sound of my voice as it echoed through the air, it was as though I had stirred the whole forest that surrounded us. "You knew, you even told me. I didn't listen. What makes you think I would have believed it if Mr. Becker hadn't died at the hands of my father in front of my face? I could have known before then too. I chose to ignore my surroundings like so many others are doing. We are becoming a scared people, we are putting our heads in the sand so that they don't get cut off, and I am no better than them. I have to do something!" I said, biting my lip, trying to sound like I had a plan.
"Beth, you love your father. In your eyes, he is--" John hesitated, "Was…a hero. A man of honor and integrity, and no matter what crime he commits, he will always be your father, the man you have loved and admired your whole life. No one can blame you for wanting to believe he would stay that way." John had a tendency to be surprisingly wise for his age. He was silly and knew how to keep a conversation light-hearted, and yet when the situation called for it, he knew just what to say to help you face reality. He surprised me on many occasions with his insights on things that not many people could understand. His words broke me, and my tears rolled down my cheeks in an uncontrollable manner. I buried my face in his shoulder and let the waves of sobs shake my body to its core. John held onto my arm tightly to keep me steady and prevent me from slipping into the freezing river below. Amid my outburst, John took me by the waist and wrapped me in his arms. He kissed the top of my head as I shook uncontrollably with the waves of tears that I couldn't have stopped even if I had tried. My whole body was weak, and I thought I would faint.
"Beth, you have to be safe, please." John said, holding me tightly, "I know you have to do something, all I ask is that you stay safe."
We fell into silence for a long while and simply listened to the sounds that surrounded us. We took in the calm sounds of the leaves rustling above us in the trees, the sound of the river below us, and it's beckoning call for us to join it's rushing tide. No place was safe anymore, not school, not even the streets of our once safe town. Not even my home was a place I could feel safe in. My father was the most significant threat I had ever faced, he was the enemy I never imagined having to face. I wasn't sure I would ever feel safe again.
John and I walked home together, our arms intertwined, and my cheek rested on the side of his arm. We were huddled together because of the brisk chill that hung in the air. A few military jeeps passed us quickly in a hurry. We saw many military police lingering around the streets as we walked. John's whole body was tense as we walked the familiar streets of the town we once felt so at peace in. Many of the younger soldiers that John and I saw were boys that we had both gone to school with. It was strange to see them that way, so grown up yet still so young, and I remember them looking so ready to fire their weapon at the next thing that seemed to threaten them.
"How did we end up here?" John murmured to me softly so that no one nearby could hear. I shook my head and kept my attention on the cobbled road before us.
Our world had changed so drastically. John and I were wondering how we were ever going to adjust to it. We began walking at a quicker pace, the sun was setting, and it wasn't safe anymore for us to be out once it got dark. Rumbles from the fighter jets that flew above us caused a loud buzzing sound as they passed. John and I had learned to block out the noise of the planes. My heart always sped up in fear that soon, one of those planes wouldn't belong to Germany and would drop a bomb square in the middle of my town. It was a reasonable fear. Newspapers displayed pictures of the many bombings that had been happening in surrounding cities, and other areas in Germany and Poland. I knew it wasn't unreasonable to believe that my town was next.
John and I approached the corner that turned onto the street that led directly to my home, we turned the corner and could hear the muffled sounds of yelling, but couldn't determine where it was coming from until we got closer to my house. Once we had reached a reasonable distance, I began to recognize the voices and promptly stopped in my tracks: it was my parents. I looked at John, who remained concentrated on the voices and what was being passed between them. We walked a few paces closer, and the voices became more precise and distinct. Soon we stood at the bottom of my front steps. I didn't dare walk in, so John and I waited in silence. I never in my life heard my mother raise her voice in any manner. So to listen to my mother, yelling at her fullest capacity made me realize the severity of the conversation. Her voice almost matched my father's, which seemed impossible.
"Don't pretend you're ignorant in all of this!" My father thundered. "You knew, you knew what this war was all about! You knew what I had to do!"
"Murder?!" My mother shouted back.
John took my hand and held it in his he squeezed in reassurance.
"He was guilty, Elli! You're acting like I did this because it amused me! I had no damn choice!" My father insisted desperately.
"You always have a damn choice, Arnold! Always." My mother spat back.
"Don't you dare put this all on me! Don't you dare!" my father impossibly louder than before.
"Yes, I knew! Yes, I heard whispers around town from people who had seen you do these things, but I never imagined it would come to this!" My mother shouted to match his tone.
"You're so naive, Elli." My father's tone softened into what sounded like disgust.
"Get out!" my mother yelled suddenly.
"This is my house!" My father answered in a heartless tone I had never heard him use toward my mother before.
"If I leave, Arnold, you will never see Beth ever again! Do you hear me, never!!" There was a long pause, and after a few moments, their voices got softer. It was as though they had both taken a step back from the yelling and acknowledged their situation. Something had changed, I could feel it. My mother's threat had shaken something in my father. I could still clearly hear them from the other side of my front door.
"Elli, please," My father said, attempting to sound calm.
"No.," my mother said, sounding calmer than before but still not ready for the patronizing voice he used whenever my mother was upset. "You may visit. You may see Beth when I say you can see her. You may not step foot inside this house unless I say so. You may be in control out there, and you are Beth's father, but from this point forward, you and I are nothing. I'm tired of turning a blind eye to what you do when you leave this house. Beth knows now who you are, and I can't have you doing her any more harm." I had never heard my mother sound so bold as she sounded at that moment.
"Elli--" My father tried to interject once more but failed.
"Stop!" My mother said forcefully, "No more. You have made your choice, Arnold. And I have made mine. Get out." There was another long pause that seemed to last for hours. In a moment, the front door swung open, and my father stood there looking prouder than ever. His bag was in hand, and his uniform was on. John and I stood in front of him like statues, he eyed us for a moment, and I realized we were still holding hands. When I went to move my hand, John firmly took my hand back and gripped it harder, as though to make sure my father knew he didn't scare him. My father's face was red from the argument. He seemed tired and a bit aimless, but his pride overshadowed all of that. He calmly walked down the front steps. When he reached us at the bottom step, he looked down at us with a stern expression.
"Beth, get inside, it's getting cold." He ordered, I turned to John and squeezed his hand in reassurance, then I let his hand go and began to ascend my front steps. I looked back and saw that my father was eyeing John who he was almost nose to nose with. "Go home, Abbott," he said fiercely.
John returned my father's gaze with equal intensity and then nodded and looked over my father's shoulder at me and said, "Goodnight, Beth," John said, still keeping a close eye on my father for any sudden movements.
"Goodnight," I timidly responded.
"In the house, now!" My father turned quickly and pointed at the front door, where my mother stood with her arms crossed.
"Thank you for getting Beth home safely, John." My mother said, attempting to sound composed.
"You're welcome," John said with a half-smile. My father still stood uncomfortably close to John as though to block my view. John turned his attention back onto the glaring face of my father, whose eyes stared at him with a force that seemed unbreakable. "Mr. Schmidt," John said through gritted teeth.
"John." My father replied, standing his ground.
Neither of them moved, and I felt as though the world had stopped moving, I thought that maybe John would spit at him or worse strike him. Suddenly a car pulled up in front of the house, and John slowly stepped aside but never broke eye contact with my father. My father turned to face my mother and me.
He contemplated his next words carefully. "I'll be back in a month or so, the war should be coming to a close by then. I'll write and phone when I can."
"Don't bother," I said so quickly I didn't even think.
"I'll send your things along shortly." My mother said with a chill in her tone.
"You're-" my father stopped, biting his sharp tongue before saying something to worsen the situation. "I love you," he simply said, "Both of you." He added and then straightened up and got into the car and drove away.
A few weeks later, I turned 17. My mother and John did their best to convince me that I had plenty to celebrate without giving me any real reason. My mother made me a cake, and John attempted to whittle me something from a block of wood that was left from Mr. Becker's shop. I wasn't exactly sure what it was that he made, but I could see the enormous amount of effort that John had put into it, so I thought it was beautiful. John did his best to put on a good face for me even though I knew he was struggling to maintain any semblance of normalcy in his own life.
John was at the age where more and more people were trying to convince him to join the SS or Gestapo. John knew he was putting his family in danger, the longer he refused. John was afraid that no matter how long he resisted, eventually, there would no longer be a choice. He would have to join just so that he could protect his mother. John's father wasn't around to protect them. He was part of the British military and hadn't been home in years, so John had to be the man of the house. John never said much about his father because his father hadn't been back in over 2 years. His mother had always lived in Germany, but she went to England to visit a friend, and she ended up marrying that friend's brother, who was John's father. Soon after John was born, his father joined the British military, which meant he had to stay in Britain. John's mother had to leave England so she could take care of her parents back in Germany. By the time she was able to go back to England, traveling between the two countries was too risky for her and a young child. So John's father moved back and forth between Germany and England as much as possible. Once the war started, he wasn't allowed to come back to Germany. John had so many reasons to hate the war as we all did, but he had a lot more at stake.
I felt as though everything I knew and loved could be snatched away from me at any moment, and it was a reality everyone was facing at that time. The thought of John joining the SS was the most terrifying thought I could imagine: John wearing the swastika on his arm, just to protect his mother. What scared me, most of all, was losing John to the same evil that took my father. I wouldn't be able to bear it if John became like my father, who just did what he was told without questions. It made me sick to my stomach to imagine that same fate falling upon John. It was a reality that was worse than death.