A/N - Okay, so this is my entry for swingdancer23's newest dare contest. This time, it's tragedy. My topic is, obviously, the Holocaust. This is a short-fic, maybe three chapters, so I'll try and update this before the 17th rolls around. Anyway, I'd like feedback, if it's not too much of a bother.

Disclaimer: Chase: Horsey doesn't own Harvest Moon. As usual. *reads fic* Goddess, horsegirl. This is...quite angsty.

Me: *sniffle* I know...it's so sad, isn't it?

The morning was anything but peaceful in the French city of Strasbourg of January 17th, 1942. The citizens that once had inhabited the streets were no more, having either fled the town— its location being dangerously close to German borders—or been shipped off to the Allies' vast collaboration of troops, the three major squadrons being that of the United States, the USSR, and Great Britain. The paved walkways and cobblestone paths that had once held cheerful merchants and wrestling little boys were silent and desolate, the only creatures daring to come out of hiding being the occasional stray dog or cat. Shop windows were boarded closed, the owners having long since left for somewhere safer, and rubbish lined the curbs and was strewn throughout the city. Altogether, the place was empty of any human life.

No, not peaceful. Utterly and heartbreakingly depressing.

In the quiet, something stirred. In the hidden basement of an antique painting shop, there hid three people. The reason why they had not left the town being quite simple: they were Jews. None of them could risk going out in daylight, and besides; the town was supposedly empty. No one would ever suspect there to be a small family cowering in a musty shop full of smelly old canvas. The heating and water did not work either, since so many people had left and no one bothered to keep up maintenance. Surely nobody would live in such miserable conditions.

But there were. For many, places like this were a last resort. Adolf Hitler's reign of terror and the circulating, horrific stories of the Nazi death and concentration camps drove many to such extremes. Mothers and children were forced to eat nothing but moldy bread and questionable water, while fathers were desperately searching for ways overseas, to America. One such family lived in Strasbourg, in that old, dilapidated painting store.

They were alone, the Abramek family. A mother, father, and their teenage son. Jewish by both religious belief and blood, they were sought after and harassed by the dreaded Nazis. Such pure Jewish blood, the German soldiers claimed, deserved nothing but the best. Which, in their minds, was death. No, not quick and easy, but slow and painful. Gas chambers, gargantuan ovens, barbed wire nooses. Heinous tortures and practices that would have grown men cowering in their beds and begging for the nightmares to end. This family was desperately trying to avoid such situations.

The boy sat up quickly, scrubbing away at the sleep in his eyes. Utterly unique eyes; one being the strong, steady wintergreen of his father, while the other was a soft and dreamy topaz that his mother possessed. The boy's name was Gale, and at the tender age of sixteen, he understood perhaps too well the dire and devastated state of the world. Born and raised in France, it broke his heart to see his homeland so decimated.

He ran a tanned, bony hand through his disheveled hair. Hair that had once been a beautiful, pale ashy blonde, but was now matted and tangled, a dull silver in color from lack of nutrition and the dusty quarters they kept. A mouth that had once always worn a smile was now creased in a frown, pulled taught, and looked like it was there to stay. His face was drawn and haggard from the years spent in hiding and lack of proper food. His eyes were sunken and hollow, completely devoid of any hope or joy.

They would die here, Gale was certain. Either that or they would be carted off to a concentration camp to be tortured mercilessly.

He glanced over at his mother and father, both still asleep. Gale's scowl deepened and his hatred for the Germans flared as he gazed at his parents. His mother, Edith, was once a beautiful woman. She had been slim and fit, with a wide smile and pleasant disposition. But here, sprawled out on moth-eaten rugs and covered in tattered quilts, he saw how much the war had affected her. Her long brunette hair was stringy and thinning, having lost its sheen long ago. Her once healthy frame had shrunk to barely more than a skeleton, her hip bones protruding much more than they should. Her smiles were scarce now, and when one did happen to grace her features, it never touched her eyes and was always hollow. His father was much the same. His pale skin in sharp contrast to his wife's, his ashy blonde hair had turned to a pale white, making him look much older than his mere forty-three years. His lanky frame and incredibly thin. Xavier's voice had lost its smooth and deep sound, instead being replaced by the raspy, desperate tone of a beggar. But that was what they were; beggars. Perhaps even lower.

Gale slowly rose to his feet, careful not to disturb his parents. Silently, he padded over to a heap of brown not far from his head; his coat. It was old, ripped and worn out, but it was all he had to keep himself warm. He slipped it on, fingering the large star of David stitched over the right breast. The mark of the Jews. Heaving a sigh, he carefully stepped over his sleeping parents. They didn't need to know what he was doing or where he was going. Certainly, they'd never allow it.

Edith had vehemently opposed Gale's leaving the basement in search for food and warmth when he had tried to ask. Xavier himself was against it; Gale's father was apprehensive enough when he had to leave, if only to peer up the stairs and make sure the doors were still barricaded. But supplies in their refuge was dwindling, and it was time to act. Besides, Gale wasn't stupid; he'd be careful.

He stepped over his sleeping parents and silently opened the wooden door that led up and out of the basement. Casting one last look back before he shut the door, he climbed up the wooden steps and poked his head up into the silent interior of the store. It was almost exactly the same as when they had arrived two years ago. Old canvases, some on broken frames, littered the floor. Paintings that had once been beautiful and expensive were faded and torn. Gale sighed and shifted the debris out of his way as he climbed out to ground level. It was eerily silent, like it should be. Good then; no Germans.

After scrounging around in the store for a good hour and not finding anything, Gale's frustration was peaking. His family couldn't continue to live like this; he would have to go outside the store and across the street, into the alley. As much as the thought disgusted him, he would have to dig around in the rubbish bins for scraps. Perhaps, if worse comes to worst, he could capture a stray animal. Desperate times, indeed.

Such actions were incredibly dangerous. While the doors to the shop were blocked and the boarded up windows blocked any outsiders from peering in, the street was open and unprotected. If there were people out and about, he'd had jeopardized his entire family, merely to live more comfortably. But on the other hand, without food, even the most disgusting kind, they would surely die. He had to check. It was the only way.

Sending up a quick prayer, Gale began to pry away the various chairs and other furniture from the doors of the shop. The wood, weak from being neglected, split in his hands multiple times. By the time he was done and the doors were free, his tanned palms were full of splinters and his fingers were bleeding. He deftly wiped them off on his wool breeches, picking out the various pieces of wood, and carefully creaked open the door. His hands and knees were trembling with fright as he carefully placed one eye over the crack, to see if the streets were indeed empty like he believed. He let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding when he saw that all was quiet; not a soul in sight.

Opening the door wider, Gale carefully stuck his head out to look around. It smelled horribly of ash and gunpowder, but he could look past it. The streets were indeed in sad shape, much worse than he had ever seen. "Qu'est devenu notre monde?" he muttered to himself. While he was a Jew, being born and bred in France naturally led to the learning of the language. His Hebrew was rudimentary, but English and French he could speak fluently.

He stepped out into the filthy streets, and before he could talk himself out of his plan, he dashed across the stones and into the dark alley. The smell was even worse here; death and rotting vegetables coupled with the gunpowder fumes made him almost gag, but he continued. Going over to an aluminum bin, he carefully removed the lid and began rummaging around. The stench was almost unbearable, but he did manage to find a few heads of lettuce that were not totally rotten, as well as a bell pepper and a few grapes.

Satisfied with his haul, Gale turned back around to face the shop. He was almost smiling as he stared down at the half-edible bundle of vegetables. His mother would certainly be grateful, and perhaps his father would even allow him to come again. He licked his lips in anticipation. Gale glanced up at the shop, fully intending on walking leisurely back. Instead, the fruits and vegetables tumbled back towards the ground as his breath came rushing out in a horrified gasp.

The door. It was open. He was sure he had closed it behind him.

All regards for his own safety fled as Gale tore back across the street, complete and utter fear almost locking up his muscles. This couldn't be what he thought it might; the streets had been empty when he emerged. Nobody could have seen. It was impossible. It had to be. He wrenched the door aside and, tears welling in his heterochromatic eyes, he dove for the trapdoor that housed the entrance to their shelter. Except, it was no longer there. It was across the room, nearly split in half.

God, please, no…

Gale could hardly believe what was happening. This had to be a horrible nightmare. His breaths coming out in ragged gasps, he almost tumbled down the stairs to see if it indeed was only a cruel dream, and he would see his own sleeping body resting by his parents'. But it wasn't so.

When he stumbled through the remains of the wooden door, the tears now freely running down his face, Gale almost collapsed from dread and terror. His mother and father were on their knees, backs to each other and gagged. Four soldiers stood in a perfectly straight line behind them, and one stepped forward as Gale came into view. He sank to his knees and clenched his hair in his hands as he stared at his parents. They stared back, pleading with him to cooperate with the soldiers. "I'm sorry," he mouthed.

A single tear ran down his mother's face.