A/N: Based on one line spoken. If you are sensitive to Holocaust events/situations, you've been warned.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters or ideas created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby or glorified by Joss Whedon. I borrowed them for the entertainment and amusement of my audience.
SUMMARY: There was nothing he could have done.
GENRE: Drama
RATING: PG-13
DATE COMPLETED: October 25, 2012
::~*~::
When I despair, I remember that all through history, the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it. Always. (Mahatma Gandhi)
::~*~::
He swayed slightly back and forth, trying to keep the weight of his body off of his arthritic knees, to no avail. Tendrils of pain kept working their way up his thighs, but he had long since learned to ignore them, to push them to the back of his mind. A sigh silently escaped his lips. He was an expert at ignoring things, but the thought, the realization of it, shamed him deeply instead of reassured him. Memories washed over him, drowning out the sound of the soft, silky voice echoing over and around the crowd, weaving its threads of enchantment over those assembled. He bit back a sob of misery as guilt welled up within him.
He had been eighteen when Hitler had risen to power, here, in Germany. Many of his friends had rushed to join up with Hitler's youth or the Third Reich, turning on their neighbors faster than he could count. "Honor," they called it. "Loyalty," they called it. While he had refused to join their ranks, preferring instead to mete out a quiet living in his father's cobbler shop, he had also refused to help those whom they targeted. It wasn't his fight, therefore it wasn't his problem. His friends had been suspicious at first, labeling him a Jewish empathizer, but he had angrily squashed those suspicions, and they had been content to just leave him to his chosen life, allowing him the "privilege" of supporting Hitler by repairing their boots.
As if the weight of the guilt wasn't bad enough, one memory fought to the forefront of his mind, one he thought safely locked away decades before. He had been walking down the street, on his way back to the shop after procuring some much needed supplies, not just for his work but also for his survival. The streets were devoid of life, though at his footsteps on the cobbled street, he had seen twitches of curtains from the buildings on either side of him; people retreating into the supposed safety of their homes. The sudden clenching of his stomach had reminded him how very real their fears were. Soldiers in the Third Reich had searched the small community numerous times before, building by building, always rounding up those of inferior status who sought to hide from them. He had pushed the thoughts out of his mind, pulling his coat tighter around him. The best way to weather this storm was to lay low and not give anyone reason to target him.
He had been two blocks from the shop when he saw him. He didn't fully stop in his tracks, but his gait slowed significantly. A little boy, no older than six, was standing alone, hiding in the shadow of a narrow alley, tears trailing down his cheeks. He looked hopefully across the street at him, but obviously not recognizing the man staring back, he went back to silently crying, turning to look up the street and then down, as if searching for someone. It was when the little boy turned that he had seen it. The Star of David patch sewn onto the arm of his coat. A sinking feeling had settled into the pit of his stomach, but he forced his feet to continue towards his shop. He blocked the image out of his mind, even as he heard the door to the bakery open and heard the sound of voices raised in mockery. He had just turned the corner, only a block away from his shop then, when he heard the shot. His steps faltered, but he kept on, one foot in front of the other. There was nothing he could have done, even if he had been seized by some crazy desire to help him.
It had taken several haunting nightmares over the course of several weeks, but he had finally locked the memory away. There was nothing he could have done.
The memories, content with their mocking presence, faded away into the background and he was brought back to the present. He had unconsciously stopped swaying, and the pain that had settled into his knees was now a dull ache. "There was nothing he could have done" seemed to have been his mantra throughout the war. What could one person have done? Nothing really, but as the years and decades had slowly passed, he had seen, in crippling detail, exactly what the Third Reich, under Hitler's leadership, had done. At the time, he had known very little of it. He had purposefully attempted to remain ignorant of it, and, to his own humiliating shame, he had done it. It hadn't taken long before he had started questioning himself and his motives. If he had had the chance to go back and do it all over again, would he still make the same decisions? Five years after the war, his answer had been stubbornly "yes." In the prime of his twenties, his only thought had been self-preservation. He would be no good to anyone imprisoned or dead. Ten years after the war, his answer changed to "maybe" or "it depends." He would have taken every minute, every hour, and every day as it came, on a situational basis. He would have done what he could, but he wouldn't have tried to save them all. He couldn't have. Twenty years later, his answer would have been a resounding "no." How could he live in a world where men like that decided who could live and who would die? He couldn't. He couldn't understand how he had done it the first time around. He would have helped the first person in need and if his actions brought him to the camps, to live or to die, so be it. If his lot in life had been to die, he would have been glad, privileged even, to die alongside better men than he had ever lived alongside.
It had all been wishful thinking. He couldn't change the past, but he could always change the future. Looking to the future, he would live the rest of his life, never having any reason to go to bed at night harboring regrets from the day. After all, he was living on borrowed time, and he knew it.
Somehow, this night, he had found himself surrounded by the elite of this new Germany, packed in the midst of them, not even sure how he came to be there. He had just been a humble passerby, out enjoying a peaceful evening walk, when he had passed in front of the museum and the swarms of people started flooding out of the doors, catching him up in their midst and carrying him away across the street to the promenade. They had all been screaming in terror and he could only have imagined what they must have seen. Before he could extricate himself from their presence, they were surrounded. By four men, who all looked like one man. Only one of them spoke, but the others stood there, lording over the assembled crowd, grins covering their faces with a tone that showed perverted joy in seeing the people cower before them.
He looks around at them, the people kneeling beside him. The terror is evident on all their faces, and yet, they won't do anything. They won't stand and fight. He peers into their faces and wonders if history is doomed to repeat itself. He looks up at the man talking to them, dressed with his gold and emerald cloak about his shoulders and a golden helmet upon his raven hair. He held a strangely fashioned scepter in one hand. Suddenly, he doesn't see the man before him, but he sees another man from an era long past, standing above the crowds, reveling in their praise and adoration as he riles them up to go forth and conquer in his name, his arm held straight out at an angle from his body as the crowds cheer in absolute rapture.
He rubs his hands over his thighs, trying to circulate the blood in them, searching for the physical strength he knew he needed at that moment. Knowing what he had to do, what he was going to do, he was surprised that he was filled with a surge of calm. It wasn't all that surprising, though. He had made up his mind a long time ago, and he was finally getting the chance to act upon it. He refused to stand idly by and ignore the world around him. "There was nothing he could have done." That was one statement that he would not let haunt his steps any longer.
He kept his eyes glued upon the man who dared lord over them, mimicking men, and even women, from ages past. He gritted his teeth as he slowly, painstakingly, rose to his feet. He could see the worried glances of those around him out of the corner of his eye, a few even shifting away from him, but his eyes were fixed upon only one man. He almost smiled at the shock that registered upon the man's face, as if he couldn't believe that this man, too old to even fight, would dare disobey him, dare even to stand level with him.
His knees protested the treatment being awarded them, having knelt upon the hard pavement for so long. However, he would not bow down; he would not show weakness. It was quite possible that he was looking his death right in the eyes, but he would meet it standing tall, with his back straight and his shoulders squared. Never again would he kneel before someone who had no right, no authority, to strip him of his ability to choose for himself.
"Not to men like you." The statement was past his lips before he could comprehend what he was saying, but it ennobled him, strengthened him.
The shock had passed from off of the man's face and was replaced by mild annoyance. "There are no men like me."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could this man think there was no one like him? They were everywhere, in all stations of life, in all nations of the world. They existed in the past, they lived in the present, and they are born in the future. "There are always men like you."
The man looked at him, held his gaze for a second, before a determined smile crossed his lips. The scepter, crowned in the most brilliant blue, shifted in his hand. "Look to your elder, people. Let him be an example."
The moment he had been waiting for for over sixty years was finally here. Sixty years was long enough to be living on borrowed time. Yes, he was an example. He was an example to his people, his fellow Germans, that they did not have to live under the crushing boot of a lord who had no claim to them again. He was pleased to make this stand, even if it cost him his life. He only prayed that they wouldn't give up.
The scepter leveled at his breast, and despite his determination to remain steadfast and brave, a twinge of fear crossed his face as he saw the blue light speeding across the gap between them.