The name was Arthur Berg, the sky was a rotting yellow, and the girl was no longer breathing. He held two stolen apples in his pockets and a slipping soul in his arms as the sky dripped.

*** AN INDISPUTABLE FACT ***

The bombs came.

He survived.

She did not.

Arthur Berg was many things. He was a teenager, of the German variety. He climbed fences and occasionally helped others off them. He was a thief, and when he dared to show it, a decent human being. More than decent.

He was also the owner of a dead sister.

Was it karma? Could it have been his thievery that led up to this? Was he being punished? If so, by whom? The man in the sky? Or the men watching around every corner, with their worn boots and hungry eyes?

Perhaps it was a particularly overzealous leader. Maybe it was the smoke, from the burnt books and bodies. Yes, that was it. They had played with fire, and the metal birds had breathed it back.

But who was they? Was he a part of they? Or was he simply a piece of driftwood, taken captive by the current?

He didn't know. He didn't care. The girl wasn't breathing.

Somewhere under a dying sky, Arthur Berg stole a breath.