Chapter 1: Cobble Stone Loner
January of 1933
Mother is crying, words falling rapidly from her lips as she splutters and sobs. "Es ist vorbei! " She sobs over and over. I cover my ears with my hands, as father pulls me out of the room and shuts the door on me. It was a month later that I never saw her again.
1939
There were shouts and screams at first, children being ripped from their families, friendships that lasted seemingly forever were broken. Many were brothers in arms and war, but none could stay together long. In the beginning, when they first moved in, none were at all surprised; the tension between the Jews and "true" Germans ever growing. It had only been a matter of time before the Jews expected that they would be transported back to the Middle East. Soon after small riots broke out in the streets between Jews and Germans, Hitler arose speaking of a promise of a better Germany, a better tomorrow, and many Germans were uplifted. Soon after that, empty plots and factories quickly turned into what they first called "housing" but later came to be known as "camps." But even that, made them sound much more welcoming and inviting than they truly were. The word 'Camp' made it seem as if we were simply unwilling children being sent off to learn better, to acquire a new skill, and perhaps learn to work in harmony with others. It wasn't like that. Not that I know, because I have not seen one; I hope I never do. The first camps were constructed soon after Hitler came to power in 1933. Many of the Jews scampered to the streets, escaping Germany before it was too late. But for others, people with families, ties to Germany, or simple stubbornness; the assumed escape was not as simple. Many stayed and were taken in. Friends dwindled from large groups to single digits. Children would come home from school to find their homes ransacked and empty, their parents gone with no trace left behind. No child assumed that their parents had left them then; they all knew their parents were dead. If you went missing, you were dead. It was that simple. It still is.
Winter of 1939:
The streets of Berlin are cold this time of year. The cobble stones feel bumpy underneath my bare feet, and under any other circumstance, it would probably make me laugh as I wobble along them in the dark alley. I have to stay hidden, at least until night fall when I am less likely to be seen. The streets are silent, but in the distance you can hear the heavy march of the Nazis and their chants; "eins, zwei, drei, vier!" It is in this moment that I wish I could be a part of something again. I can hear them, walking in unison, they have a cause; a horrid one, but still…I cannot remember a single year in my childhood where I was not separated from the other children. Even amongst my own people, I was an outcast. I'm shocked out of my own thoughts when I hear someone behind me, "Halt!" I run as fast as I can; the cobble stone seemingly colder and the icy winds biting. My clothes are light and for once I'm grateful because I am swifter in my movements. I know these streets well; I once played on them with my brothers and sister during hot summers, the streets busy with life and the smell of the bakery uplifting anyone near enough to it. I hear more footsteps join the first pair, more shouting follows, and I turn into another street quickly. If they have guns, I'm dead. I swerve from side to side, but I hear no bullets. Lost in my own thoughts, I slip in a puddle and I know I've twisted my ankle. They are much closer now, perhaps half a street away and fear rises up within me. If they catch me, it's over. I won't survive. Going willingly to a camp is entirely different than running from the law. I'm a runaway now, and if they catch me I'll surely be shot on the spot. I turn around, trying to find a direction to run in, but this street is a dead end. A door opens quietly, and I am yanked inside, then it shuts again. I hear them outside, the Nazis, they are searching for me. The mysterious arm that pulled me in is attached to an even more baffling man. He grabs me by the arm and sits me on the small sofa that stands against the wall of the room. He pulls out the towel from his bag and starts drying off my feet. He hands me a set of clothes; they smell clean and feel soft between my fingers. "What the hell were you doing out there?! It's freezing, you idiot!" The man's voice hisses at me, and I'm temporarily shocked still. "My apologies." I offer. This man can't honestly be stupid enough to think that I would be outside in this weather for fun?
"Well, I'm Dean. What's your name?" Dean stretches out his hand, and I cringe. If he's going to report me or hit me, he might as have left me outside, I reason with myself. Dean's face contorts in annoyance, his eyebrow raised as he waits for my reply. "I am Castiel."
Hello, my name is Castiel, and I am Jewish.