Chapter 1

The gate was tall, with wires curling in spirals at the top. Beyond the gate, there was utter silence. With grim satisfaction, Bruno watched the sun set behind the huts and the gate. No one was inside. No one had been inside for a while. That was all fine with Bruno. He'd never wish the torment that still haunted the deserted little village on anyone, except of course the people who caused that horror.

Bastard Germans, he thought. Then, with a pang, he remembered that he too was German. No ,he thought fiercely, I have nothing to do with them. As far as I know, I'm Jewish, and I have nothing to do with them. I have nothing to do with them. Nothing.

His hands clenched into tight fists, unclenched, and clenched again. He fought the anger and the bile and the tears that cried for release, and turned his back on the gate and the huts and the memories of rancid emaciated prisoners with sunken dead eyes and bloodless thirsty lips. He took a deep breath, turned, and walked to the looming three story house that registered only vaguely in his mind. He made his way through the garden that still was as beautiful as it was before, so long ago, so, so very long ago. A feeling of apprehension surged inside of him, causing him to falter for a moment. He shook it off, and continued, taking in everything around him.

The back door was open. A woman was sweeping out a small pile of dust. As Bruno watched her sweep the dust out and go back and start again, a wave of recognition pulsed in his brain. He knew her. What was her name?

He walked closer. The recognition grew stronger. What was her name?

The woman looked up, startled, and then let out a shriek. Bruno put up his hands and slowed his walk. The woman backed away, obviously afraid, but didn't stop him from entering the house. Bruno walked through, and smiled grimly when he found that he remembered everything perfectly. He remembered every corner, every nook and cranny , every hallway he had explored when he had lived in the house. He stopped in front of the staircase, remembering his foolish discomfort when he was a boy at having to live in the three story building. He chuckled to himself, remembering that he had been disappointed that the house was only three stories and not five, like his previous house in Berlin. His chuckle came out like the hoarse rattle of branches in the wind.

"Oh my…"

Bruno whipped around to find the sweeping woman standing behind him, tears slipping down her cheeks, a trembling hand to her cheek.

"Bruno?" She took a tentative step forward, her eyes imploring and hopeful.

Maria. Bruno nodded, but said nothing. He remembered her. She had been the maid to the family, and very kind to him. Just like family .Although father said she was just overpaid, remembered Bruno with a bitter smile.

Maria stepped closer and placed a trembling hand to his cheek. Bruno saw the marks of age on her face, and wondered how old his parents looked.

"Bruno?" Maria looked a little afraid. "Do-do you remember me?"

Her voice was full of emotion. It touched Bruno that she remembered him so well, and that she had missed him.

"Yes, Maria. I remember you." Bruno's voice was quiet, like the whisper of leaves. He hadn't spoken in so long. Not since –

"Oh, Bruno!" Maria, the not-part-of-the-family-maid, threw her arms around him and proceeded to bawl like a baby. Bruno barely stopped his own tears. In a split second of disconnection, he found the whole scene quite funny; Maria, the old proper maid, sobbing like a child who had lost a cherished teddy bear. Quite funny, indeed.

"Maria, please," gasped Bruno as she squeezed him tight. "I'm not going to vanish into thin air."

At this last sentence, Maria began to cry harder. Shit. Great job, Bruno, thought Bruno. He sat her down on the first step of the stair. When she finished sobbing, she asked him where he had been.

He didn't answer her. "I'll tell you soon. Where's my family?"

At this, Maria stood up quickly and said, "Bruno, are you hungry?"

Bruno's eyes narrowed. "Maria."

"Bruno?"

"Where are they?"

Maria sighed and said, "Come and have a bite first."

Bruno followed her to the kitchen. "How did you know it was me?"

Maria laughed. Bruno remembered sharply how her laugh used to be so light. Now, it seemed so…tired? Bruno pushed the thought out of his head.

"Bruno, you always had a good memory." Bullshit. I forgot my best friends' names. Good memory? Ha, Bruno thought bitterly.

Maria turned and smiled at him. "Cold stuffed chicken?"

Bruno looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

Maria's smile faltered. She looked worried, sad, and confused at the same time. Bruno continued to look at his hands. "Well, I'll fix you something new and special. What do you say?"

Bruno nodded. She smiled once more, and turned to the stove, opening cabinets and yanking down ingredients. Maria was talking to him as if he was still…how old was he when he first moved? Oh, right. Nine years old. It's been that long? Bruno felt a sharp stab of sadness at the thought of how many years he had lost. How many years he and Shmuel–

"Do you like tomatoes, Bruno?"

Bruno jumped out of his skin. "Erm…sure," he responded quickly. Maria turned around and handed him a glistening white plate. He looked at it, not quite understanding what it was for a few seconds. He hadn't seen a plate in so long. Always trays. Gray, dull trays.

A second after, he recoiled in shock. The plate hit the table with a loud Chink!

Is that…me? He looked once more at the plate, unaware that Maria was watching him. The face that stared back at him was not a face. It was a skull. It was a skull with a film of graying skin stretched over it. His eyes seemed to large for his face, and his lips were bloodless. His teeth seemed to protrude from the rest of his skull, giving him the appearance of a thin dying animal. Blond hair framed his ghastly visage. In disbelief, he lifted his hand to touch one of his cheeks, and as he did so, the poor creature staring back at him from the plate imitated him. One bony, trembling, skeletal hand touched one bony, protruding cheekbone. A wave of grief flooded him. He remembered so well. He remembered him so very well.

"Here," Maria said gently. She brought another plate over with the sandwich she had made for him. She took the other away. "I'll give you some privacy," she said softly and, after touching one of his bony cheeks, she walked out of the room.

Bruno watched his own bony hands pick up the sandwich. He remembered.

"Shmuel!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

Shmuel looked up and his terrible face broke into a broad smile when he saw his friend standing there. "Bruno!" he said.

"What are you doing here?" repeated Bruno.

"He brought me," said Shmuel.

"He? You don't mean Lieutenant Kotler ?"

"Yes. He said there was a job for me to do here."

With a grim smile, Bruno remembered seeing Shmuel with the small glasses his mother used to use when she was having one of her sherries. He remembered being astonished at the job Shmuel was doing. It wasn't so surprising now, though. Not after all he'd been through. But it was then that he'd noticed Shmuel's hands.

"How did it get like that?" asked Bruno, looking at Shmuel's hands.

"I don't know, " said Shmuel. "It used to look more like yours, but I didn't notice it changing. Everyone on my side of the fence looks like that now."

They had been nine years old then, from different sides of life. Yet, despite everything Bruno had, and everything Shmuel didn't, Shmuel seemed years older than him. They had been nine years old, just boys, two young boys, thrown into a punishing world they had done nothing to deserve. They had been nine years old.

A door opening in the hallway jerked Bruno out of his reverie. He pushed away the anger and grief that surged through him and ate his sandwich. He hadn't had food as good as that since he had been trapped in Auschwitz. 'Out-With', he had called it. This thought launched him into a fit of laughter. His laugh came out like the whistling breath of a partially crushed dog. This thought made him cry. He didn't even realize that he was crying until Maria rushed in to make sure he was okay. He nodded and wiped his tears. He thanked her for the sandwich and rose, intending to leave. Maria protested fiercely and he found himself in his old room, watching helplessly as Maria bustled about fixing him his bed. He had never realized how wide his bed was. As a boy, he really hadn't realized how much surplus he had of possessions, much less their quality or what it might have meant to a less fortunate person. After Auschwitz, however, his priorities had been reevaluated. He had been forced to save his food in nooks and crannies to make sure that he would have food if the soldiers decided to let all the prisoners starve. His meals had been terrible, and at first, it had been hard for him to adjust. But he adjusted. Adjust, or die. It's that simple, he thought.

Maria coaxed him into the bed and closed the door. The softness of his mattress had him feeling extremely uncomfortable. He was so used to the hard mats of Auschwitz.

Bruno rolled out of the bed and lay down on the floor. He closed his eyes and drifted in a fitful sleep full of running skeletons and soldiers with wild psychotic grins and partially crushed dog laughter.