There was a cream manila envelope in Pollux's coat pocket; it was by physical means, light and almost weightless, but it seemed to be burning a hole inside of him, a searing weight that rushed through his skin. The suicide of Hitler had just been announced days previous, the surrender of Germany was imminent—and he felt no despair at the defeat of his country, no relief at the end of the war. In fact, he felt nothing at all. And that, more than anything, scared him.

So as the rest of his disgruntled troop lay their weary and defeated heads to sleep in their shoddy, broken encampment that night, Pollux packed his bags. He packed little in the way of clothes and necessities, filling the front pouch with cheap alcohol. He was going to need it. When he heard the sounds of sleep rise, he hitched his pack on his aching shoulder and walked away without looking back.

It was that deep period when the night was darkest; the path for him was lit by a spray of stars that illuminated his way in small crescents. He did not feel heavy though the letter in his pocket did; he felt numb and useless. The forests around him were black in the night and they reminded him vividly of one such forest in his childhood home in Cologne. That forest had twisting, joyous paths in it which him and his brother had ran through with their other friends in youthful ecstasy. Those days were long gone.

Soon, he came upon a series of tents, shrouded in dark. The moon had foggy wisps surrounding its bloated hide. He could tell from the little bits and pieces—complacency at Hitler's suicide must have made them careless—that it was an American establishment. Try as Pollux might he could not muster hatred for the troops that were eating his country. He walked on, pulling a bottle out of his pack and twisting the cap open.

He was just about to lift a bottle to his lips when a sound jolted him from behind.

"Stop there, German!"

The inconvenience unsettled him; he was in no mood for games. The soldier that had stopped him was American—Japanese, he would say—and he was alone, though armed. Pollux's mother, whose own mother had emigrated from England to marry his grandfather back before this bloody mess, had taught him and his brother English. He could understand beyond basic commands. He raised his arms, the bottle clutched tightly.

"I'm not here to harm any of you," he said tiredly, glancing into the American's angry eyes. "Just let me go. I just want to go." He paused, relishing the sight of the gun, realising in a flash that he wouldn't care if the boy decided to do the opposite.

"What the hell are you doing—"

"Shoot me then," he said softly, "If you think I'm a threat, shoot me!"

The soldier hesitated with the gun and for some reason this enraged Pollux, "Do not stand there and pretend sympathy!" He shouted, "You and I both know that you've hunted down people like me on the battlefield, and God knows I've done the same to you!" The letter in his pocket heaved with the exertion of his heavy breathing. "We've never cared then, so why should you care now! Shoot!"

The boy lowered his weapon slightly. For some reason he was wearing his military overcoat and Pollux could make out the word Uehara on his pin. "Is that beer?" The soldier asked.

"Alcohol," Pollux said with some confusion at the turn of the subject, "Cheap."

"Give us a drink." Uehara said, his weapon lowered even more. "Go on, give us both a drink. Let's sit."

"What?" He was incredibly perplexed now.

"I mean it, you and me. Let's split a bottle."

Pollux gave a wan laugh. "I'm in no mood for your games—"

"No games!" The soldier raised his hands. It was eerily quiet, the darkness pressing down on them. "Just drinks, that's the way it's supposed to be."

Pollux, who already couldn't care, sighed and decided that he would just play along. He gestured to a bit of rock wedged between some oaks a little ways in front. "Let's drink there, then."

Uehara walked behind him and both of them sat at ends of the rock. Pollux glanced suspiciously at Uehara who handed him a flask of his own—not before tipping out some water—to fill. Pollux filled about half of it and kept the other half for himself. They stared at each other for a moment before Uehara gestured at him.

"You drink first, so I know it's not poisoned."

Pollux laughed bitterly and raised his bottle; Uehara followed. For a short while, all was quiet again. Then Uehara spoke.

"This is quite bad."

"Cheap, I told you."

He shrugged in agreement and raised his flask to the soft light of the moon. Pollux looked down through the slim neck of his own bottle and saw stars from the sky swimming in the murky liquid.

"Can I go now?" He ventured.

Uehara pretended not to hear him. "Tell me, German, what do you dream about at night?"

"What kind of fucking game is this?"

"Not a game." Uehara shrugged. "We're supposed to be different, you and me; I want to see if that's true."

Pollux thought he hated him but decided to answer with the truth, not that it mattered. "I dream of red." He confessed shortly. "Red everywhere; people I've murdered in the name of the Fuhrer." Shifting his gaze, he saw a pristine clump of edelweiss, their white pure and unstained. The sight brought an unwelcome lump to his throat.

The boy nodded.

"What about you?" Pollux asked.

"The same, I guess."

"This is absurd."

"This war is absurd." Uehara paused. "You know, before this, I was so eager to come out and fight. Then I killed my first man…" His voice trailed off. "But I'd do it again… Not because I want to, but because you've given us no choice. Because it's the thing we have to do." He looked at Pollux. "What about you?"

"There are many things I've done that I won't do again." He said shortly.

Uehara shifted to look at the flowers, "You want me to pick some for you?" He asked sarcastically.

Pollux shook his head. His hand was starting to tremble and before he knew it, the words were spilling out like a dam that had been unblocked.

"There was… there was a girl back in my old town. She loved flowers very much. Had a little book and would write about them. I thought her strange." It was funny, the things you thought of, at the oddest moments.

"Did you make fun of her?"

Pollux shook his head. "In those years… I tried not to talk to anyone. But no one looked twice at her. Then one day she came to school and her socks weren't long enough to cover the scars on her legs… They were horrible scars. You have heard of kristallnacht?"

Uehara nodded. "I think so, the Night of Broken Glass?"

"Correct. Her father had dragged her through the glass…" Pollux felt the old ghosts tugging on his shoulder blades again and he thought that there was no reason that he shouldn't give in to them tonight. "There were two boys with her. We were all in the same class, but the boys managed to leave before the war." He paused. "I told you I tried not to talk to anyone except my brother. They made me sick, all; a boy named Rudolph and his gang… always going after those two because their father was communist. Do you what I heard they did to him? They brought him to a river and they drowned him. They held him under the water and they watched his limbs flailing, they watched his eyes bulge and his skin turn blue…"

His hands were shaking even more now. He put the bottle down shakily, wiping a hand across his lips. Uehara sat with his face like a stone; the expression was blank, unreadable. "On the night when the girl got her scars the Jewish family were taken away. I watched," his voice was tormented, "I watched for a while until they got the grandfather. Then I could not bear it, I tried to shut it all out. I went away from the window. They crushed his skull. I saw the blood rain down the street. I was too afraid to do anything. For years I thought I was better than them because I did nothing."

"You're the same." Uehara said, his voice sour with disgust, "You didn't do nothing to stop it, you're the same!"

Pollux did not dispute him. "That I was, I think. But do not judge, American. You don't know what it was like—"

"I know what I damned well would've done in your place!"

"Then you're a hero, fine?" Pollux yelled back, "But we are not all the same! Do you not think I regret it? Do you not think that I see those faces every day and wish I could have been braver than what I was! Instead I am still alive and they are dead!" There was no other sound; his desperation was poignant. "But don't judge us all too harshly," he managed, thinking of people like Herr Stoll, "I swear to you we were not all monsters." The silence grew again. It throbbed.

"I wish…" he stopped, "I wish I had been braver. I will always wish that."

He found he was breathing heavily again. He felt like he was walking on glass. The letter in his pocket was mocking him.

"I know you hate me," he said to Uehara, his voice under control, resigned, "So do it. Kill me. I will not fight, I will not complain."

A blanket crossed over Uehara's face. "You know—"

"I know that my brother is dead!" Pollux shouted, "The brother that I have known since I was born! Do you know we did everything together?" His words were spurred by not only the fire of the alcohol but also the rawness of honesty that for some reason did not matter because this Uehara was a stranger and he would never see him again; if Uehara did not pull the trigger, he would find a spot and do it himself. "He was my brother," he said to himself; all the numbness was gone, the grief was crashing upon him, closing his throat and gnawing its way out of his eyes. "My twin," he said quietly, his voice was very small, "Castor."

Uehara's voice was gentler now; it was still harsh of course, but gentler. "Were you there, when he died?"

Pollux shook his head, "I should have been. We were sent to different troops. My mother sent me the letter that told me." He saw the village of his youth again; his house had been small and comfortable. He wasn't sure if it was still standing, what with the bombs. The letter had been addressed three months ago and he had only got it three days ago. For all he knew, his mother could be dead. The forest in which he and his brother played could be ashes now, hollow and grey.

"Tell me the truth," Uehara said softly, "Where were you going before I stopped you?"

Pollux caught himself glancing to the edge of the road before he could stop himself, the road veered off into a fork; one led to a village, the other led to a cliff that dropped devilishly down to a roaring river. He was looking at the latter. Uehara noticed and tapped his foot impatiently.

Pollux, his face drawn and tight, looked back at him. Uehara stood up. "I've always only seen differences," the boy admitted, "Back in my home there were lots of colours, all different." He paused, fiddling with his nametag. "I wanted to see if it was true, that other people and I… that we'd always be different." He shrugged, looking at the moon, drinking in its clouds. "I guess we're not that different after all."

"You're letting me go?"

"Hey, we've won the war anyway. Heil Hitler no more, eh?"

Pollux nodded without noticing and stood up himself. He pulled the letter out of his pocket. Strangely, it did not burn anymore. Of course it still hurt; painfully and madly so… but it did not burn his skin, and that could have been a start.

Uehara turned to walk back to his camp. "Thanks for the beer, man." He said, lifting his hand in a final farewell as he began to trudge back to his camp. "Go home to your mother."

Pollux was keenly aware of the detail around him; of the cool scented wind that blew against his skin. He thought about how it would be if his village had been bombed; on one hand those who had marched so fiercely through the streets singing praises of the Reich would be gone. On the other the children who knew nothing more than the tug of their mother's hand, those like Katie who had never agreed to the madness, who had stood in their own way against it, would be dead. But maybe his village still stood, he reckoned, maybe the river in the forest still flowed with clear water that sparkled under the midday sun.

Go home to your mother. He pulled on his bag and walked towards the fork in the road. He went to the one that led to the river, watching it crash on the rocks below him, the water sending a clear spray thrashing against the harsh surfaces. He thought of his mother penning the letter alone in the house with the sounds of the forest behind her. He stood there for a while, the letter in his hands, before he released it; he watched the paper sail off and be caught up in the grasp of the black river before he turned and made his way to the other prong of the fork in the road.