A/N: I apologize in advance for any type Os, but I'm trying to type this fast and get it out of the way. Not that I don't like this story, I just have so much else to do. Thanxs for dealing with me! =)
I walked into the Café Bismark that night. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to dance with so many heavy thoughts on my mind, but if all else failed, I would see Clara. Other than my brother, she's the closest I've ever felt to another person.
I scanned the tables and looked for her, but saw no one with her same silky hair and fair complexion. Then I noticed the two people in the center of all the dancing. Clara and another boy I'd seen around but didn't know his name.
I watched them until they ended their dance, then approached Clara. "Out of breath?" I asked.
She turned and her eyes widened at seeing my face. "Will!" she said. "I thought I'd never see you here again!"
"Why's that?"
"Well, I thought with Hitler's death and all that you'd be around more often, but I never saw you, so I assumed that… maybe you didn't like swing anymore. Or that your parents caught you. Or… something." She smiled. "I'm glad to see you, thought. You're the heart of this place."
"You're a great dancer, Clara," I said. "Maybe you'd like to rest, though. Or have some water?"
"I would," she replied. We walked over to a table and she sipped on one of the glasses on it. "Maybe in a little while you'd like a dance?"
"I might," I said. "In fact, I would if I weren't in such a serious mood."
Clara put her glass down and every hint of joy and pleasure left her face. "What happened?"
"It's Peter," I said. "He's… gone."
"Oh, Will. I'm so sorry."
"That's not all," I said, swallowing. Would I be able to say this? "My… my father. He- he killed him." I had to choke the words out and I felt tears threatening to come.
Clara gasped. "Are you sure? How-"
"I'm sure. He lied to me. Said Peter… that he died on the 26th. But Peter wrote me a letter on the 30th. And he gave me his number that was tattooed on his arm. Father was writing a letter this morning." I sniffed and pulled two letters out of my pocket and handed them to her. "I need to get the one father wrote back to the house as soon as possible, please hurry and read it. He thinks he lost it. One is from Peter, the other from father. I want you to read them."
Clara stared at the folded papers in her hand for a minute, then suddenly set them down as if she'd been burned. She began to sob. "I'm so sorry," she said.
"Clara, don't cry," I said gently, tears welling up in me as well. "If you cry, I will, too. And I don't want to cry. Especially not here."
She shook her head. "I can't help it. You don't deserve this, Will. You're a better person. You need better than a Nazi father and a brother who's gone, and a monster step-sister…"
A few of my tears fell. "Don't, please. I came for help. Advice. I don't want to cry," I repeated. "Not here, not now."
Clara continued to cry, her tears flowing down her cheeks like a rushing river. "You- you loved him. So much. And he loved you."
Don't cry, I told myself. Peter wouldn't want you to. Be a man. Act like a man.
I dried my tears and sniffed again. "Hush, Clara," I said. "You'll attract attention."
She followed my lead and dried her own tears. "I suppose you're right."
"What should I do? I feel I must get revenge on my father, but I would never be able to kill him. If I did, how is that different than what they do to the Jews?"
"Because," she replied, her face now determined. "They kill Jews simply because they're Jews. You would kill him because he killed Peter."
"Would I?" I wondered aloud. "Or would that only be my excuse to kill a Nazi?"
Clara blinked. "But it is a righteous excuse."
"It isn't and you know it. There's no such thing.
"Then think about it and make sure you know what your motives are. If they are pure, kill him."
"Now, wait a minute," I said. "Did I suddenly cross a line of morality? I will not become a murderer. No. There must be another way to-"
"You aren't going to change him, Will. Not everything can be solved with words."
"Not everything can be solved with violence," I replied.
"Don't argue. I only mean that your words would fall to the floor before they reach his ears. He won't listen. He's a Nazi, don't you know what that means? Cold, heartless, unforgiving."
"That's not true," I said. "You can't make that assumption about all of them. Peter was in the HJ, and he was never like them. Never. And the Nazis are lied to. Brainwashed. It isn't their fault they-"
Before I knew it, my cheek stung. Clara had slapped me with all her might, and it hurt more than physically.
"I don't know you!" she cried. "If you dare start to defend them, God help me, I'll…"
I rubbed my aching cheek. "I'm sorry. But they don't know that the Jews are humans. They aren't taught that. They don't know that Jews have feelings."
"Yes? Well they don't' think cats are humans, but you don't see them killing all pets, do you?" I was silent. "DO YOU?!" she demanded, waiting for an answer.
"No," I replied. "I'm sorry. Calm down. You're right, OK? You're right. But I'm still not going to kill my father."
"Then what will you do?"
The question was like a knife to my throat. A wrong answer, a wrong decision, could mess up my life. I had to think about this for a while. But then… what could I do? Kill him, talk to him… what else?
"I can't do anything," I said finally. "So I won't."
Then came the second slap brought me to my senses. "Are you done?" she asked, looking at me expectantly. "Done defending them? Because my hand is sore and my patience is thin."
I sighed. "Yes, I'm done. I'm done."
"Good. Will?"
"Yes, Clara?"
"Do me a favor. Kill him."
