Chapter 2

When Bruno awoke, it took him a few minutes to figure out where he was. It had been like that for weeks since the Auschwitz prisoners had been released. Well, those that had survived anyway. Most of them dropped off after the first few weeks, some from illness, some from beatings, some who dropped off for no reason at all.

Bruno shook is head and cleared his thoughts. He stood up from the floor and took a deep breath. His eyes scanned the room, and he vaguely remembered the previous evening. He ran a bony finger over the armoire and the thick layer of dust came off on his fingers.

Six years' worth of dust. Six horrible, life sucking years' worth of thick dust. He turned around and saw a small window. He took a look and felt his throat close up.

The sun had begun to peek over the tops of small huts and structures that were encircled by a wire gate. The wires curled into a spiral at the top.

Auschwitz.

It felt odd to Bruno, being on the other side of that wire gate. Like he was having an out of body experience. Then, a vivid memory came to him.

"Who are the people outside?"

Father tilted his head to the left, looking a little confused by the question. "Soldiers, Bruno," he said. "And secretaries. Staff workers. You've seen them all before of course."

"No, not them," said Bruno. "The people I see from my window. In the huts, in the distance. They're all dressed the same."

"Ah, those people," said Father, nodding his head and smiling slightly. "Those people…well, they're not people at all, Bruno."

Bruno's hands balled into fists. He thought about everything he'd been through and everything he'd seen, and he found himself hating his father for what had happened. His hatred was quickly dispelled by shame. It wasn't his father's fault.

Or was it?

Bruno paced back and forth, back and forth, again and again, consumed in thought. His father had surely known what was going on in Auschwitz-Birkenau; why did his father allow it to happen? He could have told the soldiers to ease up, to treat the prisoners civily.

Bruno turned and paced back.

But he didn't. He didn't do anything at all. With a stab of sadness, Bruno remembered his grandmother. Not her face; he could never bring that up, even if he tried. He remembered her voice, her personality.

"I wonder – is this where I went wrong with you, Ralf?" Grandmother said. "I wonder if all the performances I made you give as a boy led you to this. Dressing up like a puppet on a string."

"Now, Mother," said Father in a tolerant voice. "You know this isn't the time."

"Standing there in your uniform," she continued, "as if it makes you something special. Not even caring what it means really. What it stands for."

Bruno shut his eyes. What it stands for. Bruno knew well what it stood for. He had seen the proud glint in the soldiers' eyes when they ordered poor young boys to run in the freezing cold; when they looked over the starving masses of living skeletons.

How could his father not have seen what it all stood for?

Bruno stopped pacing and looked out the window once more. He wondered if his father felt guilty about the brutality he had allowed, possibly even condoned, at the concentration camp.

The door to his old dusty room opened, and Maria stepped through.

"Bruno," she started.

"Where is my family?" Bruno thought back to his life before Auschwitz and remember his mother and father telling him something about not interrupting grown-ups. Ha, he thought, look at me, mama, breaking all the rules.

Maria fidgeted with the cloth of her dress. "Bruno, there is something I need to tell you."

"Who died?"

Maria's eyes widened. Bruno wasn't surprised. He knew she had expected him to hope for the best. But that sentence always alerted Bruno to death. He had heard the soldiers say that same sentence to one of the other inmates to cover up the fact that they murdered his brother for a gold piece he had hidden. They told him his brother killed himself with one of the doctors' tools, so fuck him and good riddance because, Lord knew, Germany didn't need conniving heebs anyway. Lord knew, thought Bruno, and the phrase echoed threw his brain.

Maria shook her head. "Heavens, no, Bruno. No one is dead. You father and your mother have separated."

Bruno let out a breath, relieved. Then, as the news sunk in, Bruno asked, "When? Why?"

Maria sighed and said gently, "Bruno, you should get ready for breakfast."

"Tell me why, at least."

Maria left the room swiftly and returned with pile of clothes, muttering about Bruno needing it for his stay until they went out to buy more.

"Maria," Bruno said sharply. She turned.

"Bruno?"

"Why won't you tell me why?"

"You aren't healthy enough."

Bruno closed his eyes and waited for patience. Patience, however, was taking its good time.

"I have a right to know."

Maria sighed and said, "After breakfast."

"No," snapped Bruno, his voice getting louder. " Now."

"Bruno," Maria said gently, her old face patient, as always. "I think what you need to focus on is getting ready, and eating breakfast. In fact, I think you should just focus on getting your health back."

She paused, and her eyes filled with tears. "You're so thin," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You used to be so healthy."

"I'm just fine, Maria," he said curtly. He instantly regretted that when the tears in her eyes pooled over and she left.

He cursed and began getting ready for breakfast. He might as well try and oblige Maria as best he could.