Note: Just wanted to say that I am aware there are some typos in the previous chapters (including a few ridiculous German errors that I made partially because I was rushing to post my chapters). But short of re-uploading I'm not sure how to fix it? I'll definitely be trying to check these future chapters more carefully though :)

February 28, 1933

Ennis wiped the rag over his fingers roughly, brushing off the worst of the charcoal dust but he had no illusions of true cleanliness: the black was as deeply imprinted into his hands as his own fingerprints, lined into his skin as art was suffused in his soul. He tossed the rag into his open canvas bag, nearly packed up for the day. For the final dismantling, he unclipped the last three blank pages from his easel—it had been a good day, the marks weighed heavy in his pocket—and rolled them up into tight cylinders, slipping twine over both ends. After he'd tied them into his shirt pocket he collected the charcoal and started wrapping it up in the dirty rag. His mind was already forty paces ahead of him, encased in the soft candlelight and slanted ceilings of his attic room.

A shadow fell across him as he worked, cutting a dark diagonal through the dusk's sinking light. A figure stood before him, clad in black, a somber mass. Seeing the dark fabric hands stilled at this task, as if by pausing in time he could hold onto the possibility of the moment, crystallize what it was he wanted to see.

"Guten Tag." The strange voice, heedless, froze his fragile and exposed hopes like a young bird in the season's first snow.

Ennis straightened, squinting. "Guten Tag."

The man proffered a hand and Ennis took it, still reluctant; a strange shudder passed through him arm at the touch. The man's skin cool and dry as paper.

"Ich heiße Stuttmeier, Harold Stuttmeier." He stepped forward into visibility, the pale light finding a home on his equally pale face; his aquiline features looked as if they had been chiseled from ice, deficient of all color. He had the pallor of the newly dead and eyes the color of a washed-out winter sky, blue so faint that it leaked into its surroundings and was lost.

"Demarien," Ennis said simply, withdrawing his hand and gravitating back, thrown out of his regular orbital.

"You are done for the day?" Stuttmeier supplied when Ennis remained silent.

Ennis nodded, tearing his gaze away from the stranger and moving to break down the easel, yet Stuttmeier had not moved when he straightened, hoisting the easel under his arm.

"I will be here in the morrow if you'd like a portrait."

"That is what I am here to speak to you about. I was told that you are not quite… in the habit of accepting commissions."

"Das stimmt." He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Stuttmeier smiled, no teeth, thin and colorless. "I think mine is an offer that you cannot refuse."

The only visible response was a slight tightening along Ennis's jawline.

His smile thinned. "I can see that you do not believe me, Herr Demarien. But I tell you truthfully that if you paint for me you'll never have to waste your time on these streets again." Stuttmeier spread his hands, fanning out his thin fingers. "I only ask for two nights a week. I will be needing portraits continuously throughout our campaigns and I know you are the man to do it."

"How are you so sure?" He did not loosen, but he did not tighten, either.

"Your work is displayed throughout the city, my boy. It does not take a critic's eyes to see the caliber of your work, and in the coming months I will need that caliber." A blue fire lit in Stuttmeier's eyes. "You will be well compensated for your work, but the true reward will come from participating in one of the greatest political revolutions our country has ever seen."

Stuttmeier stepped forward, placing one hand on Ennis's shoulder. "You do not have to answer me now, Herr Demarien. But do consider my offer." He presented a card between two fingers, white rectangle held out. "This is how you can find me. I will return here in four days for your answer."

Ennis took the card, staring at the red swastika on the corner of the thick paper long after Stuttmeier had walked away.

February 23, 1919

Berlin, Germany

The scent of melting butter curled in Ennis's nose when he opened the door, the sack in his hands now emptied of feed. He bounded into the kitchen, shoes slapping hard on the wooden floor, unable to contain his curiosity for what his mother was cooking. Skidding to a halt just short of knocking into her legs, he held forward the bag, head craned up to look at her.

"I finished feeding the chickens, mama."

Birgid Demarien smiled, setting down her wooden spoon. She lifted the small bowl she'd been holding away from the flames, swirling the melted butter around inside the perimeter to check its readiness.

"And no chasing them around the yard this time?" She said, wiping her hands off on her apron before taking the bag from Ennis's eager hands. Folding the burlap bag up, she walked back into the storeroom, Ennis fast at her heels.

Ennis shook his head gravely. "I know, mama. Only little boys chase chickens around the yard."

She smiled, "Das ist richtig." She grabbed various ingredients from the shelves, holding two large sacks and grabbing a pinch of salt from inside a jar. Her dark hair flew around her face in unruly curls and she was flushed from working over the fire, but she looked beautiful to Ennis in the way only a mother can to a boy of five. "Now, come help me make this bread, Karl and Elena will be home in a few hours."

He watched her sprinkle flour on the wood, her fine hands making quick work of the dough, kneading it down in no time. Kicking his feet under the table, he leaned his chin forward onto his hands.

"Mama."

"Mmm?" She murmured, working the flat of her palm against the pliant dough, brown strands of hair scattering over her forehead in loose corkscrews.

"Will I grow up to look like papa?"

She tilted her head to the side, giving Ennis a look. "Of course you will, Ennis. What a strange question."

He considered her answer, biting his lip.

"But Elena isn't going to grow up to look like you, mama."

"Well… that is true. She won't look like me or your papa, she will look like…" She waved her hand in the air, searching for a word. "She will look like Elena, just as she should. And you won't look exactly like papa." She smiled, brushing his cheek with a powdered white knuckle, "You will be so dashing and handsome, though, anyway."

"But Karl looks just like papa. Papa says so all the time." He frowned, face scrunching up. "I don't think papa likes the way I look."

"Oh, Ennis." She got out of her chair, grabbed a damp towel from the counter, and after wiping her hands off she laid it atop the dough. Sitting in the chair once more she patted on her thighs and Ennis came to her, a frown still weighing down his face.

She said nothing for a long time, just holding him close.

"You know that papa loves you just as much as he loves Karl, don't you?" She smoothed her hand over his hair. Ennis just buried his face in his mother's chest, holding her apron tight in his small fists. He wanted to believe her.

But he had no reason to.

February 28, 1933

"Marguerite tells me there will be plenty of boys there, too," Loreen said, arching and eyebrow before she opened the drawer and to pull out a box of matches and candle.

"I'm sure you will have a marvelous time." Jack crossed his legs, looking pointedly at the tips of his freshly-shone black shoes.

"Was?" Abraham surely does not have you working another late night? I was so hoping you could come." She held the match to the candle carefully, shielding the budding flame with a cupped hand.

"I really can't."

"Oh?"

"If you must know—"

"—I must." She shot him a grin and carefully laid the curling iron atop the flame to heat up.

He sighed, smiling ruefully. "I thought you might say that. Well… if you must know… I am modeling."

Loreen turned so fast that her hair flew out in rapid swirls around her head, dress matching it pace for pace, black satin waves rippling at her waist, cresting with her momentum.

"And just what do you think you are doing?" She stalked over and fixed Jack with a stare that had melted the resolve of many a weaker man, many a weaker woman, for that matter. "Did you not tell me but two days ago that he is engaged?"

"I did." Jack swung his feet off the armrest of the chaise and made room for her. She took the seat with a glare, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Her eyes narrowed. "Then I do not understand."

"We made an agreement. I am in his employ."

"Paying you does not give him ownership over you!" She banged her fist on the armrest, noise muffled by the red velvet. The passion that she brought to everything in life—be it singing, loving, or friendship—shone through now, blazing in her eyes and her clenched fist.

"You know I need the money, Loreen." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "Mein Vater… er ist sehr krank."

She put a hand on Jack's shoulder, concern warring with anger on her features. "I know. I do know, Schatz. But there are plenty of jobs Niko would give you around here if that is what you really need."

He threw his hands up in the air. "I do not know what I really need. All I know is… I want to keep modeling. Even if it nothing more."

"You do not need him. You do not. Not his job, not his money, not his anything." She grabbed one of his hands, trying to get him to look at her. "He lied to you, Jack."

"Loreen, I never asked him. I do not see the part where he lied."

"You didn't have to ask! What he did was wrong, no matter what light it is shown in."

The past three days' agony lined his voice. "I know."

Loreen slid closer to him, putting a hand on Jack's face. She brought his gaze to meet hers, but she hardly recognized the man sitting before her now. This Jack had a heaviness to him, a weight of knowledge, yearning bunched in his muscles, resolve cording strength even in his despair. She felt like she was watching him age right before her eyes.

Her tone gentled now with understanding. "You love him, don't you?"

When Jack laid his head down into her lap, eyes closed tight and breathing shallow she had her answer.

If only she knew what to do with it.