9th November, 1938
As soon as he was sure Peter had gone downstairs, Eli jumped to his feet, getting dressed and grabbing his coat from where it was hidden in their closet, Star of David sewn onto the thick material. He walked down the stairs, unseen by everyone, and was out of the door and down the street with no issues.
He just needed some time to think. Just to be alone. He usually didn't walk the streets by himself, especially at night, but right now the thought of going on a long moonlit walk with Peter made him want to throw up.
It was cold, and the sharp wind bit at his exposed cheeks. He drew his coat tighter around himself, walking briskly to try warm up.
He didn't know where he was going. He was just walking with no purpose, praying he didn't get beaten up or shot.
Speaking of which, there'd been talk, rumours, of a new form of punishment for people the Nazis hated. Camps of some kind, where they rounded them up and put them to work. If it was real, everyone was being very hush hush about it. If it did exist, it wasn't like anyone who'd experienced it was there to tell them. If the SS took you, to a camp or somewhere else, you didn't come back.
Over the years, they'd lost 5 of their little gay group. They took people away and tortured them, asked them for more names. He guessed Jens had given in eventually because after that arrest on his nineteenth birthday when Ronan was shot and Jens was arrested, a month later, another 4 disappeared out of nowhere, all in one night.
But now the numbers were increasing, and if these camps really did exist, it was only going to get worse.
As he walked, he was hardly aware of the people running past him in the street. In the opposite direction to where he was going. He was completely oblivious to it.
And then he smelt the smoke.
It was everywhere, casting a thick shadow over the city, blocking out the streetlights and the stars, making him cough and splutter. He pulled the top of his coat over his nose and mouth and ran towards where it was all coming from.
Spiralling, twisting, orange flames rose from the synagogue where he'd gone with his mother as a child. She'd insisted that he go with her every single time, no matter how much his father protested. Slowly, he'd started going less and less but it was still a place filled with happy memories that were burning along with the building. He could do nothing but stare in horror as the flames spread, engulfing the whole thing. There was a long, loud creaking noise that was followed by a deathly silence, like the earth had stopped for a second. And then the roof caved in.
The great noise echoed around the streets, bringing people nearby to look out their windows and run out of their houses. They quickly ran back inside though when they realised what was going on. But there were some people who had the courage to watch.
There was a tiny crowd of less than 10 people, gathered in front of the synagogue, completely helpless to do anything but watch. Some prayed, some, like Eli, could do nothing but stare at the wreckage in shock.
He stepped backwards, shaking his head slowly, unable to process what was going on. Because it wasn't just the one building. It was every Jewish shop and house on this street. And as he continued walking, he realised it was more than just the one street. All over the city, shops and houses and businesses had been set alight.
His uncle.
Oh god oh god oh shit.
He lived nearby here, above the shop that was his life, and Eli's as well now. But he lived there, he actually lived there. And if the fucking Nazis had set the shop on fire, his uncle would be trapped. He'd be dead.
He took off at a sprint, almost crashing into people several times in his frantic rush. His heart pounded like a drum in his throat. His legs hurt and he had a stitch but he couldn't slow down, even when an SS officer noticed and yelled at him, trying to grab a hold of him. But he dodged and kept going until he reached the shop.
His heart felt like it had been in his throat before, but as soon as he saw their store, it dropped to his feet. They'd already been here, already done the deed.
Bright orange flames reached up into the blackness of the sky, cracking like bones breaking as they licked at the wood of the store front, the fire growing, spreading. The air was thick with smoke, making it almost impossible to breathe.
Eli pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth and ran closer, coughing and spluttering. He could see all the contents of the shop slowly burning. The candles in the smashed window melted, the shelves ablaze. He pushed the door open, a blast of insane heat wafting out and hitting him in the face, sending him back out into the street as he gasped. But he had to go in there. His uncle could be there, trapped in his house above the fire, just waiting for it to spread upstairs and consume him.
Maybe it had already got to him. Maybe he was already dead. Tugging on the front door as the room heated up from beneath, the latch jammed. No way out. The door heating up and then smouldering as the fire ate at it from the other side. He'd slowly be pushed back, searching for another way out as the fire spread through his apartment until there was nowhere to go. There'd be a moment where he was just waiting for death, waiting to feel the flames take over his body, become his entire world, just red and orange and pain.
Eli opened his eyes, realising how fast he was breathing. And in these smoky conditions, that was not a good thing. He tried to push away the thoughts of his uncles possible gory death and walked back towards the door. This time he was able to make it inside, although obviously it was still unbearably hot. He pushed through the rolling waves of heat, dodging and stepping over fires. Flames licked at his ankle, drawing a whimper of pain from his throat. It wasn't too bad yet. They must have only set it alight recently because it was mainly at the front of the store.
But then he reached the stairs to the apartment, and it dawned on him.
They'd set them on fire too. But very specifically. The fire from the front couldn't have spread all the way to the back yet, so this fire had been set on the stairs on purpose.
Those bastards. Those assholes. Those fucking cunts.
There wasn't even a chance he could make it up there. If his uncle wasn't dead already, he would be soon because there was no getting out of there now with what the Nazis had done.
He stifled a sob and ran out of the shop, not even caring if he got burnt now.
Out on the street, the heat of the fire still felt on his back.
He fell to his knees.
He faintly registered he was crying, mourning for the death he could not protect.
But he felt so...empty. He didn't feel there, this didn't feel real. It was a dream. This was all just a dream.
It had to be. It had to be. It had to be.
But the punch he took to the cheek a second later certainly didn't feel like a dream.
It came out of nowhere, but suddenly he was being attacked, knocked to the ground, winded.
Couldn't see their face.
Head hit the curb.
Blow to the stomach. Gasping for breath over and over as he took blow after blow.
They didn't stop.
It felt like hours but they just kept punching and kicking him.
He was sweating, sweat and blood dripping from his face onto the cobbles.
More and more and more blood. Bloody nose, burst lip, black eye, chipped tooth, fractured rib.
He didn't know. He didn't know anything that was going on. His head spun like a top. Rain fuzzy, seeing stars.
Seeing stars.
Stars in the only sky, twinkling so innocently like everything in the world was perfect. And it was perfect, up there any way. How were the stars supposed to know the shit down there.
Twinkle twinkle little st-
Throw him in the fuckin' fire.
Little star.
I'm sorry, what did you just say?
Are you thick or something, Get a move on before someone stops us.
Up above the world so high. That's what it felt like. Like he was miles away. Words floating through the clouds barely reaching him.
Throw him in the fucking fire.
Fuckin' fire.
"Fuckin' fire!"
"FUCKIN' FIRE!"
Someone grabbed him by the coat and pulled him up so his face was inches from that of his attacker.
The man glanced down at the Star of David sewn onto the patch of coat he had clenched in his fist. He leant in close to Eli's face. He could feel his hot breath, tickling his cheek. Smell it too. But he didn't flinch. Not even when the guy spat on him and dropped him back to the floor.
He heard their footsteps retreating.
"Let's go," he heard one say. The sounds of hands being brushed off on clothes. "I already touched it for long enough just doing that. I don't wanna pick it up. Hopefully someone else comes along and puts it outta it's fuckin' misery."