Chapter 5: Death

"So, you just chose to ignore that grandpa was a monster?" James said, looking at me with the same eyes John had.

"James, I idolized my father. He could do no wrong in my eyes, and I didn't want that dream shattered." I said, not sure how to explain it.

"But how could you choose to ignore it?" James asked, visibly shaken.

I walked over to him and placed my hand on his arm, "Because I wanted things to stay the same. Finding out your hero is just a man is not as easy as you might think."

"A bastard more like it," James said, trying to conceal his frustration.

I nodded in agreement.

I ran home as fast as I could, tears streaming down my face. What was I going to do? I asked myself. I didn't believe John, and I couldn't believe John. There was no way my father would harm anyone; at least he wouldn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. My father always told me his job required him to protect people. He told me he would only kill if the people were dangerous. Matthew wasn't dangerous. My mind felt foggy and confused. John would never lie to me. He had always been honest with me, why would he lie to me now? None of it made any sense, but what about the red stains? Was that the proof I needed? Was it true? No, it couldn't be. It could have been anything, and even if Matthews's family was killed, maybe it wasn't my father. John could have made a mistake. I was thinking myself into circles. My mind went round and round with possibilities, all of which concluded that my father was innocent.

I ran into my house, and my mother was in the kitchen, making dinner.

"Where is father?" I exclaimed, not caring how loud I was being.

My mother spun around, shocked by my exclamation. "Beth, what's wrong?" My mother wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to me.

"Where is he? Where is father?" I shouted again, gasping for air through my panic.

My mother pulled me into her gentle arms and tried to soothe me, but it didn't change how I felt. "He's working, dear. Why are you so upset? What's happened?"

I tried to calm down enough to explain, but it took a few moments. My mother got me a glass of water and sat me down at the kitchen table. She wiped away some of the tears that were about to drip off my chin. Eventually, I became somewhat composed and took a few deep breaths.

"John said that father killed Matthew and his family. He said he saw him. I saw bloodstains outside their house or at least what looked like bloodstains. I don't know, and I didn't get close enough to see." I began to hyperventilate, "But I know Papa would never do something like that, he is a soldier, he protects people, he doesn't hurt them. Why would John lie like that mamma? Why would he say such a thing?"

My mother covered her mouth and stood up. Her reaction surprised and scared me. My mother didn't seem to know what to say, her eyes were wide, and she seemed to react the way I had, except it wasn't shock in her eyes, it was panic. Her hands started to shake a little until she took my hands in hers and said in a calm voice.

"Don't mention this to your father. I know it doesn't make sense, but trust me, my sweet girl, this is for your protection. Don't say anything. Your father must never know about this, okay?" My mother's voice had a hint of desperation in it.

"But why? John is lying, isn't he? Father could never do such a thing." I said for my own benefit.

My mother started to pace a little, like she was thinking of a plan of attack. She looked outside the window as if she were afraid of being watched. I had never seen this side of my mother. She was always so calm and relaxed; she always seemed so meek and quiet. This woman standing before me was scared, and was doing her best to be strong for me. She looked like she was preparing for a battle, but against whom? I wasn't sure. She turned to me, and then she knelt, so she was eye to eye with me.

"Your father loves you, and he will do everything within his power to protect you, now I need you to protect him, okay? Promise me you won't say anything." my mother pleaded.

I was confused, but I knew that whatever my mother was asking me to do was important. "I promise," I said with a small voice.

"That's a good girl. Why don't you go get some rest before dinner?" My mother embraced me tightly and whispered in my ear, "I will do all that I can to protect you, know that, Beth."

I walked upstairs, and when I reached my room, I could hear my mother's muffled sobs.

Later that evening, my mother and I sat quietly and ate dinner. The tension in the room was suffocating. After dinner, I excused myself and walked outside. It felt nice to have the cold air swirl around my face. I loved watching the trees sway with the wind. It brought peace to my panicked soul. My mother always said to find thankfulness in every situation. That night I was thankful for my town. I hadn't heard anything else but there. I loved the mountains that surrounded my home, the endless woods, and the countless trees. Sometimes I felt like no one could ever find my little town. Even though a war was rampant outside, I couldn't help feeling like no one could ever find us here, the war would never come to my safe haven. I knew deep down within myself that that wasn't true. I knew the war had already started closing in on us, but there was still a part of me that hoped that all the hills and mountains would remain our guard and would somehow save us.

I started to walk to Mr. Becker's shop; he would know how to make me feel better. He would sit me down and pray, and then he would sit and talk with me about everything that was troubling me. He always made me feel safe and calm, no matter the situation. I trusted him with every little thing that plagued my heart and mind. He always told me it wasn't him I should trust with all those things, but God. I still found it so hard to trust someone I couldn't hear or see. Sometimes I wondered why Mr. Becker had such faith in a God who he couldn't see or touch. I guess he brought him peace. I suppose it was thanks to God that Mr. Becker could be as sure as he was.

I strolled, allowing myself to get consumed with my thoughts. When I turned the corner that directly led to Mr. Becker's shop, I saw a military truck surrounded by SS soldiers outside the shop. I wondered what they were doing there. The air felt tense, and the men stood as though they were waiting for something to happen. I stopped and peered around the corner watching then intently, something held me in place a sense of unease loomed, and silence lingered like a ghost. All of a sudden, I saw my father storm out of the clock shop. He had Mr. Becker by the collar of his coat, and was dragging him out into the street. When he shoved him onto the ground, I gasped and jumped. I had a clear view of everything that was happening, but I couldn't seem to move. My father had a fury in his eyes I had never seen, he looked like a stranger. My whole body told me to interfere except a voice in the back of my mind that told me to wait and not move; Fear gripped me as firmly as my instinct to move and fight, but it was my father that stood before me, not a stranger.

"Fool!" My father thundered, and with a bit of a chuckle, "Did you think you could run without me knowing?" He threw Mr. Becker into the street, kicking him in the stomach as the surrounding men laughed.

"You don't have to do this, Arnold." Mr. Becker said, gasping for breath.

"Shut up," My father spat. He kicked Mr. Becker again, causing him to fall to his side, and he moaned in pain. I grimaced as if it had been me my father kicked. I gripped my mouth so that no sound would escape, but my heart pounded wildly against my chest. "I know everything that happens in this town, James." My father declared with pride.

I had never heard him use Mr. Becker's first name before.

"You Jews really are as stupid as they say," My father said, kneeling next to Mr. Becker. I had never heard my father speak to Mr. Becker is such a tone; he had always treated Mr. Becker with the utmost respect. I stood in fear gripped stillness. My father grabbed Mr. Becker's hair and pulled his head up, so their faces were very close together. "I hope you said all your goodbyes." He said through gritted teeth.

"Arnold, think of your family. Think of Elli, think of Beth, please." Mr. Becker said while grimacing in pain, still trying to catch a breath from the blows to the stomach.

My father slammed Mr. Becker's head on the hard ground, and then he stood up, took his gun out, and in one swift thoughtless moment, without a hint of hesitation, I watched my father shoot Mr. Becker in the head three times.

"No!!" I screamed, unable to silence myself before my presence became known.

Bewilderment and horror showed plainly on my father's face, and he went pale. The two other officers he was with quickly raised their gun and pointed them at me. I hardly noticed them because my full attention was on Mr. Becker's limp body that lay utterly still on the brick street at my father's feet.

"Don't!" My father shouted at the men, "She's my daughter." He said sternly and then seemed to regret the words instantly.

The two men looked shocked and put their guns down. I ran over to Mr. Becker's body, and my whole body was trembling. I knelt in the puddle of blood that had pooled next to Mr. Becker. My shaking hands hovered over his crumpled up body. As I gently placed my hand on Mr. Becker's cold cheek, blood dripped from his forehead and onto my fingers. His eyes were open, his sweet blue eyes still looking up at the night sky that hung above the scene. A part of me expected him to blink, to look at me. Tears overcame every part of me. It felt like my father had just shot us both, except Mr. Becker had the good fortune to die, and I was left to bleed without any hope of healing. I wept into Mr. Becker's vest. My father and his men stood there, some of the men whispering to one another in confusion as they watched me, not moving.

"Get out of here," My father ordered the two men, "And get this out of here." he shoved Mr. Becker's leg with the toe of his boot.

The two men went to grab Mr. Becker's body.

"Don't you dare touch him!!" I screamed as my father grabbed me by the arm and roughly pulled me away from the body. "No!!" I struggled and fought with all my might to get out of my father's grip, but all I managed to do was make his grip on me tighter. Pain shot up my arm, but I continued to scream and fight. The two men picked Mr. Becker's body up like he was an animal, and they roughly threw his body into the back of the truck.

"Go." My father ordered. The men saluted and then got into the truck and began to drive off.

My father then let go of my arm and, without a second thought, I began to run after the truck. But I was too weak, and too cold to run very fast. I tripped on a raised brick and fell to my knees as sobs overtook me. I could feel my knees start to bleed, and snow began to land gently on top of me. The tears were cold on my cheeks, but nothing mattered to me at that moment. I heard my father's footsteps come up slowly behind me.

"Are you going to shoot me too?" I managed to say through my tears and rage without turning to look at him.

"Of course not," My father breathed a heavy sigh, "Beth, he was a danger to us. I had no choice." My father said it like he genuinely believed that what he had done was right. I heard the sincerity in his voice, which felt like being stabbed with a dagger.

I shook my head as I slowly stood. My hair hung in my face, and I continued to shake uncontrollably, but not because of the cold. "He loved us. He loved me. He loved you!" I screamed, punching as hard as I could against his chest, hoping to punch a hole straight through him.

"He was going to destroy us, Beth. He and his kind are the reason this country is in complete ruins, the reason we are at war! We have to defend ourselves," My father said with unbridled rage in his voice, a shared passion I was hearing from everyone else who spoke of the Jews.

"Defend ourselves? Against Mr. Becker? Why?" I screamed.

"He was a danger to our way of life! You can't understand, you're too young." He said, shaking his head and rubbing his temple.

"He….he did nothing wrong," I said in a defeated voice. "He loved us. I loved him." I looked up at my father, and for the first time, I saw who he was or at least who he had become: A murderer. I saw no regret in his face. I saw nothing but a cold-blooded killer who loved nothing but the Nazi flag and his own pride. "I hate you," I whispered hesitantly, but then, with new resolve, I shouted to make sure he heard me, "I hate you!" my hands turned into fists.

"I needed to protect us!" My father yelled back, unphased by my declaration.

"By killing an innocent man?! Killing our family?" I shouted back, not caring who heard, there was hardly anyone left to care anyway.

"He wasn't our family Beth, and he certainly wasn't innocent." My father said in a commanding voice that usually made me fear him, but my grief wouldn't let me care what authority he had over me. I had just as much pride and just as much stubbornness as him. Until that day, I had no reason to try to show him how much pride and determination I had, but now I was forced to prove to my father that I was, in fact, his daughter.

This time and for the first time, we were on different sides, my father was my enemy, and I was preparing myself for my very own war. "If you find him guilty, then kill me too. I am equally as guilty!" I shouted.

"Beth, please. You are just too young to understand right now. Someday you will understand what I'm doing and why it must be done." My father said, reaching for me as though those were the only words, I needed to hear to let go of what I just saw.

I stepped back, shaking my head, feeling numb. "You're a murderer and a liar." I turned my back on my father, and when I tried to walk away, my father grabbed me roughly by the arm.

"I had no choice, damn it! I had to do my job. He was a Jew and was attempting to flee the country illegally. I had no choice, do you hear me, Beth? I had no choice." My father pleaded and shook me till I thought my arm would break.

"Stop, you're hurting me!" I shouted, then all of a sudden, my father's eyes went wide in realization, and he let my arm go.

He stumbled backward a few steps; his eyes were wide with shock.

"I'm sorry," my father mumbled, "I didn't mean to." He stopped and ran his hand through his hair. He seemed slightly disoriented. My father was never taken off guard by anyone, but I believe in that moment, it wasn't me who had taken him off guard. It had been himself. "I'm sorry," he repeated as he walked off, leaving me standing in the cold street. I sat down on the wet sidewalk and leaned my head against the light post that stood directly behind me. I started to cry. Tears ran down my cheek, and I gripped my stomach, hoping it would ease some of the overwhelming pain I felt all over my body. The snow started to fall steadily, but I didn't care. A part of me even hoped I would freeze to death. I couldn't live knowing what my father was, and knowing I would never see Mr. Becker again. He would never be there to remind me to behave, and he would never again carve another beautiful clock. I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering if the pain I felt would kill me before the snow did. I placed my head against the light post behind me and allowed myself to drift off, not caring what happened.

What seemed like only a few moments later, I opened my eyes, and I was surprised to see I was in my bedroom. My mother and Dr. Frank were standing over me. I looked around, confused about how I had gotten there.

"Mamma?" I rasped.

"Yes, my dear." My mother said as she kneeled beside me, her hand firmly gripping mine.

"How did I get here?" I asked, feeling hazy.

Dr. Frank responded, "Your father found you down the block lying in the snow. You had been there for what looks like a couple hours. He carried you home." Little did they know he was also the one who had left me sitting in the snow. "You are a lucky little lady. If your father hadn't found you in time, you could have died."

Instinctive relief swept over me, but then the overwhelming, soul gripping pain clasped onto my whole body, and memories swept over me. Tears welled up into my eyes, and I buried my face into the pillow.

"Oh, sweetie, everything will be okay, just a few days in bed, and then you will be well again." My mother assured me with a sweet smile

I started to shake with the memory of what had happened. "Mr. Becker…." I couldn't control my breaths; the words didn't seem to want to be said, "Mr. Becker…. is dead." Those very words made me wish I had died in the snow.

"What?" My mother said with surprise and horror, "What are you talking about?"

"I saw…. I saw father…" I couldn't speak anymore. I was too overcome with shock and grief to say anymore. My mother seemed to know already what I was going to say and nervously looked over at Dr. Frank, who was trying to look like wasn't paying attention to what I was saying. My mother took a moment to process what I had said and then stood and smiled "Thank you for all you have done Mr. Frank. If you don't mind, I think Beth needs to get some sleep." She handed him his bag and ushered him towards the door. The sudden request for his removal rattled Mr. Frank. Once Dr. Frank had left, my mother turned to me and clutched me to her and began to stroke my head gently.

My mother held me in her arms and cradled me like a small child as she began to cry. "Oh, my love. My sweet, sweet child," She cooed into my ear, "I'm so so sorry. I had hoped to spare you this pain."

I gripped onto her arms, hoping I could stay there and never leave, hoping that somehow she could make it all go away.

"Where is father?" I choked out.

"Away. Your father is staying at the camp for the next few days. He said he was promoted and that he will have to spend more time there."

That was the very first moment I heard of the camp.

The memories of that day flooded my mind, and I couldn't stop the tears from coming. James looked stunned beyond words at my story. I could see the questions begin to run through his mind. He picked up a chunk of old molded wood and stared at it like it were a block of gold.

"You named me James after James Becker." He said, not asking a question just processing the information he had just been given.

"I thought I made that pretty clear at the start of my story," I said, eyeing him with curiosity.

James nodded, placing the woodblock back on a ledge by a broken window. His chin quivered a bit as he tries not to look directly at me.

"James?" I say, trying to give him room to deal with my story. "Do you want me to stop?" I asked.

He shook his head, "I'm sorry, mom." James said, trying to fight back the tears.

"For what?" I said, surprised by his intense reaction. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I knew you and dad lived through the war, but I never knew exactly what you went through. What you lost, and here I am blaming you for not seeing the obvious sooner." James shook his head in shame.

"You didn't know because I never told you," I said, placing my hand on my son's cheek remembering the days when he was small, and I could cradle him back into peace. "How could you have known?"

"You watched your father kill a man in cold blood, for no better reason then he was a Jew. Two adults who loved and cared for you, and to be a child and watch one kill the other. I don't know how you moved on from that."

I shook my head and crossed the room taking in the scene of a once beautiful clock shop covered in beauty and craftsmanship, now worn and about to be destroyed. I turned to James and shrugged slightly "I didn't move on from it. Why do you think your name is James?" I smiled as tears welled in my eyes."

"I guess I can understand why you and dad never talked about the war much," James said with a small half-smile.

I nodded in agreement, "It's not easy to tell your child about things that to this day you haven't fully processed. Do you want me to continue?"

James looked uncertain about whether he wanted to hear more, but after a moment, he nodded, "I want to know you, mom, and this is a part of you."

"Okay," I said and, so I continue.