Three pager so far about holocaust

Context: MC is a Jewish boy at age twelve. His name is not meant to be known. Every part, his name and identity will change.

Bullet teeth “Who the hell do you think you are?” He asked, cocking his shotgun. “I told you, I’m Swedish. I’m not a Jew, I-I have my ID!” I retorted, reaching into my pocket for my father’s handgun. “I won’t fall for that trick. Smile for me.” He said, chuckling and stamping out his cigar. “Sir, this is hardly a time to smile. If I could just take my ID out-!” I stumbled backwards as I spoke, falling into the muddy ground. “Smile or you die.” I had not a choice. I grinned, displaying my shiny brass teeth alongside withered, yellow naturals. “Haha… Boy Wonder, it’s you!” The old rancher said, baffled. And then I stared down the barrel of his shotgun and thought but one word. Why?

Prologue I rolled around in a cold, damp bed. It had rained hard for the last week, and my disenfranchised parents couldn’t possibly afford even a thatch roof to catch the rain. Our little Frankfurt cafe had been shut down and raided on Kristallnacht, a night which I had heard referenced many a time yet never described. All I knew was that everything was broken. The windows, the tables, and especially all my toys I had in the back. Everything that wasn’t bolted down was stolen. The entire place looked like a jailhouse. They even stripped the paint. My family was now living in a skinny alleyway in northern Frankfurt, with no roof and two bare mattresses infested with lice. The air around us tasted like Marks. Sour, metallic. We heard gunshots every night. Screams, others. I was kicked out of school; I had to learn from the homeless and crippled. I learned how to clobber birds and set fires, to scheme and steal. It was my only way to survive with my parents having to work under abusive bosses at the tavern. One night, I came back to the alley with muddy boots. “Mom? Father?” I shouted, making small mice skitter from beneath my bed after having presumably gnawed on it for hours. Cotton spilled out. “Gone again?” I asked to the sky, placing warm winter gloves over my hands despite it being only April. The rain cut like razors. An old hat from my family’s time in Italy sat on my head, heavy and tight. A gash cut through the top. Rain seeped in. I stomped northward to Tennenbaum’s tavern, a bar and inn where my parents both worked as cooks. I sprinted against the heavy wind, being tailed by imaginary footsteps.

Footsteps. That's all I remember looking back from now, all of it was footsteps. Stilettos, combat boots, hoof beats, even the treads of a tank. It’s all footsteps. Behind me, around me, ahead of me. Footsteps. Heavy as summer sun or light as autumn snow. Footsteps, threatening yet grounding. Footsteps, ever definite. Hear them behind you, you are tailed. Hear them ahead, you are battled. Hear them beside you, you are accepted. I didn’t hear them beside me a lot. And then, as sudden as the fall of a foot, a hand lay upon my shoulder.

“Hello, child.” An old voice said. “Are you lost?” I turned around. Nary a face in sight. A hand on either shoulder. I turned around again. “Return home. We have a curfew.” It said, before I twisted my head around to see a hideous beast’s face. And yet, all I saw was a man. Sharp features, a scruffy beard marring his jaw, and two grey eyes like murky water. I saw a crimson armband on him. “Ah-ah! Sir, I don’t think that’s necessary. I need to meet my parents. At Tennenbaum’s Tavern.”
“Bah, Scheiße. Get on home, you!” He shouted, grabbing me by the skin of my neck and pushing me into the wet road. My face fell into a puddle, and my nose bruised. I stood up, shaking my head. My intricately combed and quashed hair fell into messy long hair around my head, slight curls in each strand. Water dripped from my wet mop. I threw a reckless punch into the air, striking him in the knee. The man roared in pain, shoving me against a rough brick wall. My hands reached behind me to push him away, but he was too strong. He pressed me further into the wall, until my teeth touched the baked clay. It tore a tooth from the root, making blood drip from my gums. “Jüdischar bastard. Not even worth a fight.” He mumbled, dropping me to the sopping ground. My tears and blood dripped with the rain, mixing into an odd cocktail of despair. I rose to my feet, putting my wet hat into my coat’s pocket and running toward the tavern as the moon flew to the sky.

I knocked desperately on the back door, banging on the glass before it opened, making me fall into the floor. I stood up with the assistance of a burly, bearded man and a pencil-thin woman. My parents. “Sohn, what happened to you?!” My father whispered urgently. I grinned a bloody grin, displaying my crusted yellow and red teeth. “Nichts, Vater. Just a street thug. But I was tough enough to beat him, I was!” I lied, fingering the gap where my tooth was. My mother pressed her sister’s old blue handkerchief to my maw. Red spread through the thin fabric. “Poor boy. He’ll need a brass tooth,” Said my mother, cupping my cheek. “His gums are damaged.” “Mathilda, we can’t afford a brass tooth. We can barely afford bread!” My father shouted, causing a stir from the owner’s office. “Blast! Sohn, hide!” I raced out of the door, shutting and locking it. Sharp rain ran down my back. I shivered. The owner of the tavern, Herr Kluas, walked out from his office wielding a long belt. “What was that commotion? Who are you hiding?!” The muffled voice roared, snapping the belt. I tremble in fear for my parents as my father’s cheek was struck. He fell back, clutching his face. “Sir, our son! We need to feed him! Please, let us back to our work!” My mother pleaded, falling to her knees as tears streamed down her face. “You should have thought of that before you defied me!” He shouted, backhanding my mother into a cabinet. I couldn’t bear to watch. I ran back to our alley, stomping through puddles and retreating to my bed. I clutched the mattress tightly, trying my best to ignore the squeaks of mice inside. I fell asleep, wet and cold. Miserable.

“Wake up!” A husky voice shouted, awaking me from my slumber. I recognized it as my father’s, but he looked different. He wore a tight army jacket with an armband, as well as a nazi officer’s cap. My mother was hunched over a desk wearing an oversized wedding gown. She was vomiting empty puke, and falling onto her knees. Neither of the outfits belonged to my parents. They were stolen. “I said wake up!” He continued as my mother held her head in her hands. I jumped from my bed as my mother fell to the brick street. “Mama!” I shouted, racing to her and supporting her on my arms. “Your mother is dying, son. I’m being hunted. Don’t say anything to anybody. Here!” He said, taking the cap from his head and placing it onto mine. “Heil Hitler.” He muttered, encouraging me to repeat it. “Sieg Heil Hitler, Papa." I said, a tear running from my eye. Even though the rain had stopped, our suffering had not. I hid inside an abandoned building nearby our alleyway. I stumbled around broken glass and wood chips, entering a relatively empty cabinet. More mice skittered out, squeaking slightly. I heard a slam against the brick wall. “Alfred Fresco! You are under arrest for theft, fraud, and treason against the Fuhrer!” A deep, angry voice shouted. I crouched to the window, peeking out just a bit. The man from the street last night held my dad against the bricks, out of his uniform. Father likely stole it from him. I looked for my mother, but alas, all I saw was a pale corpse. The cold woman’s body was once that of my mother. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I halted my cries when the officer peeked in my direction. Father was hauled into a truck, and sent far, far away.

My dad left behind one thing. An old Swiss revolver, with the barrel engraved with a man’s name. ‘Arthur’ it read, though the word was fogging. It came in a small leather holster that I fastened to my belt with a sharp pin. After crawling from the window, I rummaged through any container I could find, but I found nothing. The Gestapo took everything. Everything but my mother.

I stepped closer to the corpse, holding her hands to my cheeks. "Schlaf kleiner Hase, Schlaf, Schlaf, Schlaf. Schlaf kleiner hase, Weine nicht.” I sang through my tears, an old lullaby she sang to me. I couldn’t bear to look at her cold, pale face. I buried my face in her bosom, crying into the loose brideswear. As I held her, I noticed a slight bump in her belly. It pressed against my ribs, oddly warm. I debated with myself, deciding whether it would be improper to peek at her belly or not. I decided for it, morbid curiosity overtaking me. I pulled the dress up, looking at her belly. Engorged, veiny. I pressed my ear to it. Rumbling. “Little brother?” I asked, standing up and placing the dress over my mother's legs.

I raised my cap, holding my hand over the smooth leather holster. I walked into the street, searching for old man Alfons. He taught me how to survive all day with mom and dad gone. “Zigarre! Zigarre! Zigarre für fünf Mark!" A rough voice shouted, shaking a paper in the air. “Der alte Alfons!” I shouted, walking toward the homeless vagrant. “Ah! Kleiner Gavroche! I’ve been waiting for you. Here, have a cigar. And spend the day! Your Vater is… Oh, my, he’s dead, Kleiner Gavroche. Well, have two cigars.” I took the tobacco, stuffing one into my pocket. I lit the other, pressing it to my lips and inhaling. The bitter smoke filled my lungs, slicing through and soothing my nerves. I breathed the smoke out, resting my hand on Alfons’ shoulder. “Nobody wants to give me a cigar, Gavroche. Is it because I’m French?” He said, laughing roughly, slapping his knee and clutching his chest. Der alte Alfons was an old man, around 73. He smoked cigars every day, begging on the streets for a fix. Despite his disheveled form, he claimed to have been quite handsome in his day. He had blue eyes, and a slim strand of dirty blonde hair. “Aha! This reminds me of 1902, when me and my old friend Henry Harris climbed the old alps, begging to god for cigars. Well, Henry, being the Nancy he was, wanted cigarettes. Ah, I miss him.” He said, slicing the tip of the cigar and lighting it again. “I reckon you never left the cities, old man. Willing to bet five marks.” I said, sucking down more smoke. “Ah, Kleiner Gavroche, ever the doubtful boy.” He called me, rummaging through his pack and pulling out a photo album. He opened it up, showing a picture of him alone in front of the alpine mountains. He held his hand out for my marks. “Erm, sir? Where’s Harris?” I asked, reaching for the photo. “Why, he’s right in the picture! Dead center! You’re hard of seeing, you are, Kleiner Gavroche.” He stated firmly, oblivious to his madness. “Alright, sir. Here are your marks. Have a wonderful day!” I shouted, walking backwards across the street.

I shook my head, walking to the local bakery. I walked in, ringing a bell as a kind young woman walked to the front. Mademoiselle Uriel, oh how beautiful she was. Bouncy black curls, a centered button nose, and wonderfully fair skin. Oh, how I wished to behold her every moment of every day. To be held in her loving embrace, alas, it’s so far from me, but so close.

“Hallo! One Pain au Chocolat, merci.” I said in broken French, sitting at one of the barstools. “Oh, mon Ami, your French seems to get worse every day!” She said, grabbing the pastry and sliding it across the bar. I reached into my pocket, grabbing nine Marks. I held them out, before my fingers were curled back into a fist by Uriel. The touch was magnificent. A blush swam up from my clavicle all the way to my forehead. “It’s free, Gavroche.” She giggled, sipping a glass of iced water. The way the water clung to her lips, making them shine like clean glass. I rested my head in my palm, a slim and genuine smile crossing my face. Even that annoying nickname Der alte Alfons gave me sounded wonderful from her rouge tongue. I scarfed down the pastry, my first food in two days, and swiftly crept out of the door.

I rested my back on a lamppost and finished my cigar, tossing it onto the street and stamping it out. I adjusted my hat. I bound my fingers together, pressed my palm to my heart, and pointed my hand to the sky. “Heil hitler… heil Hitler. Heil Hitler!” I said, testing the phrase in my mouth. I skipped down the street, hailing to everybody I saw and plastering a bloody yellow smile upon my face. I shouted to the sky, dancing all the way to the train station.

The conductor had never met the Kleiner Gavroche. For all that was good, that Kleiner Gavroche was dead. I shook his hand and bowed my head, grabbing my last nine marks to pay for my ticket. “It’s ten marks… bah, never mind! I’ll take the nine! Hop into the car, and your name is… what is it? I don’t think you’ve met me.” He said, chuckling and clicking his pen. “Soldatenjunge… Yes, my name is Joseph Soldatenjunge.” I fabricated, grabbing my ticket and stepping up the stairs. “Good luck, boy wonder.”

Footsteps beside me.

Act I Joseph Soldatenjunge The train was a world beyond any I had known. Men and women drinking coffee, tea, and cocoa. Soulful music played all the ride, and cigarette smoke filled the air. I wandered through the cars of the train, seeing the beautiful wallpapers and carpets.

Footsteps behind me. A hand on my shoulder. I turn around, seeing the conductor. I relaxed, dropping my shoulders. “Your car, friend. Right this way, young man.” He guided, opening a door to a velvet carpeted room lined with plush chairs. Boys filled each seat, all wearing nazi caps. I sat myself in the back next to a young Greek girl. Her hair was blonde and braided, and her hands were trembling.

“Hallo…” she said, twirling her braid. “Hello! My name is Nor- Joseph! Joseph Soldatenjunge! It’s a pleasure to meet you. What business do you have in this car? Are you with the… Hitler youth?” I asked, excited to see a pretty girl my age, though my cover was almost blown. A silent and empty tear fell from her chin onto a closed envelope. The droplet spread through the thick paper and left it damp and mushy. I wiped the tear from her cheek with the back of my hand. “Großer Bruder…” she mumbled, sniffling. “Is everything okay, Fräulein?” I asked, mentally palming my face. Of course she wasn’t okay, Joseph, she’s crying. “It’s alright… it’s just that… My big brother is dead. Dead the week I join the youth.” She said, sucking back her tears and phlegm. I placed a hand on her back as she sniffled, trying to comfort her. She was warm, wearing an oversized army jacket the size of the one the officer wore. It must have been her brother’s. I hummed the old lullaby to her as I patted her back, trying to soothe her aching mind. “What is your name, Dear?” I questioned, trying to get into her good graces. “Z-Zoe… Adamos. My brother was Adam Adamos… A funny name, right…?” She said, forcing a thinly veiled smile. Her pain was infectious.

Despite the girl’s sobs and mine impending, all I could hear was the rumble and tread of the train. It was so overpowering, I forgot my struggles. And the girl’s. I was lost in the rumble and tread. I imagined myself a soldier, a tank battalion at my side as I armed myself with a gun.

“Little Soldier.” That’s what mama called me. Whether I had just scraped my knee or had been kicked out of school forever, I was always her little soldier, soldiering on. Back when we still had our café, I would trumpet in front, advertising to anybody who could hear. I would jump around on my stubby little feet, clicking them together in the air. I’d puff my cheeks out, against my father’s wishes. My mother even bought me special-made tap shoes to wear as I played and danced. Those were the few times when I heard footsteps ahead me and not gotten beaten.

I awoke with a heavy toothache. I looked down to see my hand on Zoe’s. I blushed. I snapped my hand to my chest, looking at the man at the head of the car. He had an overbite, and his teeth were a blackis