Excerpt: The Inverted Triangle (working title)

This is Cohen's second "real" scene:

I couldn't stop shaking. Not completely. When I sat, my knee vibrated. When I stood, only clasping my hands behind my back kept them steady. I could barely hold anything without it trembling violently. I repeatedly told myself to just give it time. It had only been three days. If time heals all wounds, I just had to wait. Lately my whole life had become a waiting game. My family could not comfort me because they did not know the whole story. And I would not burden them with it. They expressed their deepest sympathies, Schulze had become something of an honorary son, brother, and uncle, and speculated as to the cause of his incarceration in hushed whispers when they thought I wasn't listening. If only they knew.

I stood from my corner chair and entered the small dark kitchen. We had very little thanks to a combination of the Nuremberg laws and the amount of people the household supported. Myself, my parents, my younger sister, my brother, his wife, and their four children. With only the three of us able to earn a bare living, times were hard. Rebekah, my second sister, and her family would soon have to move in as well. Rolf had lost his job and probably wouldn't find another in time to save their home. I taught, just the children in our community who'd been forbidden to attend “German” schools. Class had been...interesting the last few days, to say the least. When your teacher couldn't keep a quiver out of his voice, things tended to head that way. I vaguely thought about eating something but the mere thought turned my stomach. I exited the kitchen.

“Uncle Eilam?” I turned to the small voice, a shaky smile making its way across my lips. Samantha. Even at eleven, she still sounded like a very little child.

“Why are you up?” I asked. She shifted awkwardly.

“I couldn't sleep,” she confessed then drew my brown eyes to hers. “What about you?” I ignored the question and focused on her.

“Did you have a nightmare?” She shook her head as she sat on the couch. I joined her.

“It's just...” she faltered, “I just don't know how to explain it. It's like the air's so heavy around me, like any second something really bad is going to happen. I mean, if they took Mr. Schulze, who'll they take next?” Who indeed?

“Everybody hates us,” she declared suddenly, “When I went to the other school, the kids laughed at me and picked on me, calling me pig and witch and saying that I was the reason things were so bad. I didn't mind so much but then the teachers didn't stop them. They did it right in front of the teachers and the teachers said nothing! What'd I ever do to them, huh? Why could they say those things about me but I couldn't say anything about them? It's not fair,” she proclaimed as only a child can. I drew her to me, wrapping her in a warm hug and stroking her long hair to keep her from noticing my hands.

“Life isn't fair, my dear,” I said patiently as she snuggled into me, “I wish I could tell you differently. That doesn't make what those children said or what your teachers did right,” I drew her eyes back to mine, “What they did has nothing to do with you and everything to do with they and parents' fears and frustrations.” She nodded though I could tell she was skeptical. I was too.

“I want to hate them,” she whispered, more to herself than me, “Hate them like they hate us.”

“I don't want you to hate them,” I said and she looked at me in surprise, “You cannot judge a whole group based on the actions of even the majority. There are always individuals who do not follow the pattern. In this case, some might dislike what is going on but are too afraid for their families to speak up. That doesn't excuse their inaction," I hastily added when she tensed, "Just explains it.”

“Mr. Schulze spoke up,” she said, curling into my skinny chest, riding up my white shirt. I nodded even though she couldn't see it from her vantage point.

And look what happened, I mentally lamented as I tightened the hug minutely. We sat in the dark for several minutes and just when I thought she had fallen asleep, she spoke again.

“Papa says they all need to go to their hell and leave us alone.” I chuckled once.

“While I agree with the last part, I think that if they all went to hell, it would get too crowded before too long.” She giggled.

“Besides, you wouldn't want the children who did not pick on you to be punished with the others, would you?” She shook her head.

“They can't help being German like I can't help being Jewish.”

“Exactly. You father just...forgets that every once in a while.”

And now a Schulze scene:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Over and over the mantra repeated in my head until I figured I'd either pass out or be driven insane by the sheer repetition. I cradled my injured hand close to my chest, focusing on my breathing and not moving the three pulverized and one sprained finger, in my cell. I clasped it by the wrist, any closer and...well, let's just say my throat was way too scratchy to want to scream again. I slid down the wall carefully, landing on the hard floor, my legs bent at an awkward angle. I didn't notice. I looked up at the ceiling to avoid looking at my hand. Too late. The image was already burned into my mind. The finger end was completely black and my pinkie swollen to two or three times the size of my pointer. The middle and ring fingers didn't fare any better. Each stuck out at a wrong angle. They were probably bleeding internally too. There wasn't a lot I could do to keep the blood from pooling. And too much blood pooling meant amputation and possible death. I cursed my captors silently. These injuries were my punishment, I suppose.

You're an idiot, Schulze, I thought, lightly tapping my head against the stone wall. How could you do something like that? How? Weren't you the one who said there was no excusing cowardice? And yes, doing what you did just to avoid pain is cowardice. My breathing sped up again. I am so sorry. Be as sorry as you want, my inner critic sneered, it doesn't change the fact you still did it. And for what? Nothing. I knew I'd really gained nothing. Relief from pain was fleeting, especially when dealing with these people. Hell, we all should be impressed I held on as long as I did. But I wasn't. I should have fought harder, longer. I shouldn't have given in so damn easily.

I shook my head, almost laughing. God, what would he thi- get a hold of youself, Schulze. You aren't worthy of even thinking about him after what you did.

“You betrayed him,” I said aloud, “Don't expect a welcome party if you ever get out of here.” And of their own volition, tears crept out of my eyes. I sniffed loudly, trying to rein them back in. That only encouraged them.

I'm sorry, I apologized to the young face flashing across my mind. I'm sorry, I apologized to my own sense of decency and morality. I'm so, so sorry, I apologized to him. I lied. I told them what they wanted to hear. I told them I was intimate with another man. I told them the man was one of my former students. I gave them a name. God, fuck, it wasn't supposed to hurt like this. Ending the pain should've brought relief, not such a constriction in my chest. I knew the second I considered the idea it would hurt, that I would live with this the rest of my life, however long or short that may be. But shit. A face I hadn't seen in years, nearly forgotten about in fact, now wouldn't leave me alone. Dear damn, what the hell did I do?

Condemn another to this. I was just as bad as they were. Worse. They made me this way. No, Schulze, don't lie. Plenty of people can martyr themselves for the cause. Why didn't you have the guts? Why couldn't you just let them kill you instead of feed into their destructive delusions? Even an ignoble death was better than helping these monsters. Especially better than feeding them innocent people.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't just tell the truth. I couldn't spit into their faces and say, “Yes, I was with another man and no, you're not getting his name.” I couldn't do that. I couldn't give them him. I couldn't. I pawned off an innocent young man for a chance that Cohen would be all right. If they questioned my neighbors, all they'd get was that he and I played a mean game of chess. He never stayed late, never behaved in public as though we had been together, nothing. We were careful.

Sometimes too careful.

Until that blasted letter.

“Keep those not involved out of your petty disagreements.”

I'm so, so sorry.

Just let them buy it. I was ashamed for thinking it but I prayed to a God I didn't believe in with all my might to make it true. Let them buy it. Let them believe it. Let the extra pain I endured to assure them of my honesty mean something. Let my lie let Cohen alone. Please. Do what you'd like to me, I lied and named an innocent, but spare him.

Let this work.