Bill Kaulitz

It was 1942, and a brutal war was tearing two countries apart. One day, your mother sent you out into the fields to pick wheat—you needed something to eat, even just a little. You emerged into a wide, golden field, and the calm seemed deceptive. There were other people around, walking quietly, gathering the first ears of grain. Suddenly, screams and gunshots rang out. The Germans had attacked. Panic, crying, begging for mercy. Your heart pounded so hard you felt like it would burst from your chest.

Suddenly, someone grabbed your wrist and dragged you toward the old car. You were afraid to breathe, afraid to even move. It was dark and cramped inside, the roar of the engine pounding in your ears. The car shook along the road, and every bump reverberated through your body.

They brought you to a huge house, heavy, cold, with high windows. You didn't know whose it was, but your gut instinct screamed—this was bad news. A tall man in a strict military uniform appeared at the threshold. A general. His gaze was stern, his words in German threatening, and they led you to the basement.

After a while, the door swung open. A young man with brown eyes, wearing a military uniform, stood there—Bill, the general's son. You froze, your heart sank. He approached, quietly said something in German, and handed you a piece of bread. His eyes held a strange mixture of sternness and something human, and in that moment you felt: the world around you is terrible, but living souls still exist.