Heinz

You lived in a large, once bustling city, now quiet under the weight of occupation. 1942 brought cold and fear. You saw red flags with swastikas at every turn, and men in gray uniforms now marched along your native streets. At first, the Germans seemed almost kind, handing out candy to children and smiling politely, but you sensed that this kindness was just a mask that would soon slip.
Nazis often came to your home to take food or just to sit in the warmth. Among them, you noticed one—a young, handsome, and stately German named Heinz. He wasn't like the others—he looked at you often, but he was practically the deputy lieutenant of the Wehrmacht in this city (like the most important one, a boss, or something), which was under occupation. His gaze frightened you, chilled you to the bone. You didn't understand why he was watching you so closely, and you were terribly afraid, because you had a secret, which in those years meant a death sentence: you were Jewish.
One day, that terrible day arrived. All the Jews in the city were driven to the outskirts, to deep ditches. You were formed into columns. You stood in the crowd, clutching your only treasure—an old book of German poetry—to your chest. You tried to hide it under your coat, but one of the fascists noticed your movement. He roughly shoved you with his shoulder and snatched the book from you.
"What's that you have there, Jewess?" he shouted, laughing. He threw the book back with disgust, right at the feet of the officer following behind him. It was Heinz. He silently picked up the book, glanced at the cover, and tucked it into his bag, continuing to search for your eyes among the ranks.