Kurt wakes up to the sound of heavy boots against cobblestone. He takes a deep breath and rolls over in his bed to peek out the window overlooking the streets of Berlin. The S.S. soldiers with their aggressive snarls march in sync down the mainstreet. Some of them shout at the people with golden stars pinned to their coats, forcing them back into their homes to cower in fear.

Though he isn't Jewish, Kurt always feels sick when he sees the officers parading around, snatching up men and women with the golden stars of David on their arms. In school, they teach everyone why the Jews are horrible people. They take the Germans' jobs, his teachers say, and leave the pure to suffer and starve. Everywhere Kurt looks is another poster depicting an unflattering caricature of a Jew, or a poster promoting the Führer.

Once Kurt asked his father how he felt about the war. His father was probably one of the only men Kurt knew that wasn't fighting in the war, but sometimes he fixed up the soldiers' cars at his garage. All Burt said to his son was, “Don't worry about it, and nothing bad will happen.”

That had been before Kristallnacht, before he and his father had spent a week sweeping up glass from broken shop windows owned by Jews. Kurt never asked what his father thought about the war after that, because his face always told him that it wasn't okay.

Kurt sighs and gets out of bed knowing he won't be able to fall back asleep. It's a Saturday, his day to make his father lunch and bring it to the shop. He changes out of his thin pyjamas, and steps into his slacks and an old sweater. He makes his bed before heading down to the kitchen. He prepares a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of milk for his father, and places it neatly in his mother's old picnic basket. He sneaks a piece of bread into his coat pocket and then he's off.

The cold air hits Kurt like a ton of bricks. It's the time of year where it's not quite cold enough to be winter, but it's not warm enough to be fall. It's that icky in-between stage that nips at your nose and tickles the tips of your toes, one of the worst parts about Germany, in Kurt's opinion.

Kurt's father's auto shop is about a five minute walk from the house, if you know the shortcuts. He takes a turn into a back alleyway. Children play in the narrow streets and their mothers are chasing them around, shouting at them to bundle up or else they'll get a cold. Kurt smiles and remembers when his mother used to do the same to him. He hated wearing his scarf as a kid because it made him feel like a prisoner in his own clothing. His mother would always scold him when he didn't listen to her, but he loved her.

Just then, Kurt sees a familiar flash of red ahead of him. It's a girl in a red coat, walking with two other girls. They don't speak to one another, but their steps are in sync. Kurt races to catch up with them, tapping the girl in the red coat on the shoulder. She turns and smiles at him.

“Hi, Rachel,” Kurt says. He nods at her friends.

“Hello, Kurt, how are you?” Rachel asks softly.

“I'm good, thanks. How are you?”

Rachel shrugs. “I'm fine. I'm headed off to the factory. We're dyeing fabric today.”

“That's good,” Kurt says. He smiles again and a silence looms over them. His eyes trail all over her face and jacket, landing on the golden star pinned to her heart. He feels sadness build in the pit of his stomach. He always feels like this when he sees Rachel, never knowing if he'll ever see his friend again.

Rachel notices and tries to change the subject. “Are you taking that to your father?” she asks, nodding to the basket in his hand. Kurt looks and nods.

“Yes. He always makes me bring him his lunch on Saturdays,” Kurt explains. Rachel nods, and this is when Kurt notices how skinny she's gotten. He slips the piece of bread out of his pocket and hands it to her. “Here.”

Rachel hesitates, her eyes shifting from side to side. The children have stopped their games and their mothers are watching, hands on their hips, their faces contorted with disgust. Rachel's cheeks flush the same colour as her jacket and she says, “Kurt, I-I can't take this. It's not right--”

“I insist,” Kurt commands. “Now, take it before I change my mind.”

Rachel hesitates. Then she stretches her hand so Kurt can drop the bread into her palm. She smiles gratefully at him and gives him a hug. Kurt squeezes her tight, relishing the way she feels.

“Thank you,” Rachel whispers. She lets go of him and turns to her friends, and the three of them disappear behind a building. Kurt continues to his father's shop, the sounds of laughing children guiding him there.

Burt's shop is an average size, not too big and not too small. Kurt's mother used to be the secretary for him, but now it's just Burt running the business. It gained popularity once the war started because it was one of the few auto shops that wasn't owned by a Jewish family, and the German soldiers often come in to get their cars repaired. Sometimes, when he isn't in school, Kurt helps his father with the dirty stuff, but he mostly just does the bookkeeping to keep the business running smoothly.

When Kurt nears the shop, there are a group of young soldiers leaning against the shop window and chain smoking. Kurt nods at them, a sign of respect, and they nod back. Kurt shuffles inside, feeling the watching eyes of the soldiers lingering on his back. He hears them cackling together outside and Kurt holds his breath. He knows that he has nothing to be afraid of, but he's still plagued with fear.

Unbuttoning his coat, Kurt walks through the shop and opens the door to his father's office. He isn't there, so Kurt places his lunch on the desk. He heads to the backyard of the shop, where his father is hunched over the hood of a car. Burt talks quickly to the soldier behind him, making jokes and laughing like fools. The soldier notices Kurt and says hello.

“Hello,” Kurt replies.  He turns to his father. “Dad, I left your lunch in your office.”

Burt smiles at his son. “Thank you.” He looks him over, then says, “Where's your scarf?”

“I didn't bring one,” Kurt admits, earning a chuckle from the soldier.

“Well, you're going to catch a cold. Here.” Burt wipes the grease from his hands onto his coveralls, unwraps his scarf and hands it to his son. “Take it.”

Kurt grabs the wad of red wool and ties it around his neck. “Thank you,” he says. It smells like oil and gasoline.

For a moment longer, Kurt just stands there. Then, he turns to leave, and overhears his father and the soldier talking.

“He's quiet. Is he alright?”

“Yes, he's fine. The kid has been through a lot recently.”

“Like what?”

“His mother--”

Kurt shuts them out and closes the door behind him. Thankfully the other soldiers aren't there anymore to laugh at him.

It's cold, colder than it was earlier in the morning. Or maybe it's just the way Kurt feels right now. Either way, he doesn't have anything better to do, so he decides to go for a walk.

When Kurt was young, his mother would take him to feed the ducks in the pond. She would sit on a blanket on the hill by the pond, reading a book or just watching as Kurt would rip leftover bread into tiny pieces and throw it into the lake. She would guide him along, telling him to throw more to the little baby ducks so they could grow big and strong, and if he got too close to the water she would tell him stories about the water monsters that could eat him if he wasn't careful.

The pond is frozen over now, but Kurt still stands by the edge of the water. He pokes holes in the thin ice with a branch he found on the ground. He isn't worried about the water monsters anymore. But he knows there are other monsters he should be afraid of.

A gust of bitter wind howls through the bare tree branches, and Kurt looks across the empty pond at the forest, half expecting his mother to be there. It's days like this when Kurt misses her the most. He misses her bright smile, the way she smelled when he hugged her; like cookies and perfume, the way a mother should smell. His mother was such a gentle person. She would never approve of the war. When she died so suddenly, Kurt had been scared and confused. His father never spoke about her anymore, but sometimes Kurt heard him talking to her as if she were still there. Other times he heard his father cry himself to sleep. His father tried to be strong, but sometimes it wasn't enough.

Kurt buries his nose deeper into his coat collar and reminds himself that mourning isn't going to bring her back, and decides to take a walk in the forest. Some of the trees still wear red or yellow leaves, and the pines stand tall. Branches crunch beneath his boots and he stumbles over rocks. He stops and picks up a fallen branch as tall as his shoulders. It's sturdy, which makes for a good walking stick. He turns to begin his trek again, but stops when he notices someone else running through the thicket of trees. A boy no older than himself stumbles through trees and bushes, his face red. Kurt's first thought is that he's a Jewish run-away, and he freezes, but then he notices the boy isn't wearing a Jewish star on his coat.

The boy looks over his shoulder, then comes to a halt, doubling over and gasping for air. Kurt sees him wipe his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat, and when he looks up, he catches Kurt staring. Then he bolts again.

“No, wait!” Kurt calls, and races after him.

The boy is fast, and Kurt struggles to keep up after him.The boy ducks beneath branches and snakes his way through the woods with ease. At the edge of the forest, the boy seems to tire out and resembles a deer during hunting season. He turns around just as Kurt approaches, and they slam into one another.

“I'm sorry!” the boys shout in unison.

They take a moment to catch their breath. The boy sits down on a fallen tree trunk. Up close, Kurt notices the wet streaks on his cheeks, and only then does he realize the boy was crying. The boy shivers on the log and Kurt unwraps his scarf from around his neck, handing it to him.  He looks up at Kurt, his eyes flitting from his face to his hand, and he takes it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, though he doesn't put it on.

“Were you running from someone?” Kurt asks him without thinking first. The boy nibbles on his lip.

“I'm not Jewish, if that's what you're asking,” the boys replies sharply.

Kurt blinks and shakes his head, his cheeks burning from embarrassment. “I-I wasn't,” he reassures. “I just...I just noticed you were running earlier, so I thought….” Kurt stops himself from babbling any further.

The boy wipes his eyes again and sniffles. “I was running from my older brother.” He glances at the spot beside him on the log and pats it, motioning for Kurt to sit.

“How old are you?” Kurt asks. The log shifts underneath him as he sits.

“I'll be fifteen next February,” he replies. “How old are you?”

“I'm turning sixteen in May. Say, what's your name, if you don't mind me asking?” Kurt feels obligated to ask, mostly because not many people make it this far in conversation with him.

The other boy breaks a branch off a nearby tree and pokes the hard ground. Without looking up, the boy says, “My name is Blaine Anderson. You?”

Kurt wrinkles his nose. “I'm Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine smiles the tiniest bit. “Is your dad by any chance Burt Hummel?” Kurt nods. “Oh, my dad goes to your father's shop to get his tank motors fixed. Your dad does a fine job.”

Kurt's heart sinks the tiniest bit. “Your father's a soldier, then?”

Blaine sighs and wipes his sleeve against his nose. He looks up from the ground and throws the stick deep into the woods. He nods slowly, his brows furrowing as if deep in thought.

“Yes, my father is a soldier. My brother, Cooper, is also a soldier.”

“You're going to be a soldier too, then?” The acidic tone of Kurt's tongue surprises himself. He knows better than to talk poorly of the Fürher and his army. However, it was too late to take back his hostility.

But Blaine shrugs. He hesitates as if he wants to something, but doesn't know where to begin. When he finally does, it's obvious he tries to pick his words carefully.

“My father wants me to enroll in the army soon. On my sixteenth birthday, I think,” he explains. “But I don't...I mean, I don't like violence. And earlier my brother was telling me that I'm...a disgrace to our family.”

“That's why you ran,” Kurt states.

Blaine nods. “That's why I ran.”

Silence falls over them. Kurt studies Blaine. He's a strange looking person, not like most Germans. For one thing, his gelled hair is curly, a trait commonly found amongst the Jewish. Another thing, his eyes are dark, not a light colour. They aren't brown, but they're a strange hazel colour that Kurt hasn't seen very often. He is incredibly interesting to look at, and when Blaine turns to him and smiles, Kurt blushes.

“Thank you for the scarf,” Blaine says.

“No problem. You can keep it,” Kurt says. Blaine lights up and looks at him as if to say, “Really?” He beams at Kurt.

“Blaine! Where are you? You better get back here now!” A gruff, angry voice echoes through the forest. The colour drains from Blaine's face, and Kurt guesses that it's his brother. The sound of twigs snapping and footsteps barreling across the frozen ground gets louder and nearer with every breath the boys take.

“I have to go,” Blaine stammers, his voice shaking. He clambers off the log and turns to the direction of the increasingly loud footsteps. He looks over his shoulder at Kurt, a smile teasing his lips, and a twinkle in his eyes. “I'll see you around,” he says, adding quickly, “thank you, Kurt.”

Kurt lifts his hand to wave him off, watching as Blaine runs off into the forest, his red scarf trailing like a flag in his hand.