He began to feel proud.

When their teachers told them how important it was to rid themselves of the scourge of the Jewish enemy, how the Jews were filthy, inferior, disgusting creatures, Max kept his face as still and impassive as he possibly could.

He didn’t question them. Don’t stand out.

He didn’t argue. Don’t speak out.

He didn’t tell them his old friends were Jewish. Be like the other boys.

But secretly, in his bedroom at night, when no one was around, Max would sometimes let himself think about Leo and Elsa. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to write to them. Now more than ever. He would feel like every word he sent them was a lie. And anyway, he hadn’t heard from them either, so he didn’t need to feel guilty.

But he let himself have small moments to think about them, and to smile at the memory of their games and laughs together.

He would take out the photo that he still kept hidden in a drawer. He would still smile as he remembered that moment: looking down at Vienna from high in the air, laughing all day.

And then the questions would come. Were Leo and Elsa really the enemy? Were they the people he had to hate? Could there be a mistake of some sort?

He knew he could never ask these questions aloud, and so, with an ache in his chest, he would put the photo away, and to help get rid of the painful thoughts, he would stand in front of his mirror and recite his school’s motto over and over until there was nothing else in his mind.

One people, one country, one leader!

One people, one country, one leader!

One people, one country, one leader!

LEO

I made a list of things I was no longer allowed to do. I carried it with me everywhere in case I forgot. I’d seen what happened to people who forgot.

Like Papa, when I’d seen him in the square. Except Papa hadn’t even had time to remember. He’d barely had a day to learn the new rules before he was punished for breaking them.

We never talked about that day. Neither of us even acknowledged it had happened. Instead, we both pretended that our eyes hadn’t met when he was kneeling on the ground, that he hadn’t urged me to run away so I didn’t face a similar fate, that I hadn’t known any different when he came home and told Mama that he had slipped and fallen in the rain.

Sometimes I reran the events in my mind, trying to find even a sliver of possibility that I had misunderstood what I’d seen. I made up alternative versions and tried to convince myself they were real.