identity | reus + lewandowski

January 1941

Marco stared at me with worry in his eyes as I gazed at Chris and Thomas, though I was focused more on Chris. It hurt a little more to look at Thomas, since Robert never warned me of the fact that his oldest son looked just like him.

As soon as I forced my eyes to meet Marco's, I forced a small smile on my lips as well. "What's up?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Marco." Sighing, I fumbled with the hem of my dress. He moved to sit next to me, his eyes soft. It was astonishing how emotional he was around me, seeing as he was the leader of a death camp.

He hadn't intended for me to find out. After all, why would I want to? I only learned because Elisabeth wouldn't stop bragging about it; about how proud she was of her husband. Marco's boss was now Hitler himself. And I lived with this man. Love made people do foolish, unreasonable things.

Elisabeth wasn't home, because she worked as a nurse. I would have the same job, if I didn't have the boys to watch. Marco moved next to me and wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulder before pulling me into him, but it stopped there. I was grateful. I knew he loved me, but I still could only think of Robert whenever Marco kissed my cheek or hugged me.

"What do you want for dinner?" I inquired, quietly.

Marco shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Tonight is Elisabeth's night to cook, isn't it?"

"Yes, but you know I can't eat her food." I responded, gazing up at him. "I think she was born with antisemitism running through her veins instead of blood. It violates every single kosher rule in existence." This was, actually, a huge issue; Elisabeth always questioned me on why I wasn't eating during dinner and all I could say was that I wasn't hungry and then I'd have to excuse myself from the table.

And Marco would always follow. It was fairly evident to everyone, even Chris, that Marco's concern for me was special. It definitely won the race, if it was competing against the concern he held for his own wife. Which caused Elisabeth to despise me. She wanted me out of her house.

"Oh." Marco spoke, running a hand through his combed hair. He was extremely handsome, and I would give him that much. I liked to think that, in another world in which Marco didn't monitor death camps for a living and killed my people every day, I could love him as much as he loved me.

Chris took a few steps to me before climbing in my lap and tiredly placing his head on my chest. Thomas sighed and walked over to me as well, bluntly speaking as I hugged my son. "I miss my father."

I swallowed. "I do, too."

"When's he coming back? Soon?" Thomas plopped on the other side of me and lay a head on my shoulder.

I felt myself choke slightly, but the words left my lips. "I wish I knew, Thomas."

Thomas just grunted and, exaggeratively, rolled onto the floor before landing on his back with his eyes closed. "If he's dead, you can just tell me."

A small gasp escaped my lips. "Thomas, your father's not dead. And I don't want to hear you talk like that, either. He's going to make it."

Thomas sat up and stared at me before bursting into tears. Well, all of his sobbing lead Chris to begin sobbing; the sitting room was, for fifteen minutes straight, a room filled with the cries of two boys that longed for nothing more than to see their father.

I fed them (along with Marco and myself) and put them to bed before Elisabeth came home. And when she did, she was mad.

She entered the house and went straight to Marco before slapping him in the face, causing me to gasp out of pure shock. "Elisabeth, what are you doing?"

"Shut up, Jew." She neared me, a hand ready to slap me as well—I grabbed her wrist and my expression remained unfazed.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"What, do you not know your own identity? You're a hideous, lying, greedy Jew and I know all about you! Does the name Margaret ring any bells?"

I blinked. How did she know? Had she done anything about it? "No, Elisabeth, it doesn't."

Elisabeth yanked her hand out of my hold and then proceeded to strike me in the face. I gasped at the stinging of her manicured fingers against the flesh of my cheek and felt my own hands fly up to the spot, still hot from her slapping me. Marco shouted in the scariest voice I'd ever heard him use. "Elisabeth, what the hell is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?"

"Marielle sent me everything I need to prove my point! Photos! The yellow star is on all of your clothes! She's Jewish, Marco! Jewish!" Suddenly Elisabeth went from angry to scared as she panicked, eventually leading Marco to shake his head.

"If you don't behave yourself and snap out of this nonsense, you'll be asked to leave the house."

So, ten minutes later, she left. I ran to my room and slammed the door shut before listening as Marco's footsteps followed me up there, his voice frantic. "Margaret—"

"Don't call me that!" I hissed, placing my head in my hands as I slid down the door and choked out a few sobs.

"Maggie, it's okay...I know how to handle it." Marco sighed, and I could hear him slide down the door until he sat on the ground, similar to me. "I threw all of the letters between them in the fireplace."

So he knew. "That's not enough. Not only does Elisabeth know, but Marielle as well." I spat, running an anxious hand through my hair. "Elisabeth could be out complaining about a Jew living in her house as we speak."

"No one would ever believe her, Margaret. She has no evidence, and even once they came, no one would ever believe that the commander of Auschwitz is keeping a blonde, blue-eyed Jew in his home."

"That's not true," I spat. "And if Elisabeth is your wife, then what am I when the soldiers ask? Your mistress?"

"You are who you are," He responded, his tone almost sad. "Scarlett Lewandowska. The wife of Robert Lewandowski, who's a dedicated soldier. You're living with us because your husband is risking his life on the frontier, and that's fair reason." There was a long pause before Marco spoke again, his voice back to being so delicate I found myself closing my eyes. "I've been loving, protecting, and keeping you out of harms way for almost four years, Margaret..." Another pause—before a small breath—and he spoke again. "And I won't stop now."