identity | reus + lewandowski

"Marco."

"Yes?"

After no response to me saying his name, he set his paper down and then looked at me.

"Are you alright, Margaret?"

I blinked, rapidly. "When I ask you this question, I want you to tell me the truth, and nothing but." I responded. "Can you do that for me?"

"I would do anything for you."

"Where the hell is Elisabeth?" I covered my mouth instantly as the profanity slipped out of my lips, watching as Marco's eyes lit up with just a slight, amused flicker. But it was gone just as quick as it'd come.

"She's gone." he responded, almost simplemindedly. The words left his lips so casually as he stood—all five feet, eleven inches of him; his handsome, fluorescent eyed iridescence—and he made his way over to me, standing behind the chair I sat in to place his hands on my shoulders.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"Don't worry about it...or her." Marco responded, softly. He placed his lips on my cheek and briefly kissed my warm flesh before moving and kneeling before me, his eyes shiny. "She's no longer an issue."

Something didn't feel right. Something about the way Marco loved me in such an obsessive-compulsive manner made it clear that he would risk anything, maybe even death, just for me. So, Elisabeth's sudden disappearance certainly wasn't something not to worry about.

I placed my small hands on Marco's shoulders as he kneeled before me on both knees, almost as though he was worshipping me. I watched the corners of his lips form a small, content smile, and spoke. "If you love me, Marco, then you'll tell me what's happened."

Marco just smiled. "Margaret...come on, I don't want you to be so nervous and worried all of the time. We did what we had to do, and now Elisabeth is taken care of."

"Who is we?"

My question was left unanswered as Marco leant forward and placed his forehead on my collarbone, letting out a softly exasperated breath onto the skin below it. My face grew red at the position in which the two of us were in, and I prayed neither of the boys napping upstairs would suddenly wake up and came down here into the dining room.

Slowly, I placed a hand on his chin and tilted his head up so that it faced mine. His stoic eyes seemed as though they held no emotion whatsoever, yet all at once they held every which emotion possible. Love. It was there, written all over the Nazi's face. And it was love for me, a Jew.

"You killed her." I muttered, suddenly. I still held Marco's chin, softly, in my fingers. "You murdered your own wife!"

"No." He responded, shaking his head. "No, not quite."

"Marco..." My face was crumbling as my heartbeat sped, panicked, out of control. "What have you done?"

"It's simple." He responded, placing his own hand on my cheek. "She's in Auschwitz, where I can keep her in place."

I felt my breath hitch and even almost choked from such as I drew in a large gasp. "Marco, how could you do something so terrible?"

"She was a threat." He responded, with a small frown. "I did this for you, Margaret."

"You threw her in a death camp, where she'll starve and die!"

"Would you rather have her in there, Margaret, or you?" Marco dropped his hand to his side, as did I. I would've even created space between the two of us, if I wasn't sitting in a chair and if I actually had somewhere to move. He continued to speak. "Personally, I know my answer to that question, and I think yours is the same."

I was at a loss for words. How could Marco so easily betray his wife? I knew—I'd always known—that Marco had long since stopped loving her, but there was a fine line which he'd crossed. He'd left her to starve, to endure countless moments of torture and pain, and ultimately to die—simply because she knew the truth.

"Marco, you've made me sick." I muttered, feeling my stomach twist. "Just as I began to grow keen on you, you've ruined everything."

Marco looked flabbergasted. "Oh, I've ruined everything?" He spat, moving back as he stood up. I stood, too, but I was nothing in comparison to his robust build.

I felt my lip quiver. Was I really going to cry?

"Look, Margaret, I get it. I'm not Robert. I'm no superhero. I know only what I know." He spoke softer, noting how frightened I was growing at the fact that he'd risen his voice. And he was right. He wasn't Robert, and he never would be. In fact, Marco was a bad man; a terrible one. He ran a death camp, issued for hundreds of Jews to be killed daily, and then came back home to the one he loved.

"I don't understand." I murmured, as all of those thoughts shot through my brain. "How could you even love me?"

Marco parted his lips. "I don't know, Margaret. I ask myself that so often, yet I can never come up with a reason."

"But—"

"Maggie!"

I was interrupted by the voice of Thomas as he ran down the stairs and then ran into the kitchen, grabbing my hand to make sure he had all of my attention. His eyes shone brightly, so identical to his father's; who I hadn't heard from in months.

I placed a hand on top of his head. "Yes, Thomas?"

"Someone is at the door, I couldn't tell who. But since the doorbell is broken, I thought I would—"

"I'll get it." Marco spoke, quickly. He disappeared out of the kitchen and made his way to the door before opening it, arousing my curiosity as to who it could've been.

Could it, by any chance, really have been Robert? I didn't know if he was dead or alive, and ached to find out. I quickly rushed up to the doorframe to see who the visitor was, knowing that I recognized the voice of the man that spoke as I practically shoved Marco out of the way so that I could stare at him instead.

Instantly, my face fell as I stared at him. I'd previously wondered; was Robert dead, or alive?—and, now, staring at the man before me—the answer had become clear.