"Will!" Clara said when I walked into the Café Bismark. "I thought you wouldn't make it tonight."

"I can't stay for more than an hour," I replied. "If my parents found out that I was at a Swing party…" I let it hang.

"We've missed you here. Everyone says you're the best dancer."

I smiled. "I've missed myself. My Swing Kid self. I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner."

My step-father is a Nazi. My mother married him four years ago, 2 years after my brother Peter had been sent to a concentration camp. My real father was dead, and had been since before I could now remember. I was only three at the time, but when Peter felt like it he would tell me about it.

But now that Peter is gone, I suppose I'm carrying on the tradition that he started. Going to Swing parties. I suppose music is in my blood, since my real father was a violinist in Beetoven's band. Since my new father is a Nazi and has convinced my mother that they are superior, both my parents now condemn Swing music. That is why I ultimately have to sneak out of the house.

"Would you like to dance, Clara?" I asked. Clara was very pretty, and we often danced when I was able to come.

She laughed. "Well, aren't you eager."

"I haven't danced in a week," I replied. "I need to."

"Just wait for a minute. I have to tell you something. Thomas is here."

"Thomas? Berger?" This was strange. Thomas had been Peter's friend, but I hadn't seen him in 6 years, the night Peter was taken away. I shivered remembering that night. I was angry. And scared. And most of all, lonely. Peter was a typical brother. Yes, he made fun of me sometimes and yes, he saw me as a pest, but we were still close. He loved me, I knew. And when I saw him in that truck I was so mad at the Nazis. So much, that I vowed to do anything and everything I could to hurt them. So when my mother married one, I was crushed.

"Yes. He was looking for you."

I looked around and spotted him staring at me. Once I caught his gaze he smiled at me, but I didn't return it.

"I'll be right back," I said. I started towards Thomas. He looked so different.

"Willie Muller?" he asked.

"Thomas Berger," I replied. "You look so different."

"I'm much older now," he answered. "You, too, have changed, but I was still able to recognize you. You look so much like Peter did."

I didn't like mention of my brother. I rarely do. Over the years, I found that the best way to deal with his leaving is to ignore it. "What do you want?" I asked.

"I wanted to see how you're doing. I was also wondering if you'd heard from him."

"Peter writes," I replied. "Sometimes."

"What does he say?"

"I don't know. Mother doesn't always read them. When she does, she doesn't let me read them. I imagine she doesn't want me to know the horrors of those death camps." That was part of the truth. But I believed that the real reason she didn't let me read them was because she didn't want Peter's words "poisoning" my mind. He probably talked a lot about the overthrow of the Nazis and how much he looked forward to it, and she didn't want me to share his views.

"Does she keep them? The ones she doesn't read?"

"No," I replied. "She throws them away. Why?"

"I was wondering if he was alive yet, is all. He stopped contacting me. What was the last letter you received?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling reluctant to give him too much information. I didn't know if he was still following Hitler or not, and maybe he was gathering information for them.

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking desperate.

"I'm sure," I replied firmly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you. But it's been bothering me for some time now, and I've been wondering how to find out if he was still alive. I thought I might as well try you."

"My mother doesn't tell me things. We rarely talk. When we do, it's of no importance."

"That's too bad. I hope you get a better relationship with her."

"I don't. She married a Nazi and now shares their views. I have no desire to be close to her."

"How unfortunate."

"Don't pity me, Thomas. Please. I'm better off than Hitler's mindless marching followers as of this moment."

I studied him hard, trying to see if he would give away anything to me as a clue to what his beliefs were, but he stood still.

"I'm sorry, Willie."

"Will," I replied. "Willie was what they called me when I was little."

Thomas smiled. "I'll have to get used to that. To me you were always "Willie." Well, goodbye."

"Goodbye, Thomas."

A/N: What was that one dude's name? The one who tells Peter to spy on the bookseller, and at the end says "Such a waste" when Peter's dragged off? Because so far I've been calling him "The Nazi" or "Father" but sooner or later, I'm gonna need a name. Thanx!!!!!! (If you don't know, could you at least give me a German name that I could use? I'm bad with making up/finding names.)