Change Is Coming

Chapter One: Introduction

Berlin, Germany, Late August 1944

"Are you sure that it will be safe for my family there?" Newly appointed General of the Nazi Army, Marcel Becker, asked into his phone.

"Well . . . we can never be too certain with the Allies pushing farther into our ranks, but I am certain that Germany will not fall without a fight!" The man on the other end of the phone sounded so confident and vain that Marcel himself was almost convinced just by his voice. Though almost wasn't quite good enough.

"You do realize I will have a lot of family members coming with me, don't you?" Marcel asked, leaning back into his chair. "My wife, my four kids, my sister and her daughter . . . oh, and Laron, my brother that you wanted there. He will be staying with me, as will his daughter."

"Ahhh, you make a tough proposition, Becker," the man on the other end of the phone line said, seeming to be deliberating with himself. "But the mansion should be big enough for all of them, plus any … visitors you might have."

Marcel frowned slightly. "These visitors won't put my family in danger, will they?"

"Oh no, no, of course not," the man said, seeming to be shaking his head from all the way in a foreign country. "They're just friends." However, Marcel wasn't entirely convinced. There was something amiss about the way the man had said 'friends'.

"If you say so, Weber, then it must be true," Marcel said, layering his voice with an alluring twist, enough to make 'Weber' believe that he was truly being honest, even though he didn't fully believe the man. "I'll come and be the new commander of Auschwitz."

"Excellent!" Weber exclaimed, sounding extremely pleased, by himself and Marcel's acceptance. "A fleet of cars will be by to pick you and your family up in three days. I'll see to it that you arrive safely and easily, despite some of the . . . trouble happening in Warsaw right now."

"Yes, see to it that we don't arrive near Warsaw," Marcel said solemnly. "If we do, my time at Auschwitz is done and you will have to find another poor sap to take command there. It is a great duty to the Fuhrer, yet many people don't seem interested." The last bit was more of a question than a statement, hinted with a slight tone of mocking on Weber's behalf, but the other man simply sighed in agreement.

"Yes . . . many are afraid of the end of the war," Weber conceded, sounding somewhat disgusted. "Rotten cowards . . . afraid of the Allies and the Resistance . . . It's almost the same as being afraid of the Jews! I'm glad that you still have honor and nobility left in you, Becker."

"Oh trust me, I have a lot left," Marcel replied, a scowl seeming to override his voice.

"I know, Becker, that's why I came to you," Weber responded, though Marcel knew that he wasn't the first man to be offered the position. There was a slight pause before Weber continued. "I will see you when you arrive. Goodbye." And with that, he hung up his phone. Marcel sighed and hung his own phone in its place.

There was a light knock on his study door not a few seconds after he hung up, and Marcel sighed again. He just knew someone had been listening in. Time to see who it was.

"Come in," Marcel called, and began to rearrange the files on his desk, as if nothing important had happened over his phone call.

The door opened slowly, and Marcel's wife, Tabitha, entered the room. She truly was a beautiful woman, with tanned skin and soft, wavy black hair that fell down beneath her shoulders, showing the signs of her Italian heritage. She always wore the most lavish clothes she could find for herself, and was also normally adorned in the most stunning jewelry in Europe. Marcel couldn't help but smile at the sight of his wife.

"So . . . you heard?" He asked, looking up at her while organizing some of his files.

Tabitha nodded and strode elegantly to his desk, leaning on the edge as he continued his work. "Yes. You are the new commander at Auschwitz . . ."

Marcel nodded proudly. "Yes."

Tabitha pursed her lips, looking a bit troubled, and asked, "Why?"

"Why?" Marcel asked, baffled. "Because I will be doing a great duty to the Fuhrer! I have not lost my dignity, nor my honor, Tabitha."

Tabitha shook her head, looking down at her perfectly manicured hands. "I know that, dear . . . but … the children . . . you are putting them in danger."

"Nonsense." Marcel shook his head. "One of the officers there, Weber, whom I have known for a long time, assured me that our family would be safe. You, me, Julian, Rose, Marc, Tony . . . Lillian and Rebekka . . . as well as Laron and Aly. This is a great opportunity, Tabitha, a great opportunity indeed!"

"And a dangerous one," Tabitha stated pensively. "Marcel, both you and I have heard of the rebellion in Warsaw . . ."

Marcel dismissed her comment with an aloof wave. "Tabitha . . . I am pretty confident that they are losing. And even so, they would not be able to recapture Auschwitz for quite a while. They just need a commander there that they can trust will get the job done, and get it done right."

"But . . . Marcel . . ." Tabitha said quietly, her soft Italian accent seeming to flare up a little on his name. She pursed her lips when Marcel stood up and rounded the desk, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Trust me, Tabitha, we'll be fine," he attested, squeezing her. "I promise."

Polish Countryside, Late August 1944

The name Aleksander Kaminski was a name that served only one purpose: to be a hidden identity. The names Michal Kaminski, Anka Kaminski, Lukasz Berka, and Klaudia Berka also served the same purpose. All five were fake people, but the names and the papers for them were important. They were for protection, for security and peace of mind. Just one thing to make the five who were hiding behind the names feel a bit safer.

But these names were no longer needed.

Emile Charbonneaux, the man shadowed behind the name Aleksander Kaminski, was a resistance fighter. He fought for freedom and liberty, for the countries of Europe, and for the people in it. Emile saw things that others didn't see, and he had something that most people in Europe seemed to be faint of: a heart. A large, pulsing, living hear that would never stop beating until the fight was over; and even if it had to, the spirit behind it would live on and still help win the battles until the war was over. Emile's wife, Lisette, was the woman behind the Anka Kaminski. She was a kind-hearted, yet strong woman, who wasn't one to back down until the job was done, either. Remy, hidden behind the false image of Michal Kaminski, was their adopted son. Lukasz Berka was Emile's younger brother Luc, and Klaudia was his wife, Denise. They fought for justice and freedom, in hopes of seeing that, one day, Europe would be independent from the hands of Nazi Germany again, and a strong continent with notable people once more.

The Charbonneaux family came from France, and had been doing a great deal of resistance against the Nazis since the war had started. They had aided in letting the Allies through Normandy and had been there when the Allies had liberated France from Germany. Nobody seemed prouder that day than Emile and his family.

However, despite the fact that France was liberated and the French Resistance was basically over, Emile knew he had to do more to help Europe as a whole. He had heard about the possible rebellion in Poland from sources inside the Resistance, and so, had packed up his bags – and a few members of his family – and had left for the German-occupied country.

The Charbonneauxs had stayed in Warsaw for nearly three months, since the middle of June, under the guises of Aleksander, Anka, Michal, Lukasz, and Klaudia. They had immediately began work with the Polish Resistance, and soon created a decently sized department of their own. Then the Warsaw Uprising had started. It was nearly a month later now, and the citizens of Warsaw were losing. Emile knew that he needed to get his family out of the city, though their fight wasn't over in Poland. With the help of the underground, they were smuggled out of the city and started their journey farther inland. They were finally going to help the Jews in the concentration camps. Emile couldn't help be feel a tiny ounce of pride.

"Here we are, our new papers," Emile said a day into their journey, pulling out a thick stack of papers from his satchel. They had hitched a ride, free of charge, farther into the country, that would drop them off about ten miles from Auschwitz. Of course, cattle cars didn't smell all that well, nor were they comfortable. But at least the five had food and water with them, blankets to keep out the cool from the night, and a roof over their head when they got to their destination.

"What are our names this time?" Remy asked with a grin as he was handed his own from the top of the stack. He tilted his head slightly as he looked down at it. "Jakub Winski . . . that's a funny way to spell it, Père."

"That's a Polish way of spelling it," Emile said with a small smirk as he handed his wife her papers. "Tak?"

Remy grinned a bit at the Polish word for 'yes'. Heck yes he had picked up more than a little Polish. It was quite necessary. "Tak."

"Zofia . . ." Lisette mused while she studied her papers. "I believe that I like that better than Anka."

"Personally I liked Lukasz better than Stefan . . . at least I could still be called 'Luk'," Luc added, frowning slightly.

"And I liked Klaudia much better than Beata . . . but you did a fantastic job, yet again, Emile," Denise complimented her brother-in law, smiling a bit at him.

"Oh, I didn't do it . . ." Emile said, frowning slightly as he felt a compliment wasted. He liked compliments. "One of the Polish members did . . . but they are good nonetheless."

Lisette nodded. "That they are." She leaned into her husband's side and sighed. "I do hope we get there soon, I'm starting to ache."

"Oh, don't worry, we'll get there soon . . . and then the real fun begins." Emile grinned, feeling a light sensation rise in his stomach. He was ready for this. Ready for one more chance to get back at those vile Nazi bastards.

Auschwitz, Poland, Monowitz Concentration Camp (Auschwitz III), Late August 1944

In the Family Barrack . . .

What would you say to your children if you knew that it was the last time you were going to get to see them? Would you tell them that everything would be alright, that they would have to watch out for each other? Or would you tell the oldest that it was his duty to watch after the youngest? Would you give them hugs and kisses and say goodbye?

Raisel Cohen would never get the chance to say goodbye to her children. She could hear the ringing of her daughter's screams as she was being forcefully pulled out of the barrack by two Nazi soldiers. Never would she be able to tell her daughter goodbye, and instruct her to stay with and listen to her brother through everything, put her complete trust in him and to whatever he told her to do. Never would she be able to hug either of her children again, and tell them that they'd make it through one more day, one more night. Never would she be able to promise them that they would make it out alive; that was a lie now. But she wasn't ashamed that she had told them that; it had kept their spirits up. She knew that both of her children had strong hearts and strong spirits. But as Raisel was being roughly hauled out of the barrack, she had to wonder if both of her children would have enough will to survive after she was gone.

Anna Cohen was Raisel's six-year-old daughter. She was a sweet girl with light grey eyes that still sparkled with the innocence and cheerfulness of the child that she should have been. Though her hair was now shaved off and her body was emaciated, she still had the angelic features of an adorable child, even some of the Nazis seemed to soften around here. But of course, these were the older ones, the ones who probably had children of their own. The younger ones didn't see anything beside the fact that she was "the daughter of two filthy, lousy Jews", and a Jew herself.

Currently, Anna was in a state of shock and sorrow. Her mother had been taken away from her in front of her very own eyes. To where? She didn't exactly know. But when someone was taken away, they never came back. Ever.

Several women and other children looked on as Anna laid down on the cot that she and her mother shared with another family. The other family was gone right now, working somewhere. There was a mother and a little boy a year older than Anna, and a girl a year younger. Anna and the little girl had made friends, talking quietly to each other while others settled down for bed around them, or ate their food rations in silence. But Anna liked the other little girl, Miriam. They were good friends.

After sobbing quietly to herself for a few minutes, Anna felt strong, firm arms wrap themselves around her. At first she tensed, but when she looked up through glassy eyes, she saw her older brother, Asher.

At sixteen, Asher was too old to stay in the family barrack with his mother and sister,and stayed with other men that were chosen for forced labor in the men's barracks. Asher came to see his mother and sister as often as he could, which at the worst points, was once a week, and at the best points, once every day. He used to be a very strong, fit boy, but was now the picture of every Jew in the camp: skinny, beaten, and worn out. Despite this, he was still strong, one of the reasons that Nazis had chosen him for work. He was fit enough for labor. And to Anna, he was just about the strongest person in the world.

"Asher, t-they took Ima a-away . . ." Anna spluttered, sobbing into her older brother's shoulder.

"Shh, shh, I know, akhot ktana," Asher whispered into her ear, hugging her close to his thin chest. Normally, he was cold and guarded, not open to anyone. But for his family, especially his little sister, he broke down his walls and allowed himself to be sensitive. "It will be alright, just be quiet now."

"B-but they t-took her a-away . . ." Anna murmured into his chest, sniffling. "She said she'd never leave."

"It wasn't her choice," Asher replied, biting his lip.

"B-but . . . w-w-why did she have to leave?" Anna asked him, whimpering softly.

"Because," Asher said, hugging her just a bit closer. "One person can't defeat the Nazis."

In the Women's Barracks . . .

Most of the prisoners of Auschwitz were Jewish; some were Roma or Sinti, most often called 'gypsies', or homosexuals, or Jehovah's Witnesses, and even communists and prisoners of war. Dorothea Kirsch was a special case. She had fallen in love with a Jewish man named Elijah Levy, and so, when Elijah's family was threatened to be deported in 1943, Dorothea and her father had hidden Elijah and his family in their home. However, in January of 1944, Nazis had raided the Kirsch family home and taken Dorothea, her father, Elijah, and Elijah's family into custody, and sent them in crude cattle cars to Auschwitz. But of course, everyone had their story.

Shiri Mencher was no exception. She was a strong, tough girl of sixteen, with an independent attitude and a kind heart. She had lived eleven years in happiness, until the Nazis had taken over Poland. A year later, Shiri and her family were moved into the Warsaw Ghetto. Conditions were terrible, though the family had managed to stay alive, sometimes with Shiri's plain devotion to life. When the deportations to the Treblinka killing center had started, Shiri had escaped the Warsaw Ghetto with her four siblings, Rivka, Josef, Talia, and Lavi. After escaping the city of Warsaw, they had been taken in by two members of the Resistance. Though in January of 1944, they, like Dorothea, were caught and taken to Auschwitz. Shiri was separated from her brothers, the youngest of whom was killed. The other was later killed as well. Shiri's youngest sister, Talia, was also taken upon arrival, and died. However, Shiri and Rivka, separated by two years, managed to stay together, and still were together, though Rivka was much more worn down than her sister. The only reason they were alive was because they had each other to hold on to.

Sometimes, Shiri found herself gazing across the barracks, scanning the cramped room. She many many kinds of people, mostly all Jewish women. Most of them were the walking dead. But some of them still had a light in their eyes. Shiri often saw that in Dorothea's eyes. She knew that the young woman, older than herself, still had a spark in her. She had survived here as long as Shiri had. In fact, they had arrived on the same day.

Dorothea and Shiri had held quiet conversations a few times, each knew just a bit about the other's life. It made both of them feel a bit better inside to talk to someone else, for a change. It never showed, though. Sometimes, just to show a little kindness and sympathy, Shiri would look over at Dorothea, and smile. Dorothea would receive the message and smile back. Though the smiles were weak, they were genuine. And that's what felt good about them.

One thing was for certain: Neither Dorothea Kirsch, nor Shiri Mencher, were willing to give up the fight just yet.

In the Men's Barracks . . .

Jacob Niewinksi was a Jew. Rollin Boyd was not.

Though Rollin pretended to be, he was not Jewish. He was an American soldier. He had slunk behind enemy lines to help the resistance, and bring back information from them to the US Army. However, Rollin had, on one of these missions with a few other American soldiers, volunteered to go undercover at Auschwitz concentration camp, as a young Jewish man by the name of Chayyim Lehrer. Rollin was fluent in German and could even master an accent, so he was only all too perfect for the job. However, under the 'brave' and 'honorable' roll that he had taken, Rollin was cocky. He wanted to be respected, and he wanted people to remember him as a hero.

Thus was not the case anymore.

Sure, it would be great to be flaunted upon by many people and rewarded for all he had done, but Rollin, as of now, had a hard life. He wasn't sure if he would have rather of been fit and in a battle, or hiding out in a concentration camp, getting secret information from within the Nazis' borders. Each was just as honorable as the other.

Jacob was a true and pure Jewish boy of sixteen. He and his family had lived in a ghetto in southern Poland before being deported to Auschwitz, where his mother and little sister, Nevaeh, were killed almost on arrival. His father had died from exhaustion and heat later on. Jacob didn't have many other family members, and wherever they were, he was sure it was some deep, cold hole in the ground.

Rollin and Jacob were almost nothing alike. In fact, they had never even talked to each other. But they, like the other people in Monowitz, were survivors. They would mostly likely see the end of the war, just because of their brave and strong nature. Both would be survivors, they would live through Auschwitz and move on, but they might not even tell their stories to others once they got out. It was very emotional business, of course, but their stories were worth telling.

The problem was, would either of them be able to tell it?

Marcel, Tabitha, Julian, Rose, Marc, Rebekka, Aly, Lillian, Laron, Emile, Lisette, Remy, Luc, Denise, Asher, Anna, Dorothea, Shiri, Rollin, and Jacob.

The war had transformed all of their lives. Some for the better, some for the worse. But in the near future, the person behind each name would be altered. They would no longer be three separated stories, but one new story all rolled into one. They would meet the others, see the real person behind the mask.

Change was coming.

But would they be willing to accept it?

I just want to give you translations:

Fuhrer – Basically referring to Hitler, it means "leader" in German

Père – "Father" in French

Tak - "Yes" in Polish . . . if you didn't get that already. ;)

Ima – "Mother" in Hebrew

Akhot ktana – "Little sister" in Hebrew

I hope I got all of these translations correct, because I had at two or three sources for each . . . XP