It's biology. Not my favorite subject, not by a long shot. A question is asked, but I don't bother to raise my hand. I didn't hear the question and don't care if I know the answer. It's biology. Nothing important. Work sheets are handed out and the teacher makes us close our mouths and work. There is total silence. Nothing.

It's because the class was so quiet that I heard it.

It's why I could hear the knock.

It almost makes me jump, but somehow my sub-conscious knows that it is coming. The door opens politely and a short, black haired, white skinned man steps in. Behind him tall, dark and menacing, stand two men with small hand guns strapped to their hips. Bodyguards I think instantly, feeling a wave of déjà vu sweep over me, though I don't know why. The first man's face, though pale, worn, thin, sad - I've seen it before. And then I realize. He doesn't look at me, but I stand up, unwilling to look at the dark blue eyes of my friend's brother.

"Yes?" he speaks to me in rushed German and I blink. Of course. He was one of them. One of the old Germans. One of them. He gives a weak smile and tosses his head to the door.

"Please," he whispers through cracked, frozen lips. Lips that are frozen on Warsaw wind and Jewish blood. I nod, fearing the worst, though not fearing him. I step out, and one of his bodyguards shuts the door quietly, without the normal grinding click. Then they both step away, out of earshot, but not out of sight.

He makes me sit down and I lean against the wall, concentrating on breathing in and out. The clouds whirl and I blink several times. The wind washes over me and I remember myself.

"What is it, Eric?" He is startled.

"You know my name?" At least he is speaking in English, though it is very slow. I look up at his eyes.

"Of course I know your name." He nods, agreeing with me. Of course I know his name. I named him.

"It's Charlie." I sit up straighter, fast, trying to breathe, not wanting to break. Suddenly the words blur inside my head, and I cannot hear him. But I know what he means. It's in his eyes, his face, his hand on my arm; the words plaster themselves to my skin, the inside of my head, my heart. "Charlie is dead." The words vibrate around inside of me. I don't ask for the details, but I know. He was shot six times in the head, chest and belly. No real reason. Just a murder, in a time of murder, in a world of death.

I don't see him leave, but he does, and a little later I find myself shivering, my friends next to me asking if I'm alright. I move my head - I don't know whether I am saying yes or no, but they leave, and that's all I want.

The next lesson is maths, and I struggle to class in a daze. Charlie's blood sticks to my hands, and I cannot wash it off. It takes me that whole lesson to get rid of the images in my head of Charlie, my dear Charles, my first invention, lying dead, blood around him, soaking into the dirt, splattered across the grass.

It's stupid really. I never knew either man, never really seen them before. Not outside the recesses of my mind. Maybe I'm crazy, but neither of them ever existed. I loved Charlie, but I killed him to pass the time in biology. My hands are still bloody, and I know I will never forgive myself for destroying him.

Sometimes, I hate really myself.