Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7807663.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      South_Park
  Relationship:
      Kyle_Broflovski/Stan_Marsh, Christophe_"The_Mole"/Gregory_of_Yardale,
      there_will_be_more_pairings_probably_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Almost_all_characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_World_War_II, Nazis, a_lot_of_nazis, Violence,
      please_don't_read_this_if_you_will_be_triggered_by_the_following,
      concentracion_camps, Blood_and_Torture, Psychological_Torture, References
      to_Depression, cartman_is_a_dick, French_Resistance, probably_underage
      lemon, but_i'm_not_quite_sure_yet, this_a_translation
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-18 Updated: 2016-12-31 Chapters: 2/? Words: 3745
****** Shoah. ******
by endore, mishalki
Summary
     In all the stories I read when I was a child, the Great War was
     explained as something distant and remote, the remains of a slaughter
     that humanity watched with embarrassment. In my opinion, they've
     never had any idea of the meaning of war. They haven't lived it yet.
Notes
     This is a Second World War AU where Kyle is the main character and
     also a translation of the original fic, 'Shoá', written by me in this
     account.
     English is not my first language. Please, feel free to correct any
     spelling mistakes and enjoy!
***** Prologue *****
What is war?
The normal thing to do when they ask you that is to form a complete and
detailed picture in your mind. The word itself can have many meanings, of
course, although we often think about men armed with guns wearing metal
helmets, dried bloodstains staining the lapels of their military fatigues. A
buzz and then the big bang at the bottom of the image, giant clouds of dust
covering buildings and streets that keep your eyes from seeing more than inert
bodies and large bursts of fire and ash.
When they ask you what is war, the idea of desolation and misery comes to your
head faster than a granada exploiting, freed from its ring, as pieces of
shrapnel kneel on your side. In all the stories I read when I was a child, the
Great War was explained as something distant and remote: the remains of a
slaughter that humanity watched with embarrassment; almost a constant silence
just before the consequent inflation it had created; the plundering of the
human rights that the people had claimed for centuries and had not been granted
yet. In my opinion, they've never had any idea of the meaning of war. They
haven't lived it yet.
When someone asks me what does war mean to me, the first word that comes to my
mind is catastrophe. Probably a word not very original nor unexpected, but no
others have yet become more terrible or had a worse connotation for me in all
the languages I've learned to pronounce it. A background noise, almost
inaudible, alters all the mechanisms that make my bain remain in motion and,
for a moment, it feels as if someone had turned off the light up there. I am in
a crowded, cramped, suffocating train; my feet dangle in the air as a dirty
rotten smell fills my nostrils. Mired in the greatest misery, I seek air
between sounds of children crying and adults who reek of death and sweat. And,
for a moment, I feel like I am nothing more than a speck of dust in a crowded
carriage of people, people who for some genetic reason I didn't choose, have
the same fate as me and I join them on a kind of family tie. In that moment my
people can be only summarized in filthy creatures and bleeding men struggling
to think of some stupid reason to avoid themselves to jump off the moving train
wishing a stone would luckily break their skulls. My race suddenly becomes very
distant, very melancholic, and I am sinking in the feeling of shame, of
sadness; but only superficially, just in the way they clothed me in their worn
clothes and foolish tears.
Among all that darkness, among that rotten humanity, of all their aspirations
and families; among all those little feet with bloody plants that walk barefoot
from the synagogue and prayers at the end of the wagon silenced by a shot; I
think I feel something. Something opaques and mutes the Endlösung and the
german voices I have wanted to forget and now I repudiate of my memory, exiled
from a desolate that no longer wants to hear the echoes of war. I don't know in
which moment of the trip I began to remember a hug, an embrace in which bodies
don't touch, but souls do. I took a minute to think about the eternal lad, I
thought again and had faith. Maybe God would took me to Olam Haba to fall into
the clouds. He may prefer to leave me at the Gehenna to face those demons that
turned my brothers and sisters into dead bodies accumulated in earth graves,
their names lost in the memories of history; in the case I don't deserve heaven
for craving that embrace.
I will have no choice, then, to confess myself as a sinner, and I wish all my
flaws as a jew can compensate my long travel in the earth where my people were
killed, my memories of having to breath vesicant and to lick the floor freshly
washed after drinking sea water for hours, because for the Nazis we were
nothing more than toys, toys of science experimentation. And I hope God will
forgive me for sinning as I forgive him for letting innocents die, letting
monsters murder six million of my people and others, letting us free in the
open sea of the European indifference.
The Holocaust was my catastrophe. The Holocaust was our Shoa.
***** Vanaf Het Begin *****
Chapter by endore
Chapter Summary
     I totally forgot about this, I'm sorry! xD I hope you still want to
     read it, huh? Happy new year 2017 to everyone!
     **This is a Second World War AU where Kyle is the main character and
     also a translation of the original fic, 'Shoá', written by me in this
     account. English is not my first language. Please, feel free to
     correct any spelling mistakes and enjoy!
                          And those bright blue eyes
                      Can only meet mine across the room
              filled with people that are less important than you
                             —Of Monsters and Men
                                        
                                    o0o0o0o
                                        
January 21, 1939
The period before the war is fuzzy and frivolous, almost like an
illusion. However, you cannot tell a story without beginning at the beginning:
when life still glowed and Europe wasn't invaded by bombs yet. I'll start,
quickly but thoroughly, introducing you to my friends.
By the Night of Broken Glass my family and I had already moved to Holland,
which is the western part of the Netherlands. It was actually a great relief,
since the horrible events happened near our old house. Then I was eleven years
old, and moving seemed quick and easy to me- my father, who used to
have several savings, had made an effort to make us feel safe during that
confusing and painful situation.
I was little so there wasn't really much that was happening in my life then
that was hugely profound. I only worried about, you know, playing, eating and
taking care of my little brother Ike. However, the circumstances and measures
of Nazism set me thinking quite a lot about the racism we were suffering.
Listen, maybe I was little, but I wasn't that stupid. I knew something was
happening and the future seemed dark and even grimmer than before. Not thinking
that much about it was only an excuse, since I would have to swallow the bitter
pill later on.
"We'll be staying with more jews", my mother had said. "So we'll be safe and
sound".

The word ghetto came to me, though I shut it off. I didn't say anything because
I had been taught since my early childhood that a child's words had no value
whatsoever, and as time passed by other people had taken care to teach me that
my Jewish condition made them even more insignificant, so I kept my mouth shut
and I bit my tongue; pretending that I was only and educated kid. In any case,
I wasn't quite sure of the true nature of that remote, abandoned and tiny
neighborhood in the west of Amsterdam. Perhaps the Nazis hadn't reached the
hidden places of this country yet. Maybe we were finally safe from any racial
discrimination, I thought hopefully.

We had been in the town for barely an hour. We walked to our new home, since
jews taking cars or trains was frowned upon, and my parents preferred not to
get a bad name on the first day of their arrival. I watched the building from
the street. It had only two floors and it was attached to other flats of
similar structure. The door creaked slightly as it opened, and we were welcomed
by a great cloud of dust.
"Looks like no one's been here for years," was the first thing I said as I
walked in, watching the dark, almost empty room.
"Actually, that's the way it is", replied my father, slightly proud. "No one
has lived in this house for years. It's in good conditions, but it also needs a
lot of cleaning and has few furniture. That's why it was quite cheap".
Of course, I murmured then. Anyone who knew my father would be aware of his
skills as a trader; he never missed a good offer -stinginess was known to be
the greatest virtue of the Jews, hence, their great flows made their life
easy even in times of war. I didn't want to fall into those silly prejudices
that were leading Germany to misery, since my father had sacrificed everything
he had to take his family to a house that seemed to be another from century. In
other country.
It almost felt like running away from something.

The Netherlands hadn't begun to be suffocated by the Nazi regime yet, so the
schools didn't have the places' restriction for Jewish children. My father, who
had numerous contacts and had moved many papers in the neighboring country,
managed to get my brother and I to start our classes by the middle of the
school year in a modest and discreet academy at the outskirts of Amsterdam.
After the renovations inside the decrepit building, the installation of my
family in our new home and the Hanukkah which we celebrated with quite a good
harmony, I was already walking to the school between canals, tulips and the
daily atmosphere at Waterlooplein, the famous Jewish neighborhood. Feigned
tranquility concealed my nervousness at those times: I wondered if I would get
along with the Dutch, people who I hadn't had much opportunity to meet since I
moved. I also wondered how long I would last in those classrooms. Maybe the SS
would knock at my door the next morning and lock me on an armored van, as they
had done in many of my nightmares; if my classmates would hate me and throw
paper balls at me when they find out my origin, which I hid from...
It wasn't that horrible, actually.
I hope you allow me to boast at least for a moment of one of my few qualities
back then, and it was that I wasn't silly at all, and I knew that the best way
to survive in that simple and complex world -simultaneously-, was to go
unnoticed. So I walked downstairs as soon as I entered the building, walking
between my classmates, and I approached the classroom calmly, seeking the
protection of the teacher who was waiting for me in the class a few minutes
before the lesson. Mr. Garrison, whom my father had talked to a few days
before, was aware of my situation and must have thought that I had a fragile
and unstable condition.
"Don't worry, Kyle," he said with a sweet, appropiate affection. "You are safe
here. All your classmates will welcome you with fondly appreciation."
Then he made a strange play with a puppet which actually seemed more aggressive
than him, though I didn't care. Strange stuff. In the class there were sixteen
tables divided into pairs. 
"You'll sit in the front row," said Mr. Garrison, "your classmate will be glad
to have someone sitting with him finally. It's the only one empty."
At that moment I missed my brother, who had been assigned to a kindergarten
farther away. I wondered if he would be doing well, although, knowing him, it
was probably me who was taking the situation in a more extremist way, so I sat
down at the desk and waited until the other boys arrived. This is not the end
of the world, I thought nervously. Almost immediately, students began to join
the class. They were so noisy that the teacher had to shout at them a little,
although my new classmates seemed to be accustomed and weren't disturbed. A boy
wearing a blue and yellow hat sat at the desk behind me.
"You SHOULD have seem his face, oh my god. Butters is so stupid."
A blond boy appeared behind him, almost like a ghost, looking at him
frowning. His face was almost completely covered by the hood of his orange
jacket, a little dirty and worn, and some strands of golden hair peeped out
from underneath.
"He's the only one who can stand you," he said, unconcerned. "Treat him better,
idiot."
The blonde sat down next to him and, to my surprise, he didn't seem to have any
intention of removing the hood from his face. Well, I shouldn't complain: I was
still wearing my ushanka.
The boy with the hat stared at me when I turned around a bit just to look at
them. Crap.
"Oh, we have a new classmate! What is your name?", he asked in a false kind
one, touching my shoulder rudely to get my attention. How little had my
invisibility lasted in that classroom!
"Kyle Broflovski," I replied between shyness and seriousness, pursing my lips
and shaking his hand. I noticed that he had an air of superiority and a
remarkable overweight. "I am from Germany."
"I'm Eric Cartman", he said, "and I'm from Germany too. My father is a great
friend of the Führer!", he exclaimed, with a latent and built pride, and when I
heard that name I could do nothing but shranking into my seat.  
"Stepfather," added the blond boy. "His father is dead and his mother goes out
with a different Nazi every day. They all live in Germany and Cartman barely
sees them. Don't be so arrogant, fatass", he said, laughing.
"Bah", thepotential Nazi put out his tongue, dismissing what the other had
said. "It's always better than living in a dump, Kenny". The blonde raised an
eyebrow, and I looked at them quite alarmed.
"A dump?"
"Kenny is the poorest boy in the school," said Cartman. "His family lives on
the west side, you know. That area where there are only slums and shantytowns,
and their parents don't even have a radio."
I frowned.
"And I thought I had little money."
"You thought?" Cartman said.
"My father was a lawyer," I replied. I was surprised at the ease with which I
had started talking to those two boys. "But since we had to move, I don't know
if he will be a lawyer anymore. However, we have plenty of savings. I'm sorry
about your condition" I said to Kenny, distressed.
"Don't worry, I'm used to it".
"Incredible things happen around him," Cartman said, "but you'll see."
Before I was able to ask anything, I heard a noise next to me and I turned
around. A boy was standing at the desk next to me. 
"Just in time", he sighed, greeting Cartman and Kenny. He caught my attention.
His jacket had the New York Yankees logo sewn. He was also wearing a hat, blue
and red, covered with snow. His blue eyes gleamed, probably because he had
realized that the place which had been empty for months was now occupied. A few
strands of black hair fell down his forehead, and he made an attempt to hide
them under his hat. He seemed pretty normal to me. And I liked his eyes.
"Hello," he finally said, meeting my gaze. He seemed a little unsure about
talking to me, so I figured out he could be shy. He smiled when I replied with
a tiny "hello", and pushed back the chair to sit down. "I'm Stanley, but you
can call me Stan."
"He's Kahl," Cartman interrupted.
"It's Kyle," I said, annoyed. "Not Kahl."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," the fat boy said, sticking out his tongue. "We have
been talking to him for a while and I've decided he's going to be our new
friend."
"You decided?" I was surprised.
"Don't try to stop him," Stan laughed. "He's always like that, he never asks
for anyone's opinion. Although I wouldn't mind being your friend."
I didn't care about hanging with Stan. He seemed nice. In fact, I was relieved
to have such a friendly classmate. I had the same feeling for Kenny, too.
However, I looked at Cartman with narrowed eyes, who looked at me like if he
was challenging me to deny his proposition. I sighed, almost exhausted from all
the social effort I was making, and rolled my eyes.
"Okay," I said, smiling slightly at Stan and Kenny, and looking suspiciously at
the potential Nazi, as I decided to call him from then on. "It's a pleasure to
meet you".
"How many formalities," Kenny murmured, smiling.
The teacher then cleared his throat, and we all turned around to pay attention.
After giving us one last menacing glance, he sat down in his chair and took out
a few papers.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Mr. Garrison," the students replied in unison, apart from a few
stragglers and other boys who were almost falling asleep on their seats. I
noticed that everyone had already sat down. A blonde boy sitting behind me was
shaking a lot. 
"I suppose you'll have noticed that you have a new classmate", he said
unobtrusively, and I felt all eyes fixed on me. Probably some of them hadn't
noticed my presence. Mr. Garrison looked at me and continued speaking, his
voice prettily sweet, "How about you come here and introduce yourself?"
I hesitated a bit before getting up, unsure, trying not to meet the gaze of the
boys in the class. I stayed next to the professor's desk and, swallowing, I
spoke with all the certainty that I could pretend.
"I'm Kyle Broflovski. I am eleven years old. I'll be twelve in May. I still
don't know the city very well because my family moved recently. Uh..." I was
pretty nervous back them, and I remember looking at my classmates expecting
some reaction. Kenny had his eyes on me, yet he seemed to be in the clouds. On
the other hand, Stan looked at me and smiled gently. "I mean," I said then,
somehow more calmly, "I'm from Germany."
Some kids looked surprised. A boy with short, blond hair opened his mouth in
surprise.
"Why did you move?" He asked, with a southern accent and a slight stutter.
"Stotch! What have I told you about interrupting your classmates?" Exclaimed my
teacher. The blonde was alarmed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Garrison!" He said immediately, though he didn't look away from
me, waiting for an answer. Cartman cleared his throat.
"I come from there, too", he said with a pointed gesture, "and you weren't
that interested."
The others began to intervene and argue among themselves, which elicited a sigh
from the desperate professor, who seemed to surrender.
"Go back to your seat, Broflovski," he said, apparently tired. "And you all,
shut your mouth! Disturb your classmate with your silly questions at recess."
I obeyed quickly and sat down at my desk. A general uproar reigned in the
class, which helped me to walk unnoticed, though not for long. As the students
calmed down, I became interested in what Stan was doing, writing down a few
sentences on a sheet torn from his notebook.
"Do we have to write down anything?" I asked, disguising my curiosity for
whatever he was writing.
"Huh? No", he said quickly, a tinge of nervousness in his voice. "This
is...well, I suppose there's no reason to hide it", he continued, sighing.
"Everyone already knows it. Even if you're new, you'd soon discover it."
He handed me the wrinkled page, full of misspelled words and phrases. It was in
Dutch, the language in which we spoke and I had been learning since my
childhood, thanks to my father. I stretched it the much I could and I decrypted
some lines.
I've been thinking about it for a long time and I wish we could go back
together, T̶e̶s̶t̶a̶b̶u̶r̶g̶e̶r̶ Wendy. I promise not to make the mistakes of
the past.
I'm sorry I threw up all over you. What? And I want you to know that I do not
like Bebe, but you have to tell me the same thing about Black, because Kenny
told me that Craig had told him that Clyde had heard of Token that you had
broken up with him. What a mess. Well, I just want to be sure about that.
"I should tell it to Wendy's face, but...I'm nervous. And I would probably
throw up again," he concluded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
I had almost forgotten that there were girls in the class too. I looked back,
confused by so many names, trying to identify Wendy.
"Who is her?", I asked finally.
"The one with black hair," Stan said, gesturing at a girl. She was talking with
another student. 
"She's very pretty", Stan said instantly, smiling like an idiot. "Don't you
think?"
"I suppose," I said, handing him the sheet again, and murmuring a "Good luck. I
haven't got any experience at all with girls. Germany schools were for male or
female students" I said. "I've never been with girls in class before".
"I see," said my heartbroken classmate, somehow surprised. "Germany is weird.
But don't worry" he added, smiling. "I'm sure somebody will be interested in
you. I heard the girls saying this morning "there's a red-haired boy in our
class!". Here we don't usually meet a lot of red-haired people. Speaking of
which, where are your parents from? With your last name and your appearance,
you don't really look like a German."

Fortunately, the teacher screamed something again and we all went silent,
probably aware of the danger involved.
"Now that there is silence," he announced, after a couple of scoldings, "I'll
tell you what you will be doing till the end of the course. It will be hard
work, about five pages minimum. That is, an essay."
There was a general protest.
"Stop it! I haven't explained it yet" said Mr. Garrison. "You won't have to
investigate about anything or read too many books. The task is very simple. You
have to write down honestly why you like to live in Holland" The teacher stood
up and sighed for the umpteenth time in that class. "You see, guys. The world
is going through difficult times. You have to prove your patriotism. You must
be proud of your nation. And prove it."
There was an general "oh", and some approval whispers from some who had hoped
for something more complex. Cartman said something similar to "my true country
is not Holland!" 
"But," I whispered, "I've only been here for two months! How will I know what I
like about Holland?" I was always very concerned about my studies. I couldn't
fail at all.
"Well," said Kenny, who seemed to have awakened from his numbness, with a big
smile on his face, "we can show you Holland."
Stan smiled. Cartman murmured a "whatever." A strange illusion grew within me.
From then on, I knew we were going to be great friends.
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