When Hate Turns To Love

Harry Styles is a 16-year-old Jew. He lives with his mother, Anne, and they've managed to hide from the Nazis for quite a while. But, one night, while Harry is asleep in a little side closet, a group of German soldiers come in and steal his mum away. Heartbroken, Harry packs up his few belongings and heads to Auschwitz, hoping that he'll be able to save her.

Louis Tomlinson is an 18-year-old Nazi, and he sees Jews as the scum of the earth. He's doing night patrol when he sees a curly haired boy speaking with a Jewish woman through the fence. Disgusted, he drags the Jew back to his house, planning to use him as his personal slave. But, when his friends bring over another Jew, mistreating both young boys, Louis feels protective, jealous, and guilty. What will happen when Louis' hate for Harry turns to love? Will They be able to hide it long enough to go to America? Or will it all end on a battlefield?


5. Chapter 5

I rummage around in my dresser, searching for a pair of loose trousers for Ashton. I've already selected a large orange shirt for her, and rode my bike the two miles to my neighbors house in order to get, er... undergarments... 


"Where are they?," I mutter to myself, paeing through yet another drawer. 
After searching for a few more minutes, my hand comes in contact with the soft, grey material of my smallest pair of trousers. I raise them in my fist victoriously before grabbing the small pile of clothes and striding out to the parlor. She stands in the middle of the room, her drenched brown hair falling over her eyes as she shivers softly.
"I got you some clothes," I say, startling her. "The shower is down the hall, third door to the left, if you want to use it."
She nods and smiles gratefully, taking the dry clothing and going in the direction I pointed out. As soon as I hear the shower running, I bolt into the kitchen to begin cooking. Bringing out noodles, chicken, cheese, rotel, onions, and chicken broth, I set to work on a simple dish, one that my grandmother said warms one's heart and soul.
"And bread...," I mutter, slowly placing garlic bread in the oven and carefully laying the fresh pasta on plates. 
Twenty minutes later, I'm showing Ashton into the dining room and placing a plate in front of her.
"Chicken tetrazzini?! That's my favorite pasta dish!," she exclaims, bouncing in her chair excitedly.
I chuckle lightly at her happiness, enjoying the change from the flustered girl I'd met at the coffee shop. I don't know why I decided to help her. I rarely even look at people that aren't either my friends or in the army. But, something about her drew me in. It just seems as if I'd seen her somewhere before... Now I just feel guilty for causing that girl to pour boiling water on her.
"So, you can cook?," Ashton asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.
"Yes, I like to think I can," I say honestly. "Do you like it?"
For some reason, I feel as if I have to impress her. Seeing her nod as she forks more into her mouth makes me smile. 
She's a very pretty girl, I think to myself. But, of course, so was that other one. So pretty, yet so conceited and evil underneath. Why, I bet she was planning the whole thi-
I cut myself off there, knowing that this is no time to get worked up. Not when I have this very interesting, albeit a random stranger, guest in my home. I flash her another grin, standing to get drinks.
"Want anything?"
"Oh, milk would be great," she says, nodding her head as a thank you.
After we've finished eating and I've put our plates and forks in the sink, we migrate to the parlor. She makes herself comfortable on the chair, her legs tucked under her small frame as I drape a blanket over her shoulders. Taking a seat myself, I attempt to spark up conversation.
"So, Ashton, where are you from?"


"Depends on how you mean. I was born in Ireland, but then was moved to Germany a few weeks later. Then my parents divorced, and I went with my dad to Wolverhampton. After about two years, he died, and I moved to America with my mom. Then she kicked me out and here I am!," she finishes, a goofy expression painting her features.
My mind is reeling at all of the places she named. They all ring bells, but I can't seem to place them. Her voice jolts me out of my thoughts again.
"Where are you from, Mr. Malik?"
"Bradford," I answer, getting comfortable. "How about a game of 'Get to Know You'?"
Two hours and 67 questions later, Zayn is pacing his living room and I'm sitting in a chair, listening as he describes his room as a child. When he mentions certain things, he'll smile softly, glancing at a picture. But, something about that brown-ish image upsets him, and he goes back to the concentrated biting of his lip. I see a girl in the picture, and sigh quietly.
"Who is she?," I ask, knowing full well who stood in those bloody clothes.
"A girl that I met once," he mumbles, walking over to it. "She snuck into the training camp at Auschwitz, disguised as a soldier. Who knows how long she was there before she was caught? Very cunning, a good fighter."
Maybe I should tell him... He doesn't seem to remember me as that Ashton...
"But, she was discovered," he continues, a glazed look in his eyes. "It was in a sparring match. Against me. I was the one that got the pleasure to whip that awful girl. Gave her three good strikes, right across her back. Then she passed out and was carted off. Seeing as my dad was on guard duty the day she was caught, he had to be punished as well..."
A small, lone tear drips off of the tip of his nose, and he picks up the frame.
"They executed him. Made me watch, too. I was held back while my father was shot between the eyes, and thrown into a trench with those worthless Jews! It was her fault my father died," he mutters darkly, his fist tightening around the wooden lining of the frame. "If I ever see that girl again, I will kill her. The same way they killed my father."
With that, he slams the frame down, splintering the wood and shattering the glass. The loud noise and sudden actions of violence make me jump, frightening me to my core.
No. Nope. Not a chance! Don't think so!, I say to myself, any thoughts of revealing my identity now gone.
He stands there for a while, calming himself, before he looks back at me. An apologetic smile graces his lips as he wipes at his eyes.
"Sorry about that. Probably scared you. You should sleep now. Getting late," he says, leading me off to a guest bedroom. 
As he closes that door and I slip into bed, I don't close my eyes. Time to think of a way to tell him without dying young...
(A/N: 5+ comments for the next chapter?? I love you all!)

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