My friends continued to inquire about what was happening at home. Sunday school was the one place that I could breathe, praying was my only escape. Day after day, I begged to God for everything to stop, but it never did. I wonder now why I continued to believe in God, why I didn't speculate all the time, like Melchior Gabor. But, perhaps, I just needed something to believe in, something to hold onto.

I remember one Sunday school in particular. I had come early to have some time alone in the church, when no-one else was there. The white walls glowed with a golden light as the children's candles at the front flickered and there was a silence, a beautiful silence, full of peace and wonder. From a side door, you could see the light of a full spring.

As I sat in one of the seats along the isle, looking up at the large cross at the front, who was to walk in but Wendla Bergman. She looked solemn, almost upset, and in one hand, she held a small satchel and in the other hand, a leather bound book, not so different from the one that I'm writing in now. As she arrived, she saw me and started.

"Hello, Martha." She says, putting the book behind her back.

"Hello, Wendla." I say, walking over to greet her. "Why are you here so early?"

"No reason." She says, looking up at the cross on the far end of the church. "Mama said that I could come early if I wanted to, as long as I ate all of my lunch." She raises the satchel for proof. "I like it here. It makes me calm."

I look at her. Something's changed. Her eyes are bloodshot, as if she had been crying and her hair is a mess, like she had been tossing and turning all night. She has a distant feel to her.

"Shall we go further up to light a candle?" I ask and she nods. We begin to walk up and she starts to talk.

"I thought that today I would show Father Kahlbach the sermon that I have been preparing all week." She begins, her hands behind her back. "After all, I-" She abruptly stops as she trips over one of the seats, falling painfully on her stomach in the church isle.

"My God, Wendla, are you alright?" I cry, going on my knees to look at her and as I do so, I notice something else. Her dress has fallen up to show her thighs and along them are long, thin, red marks. Marks that can only be made using a cane.

I know those marks.

I have those marks.

"Wendla!" I cry, falling back a bit as I do so. "Your legs! They're-"

"It's nothing!" She exclaims, moving quickly to kneel and pick up the leather book that she had dropped.

"Wendla, did your father…" I start but she looks at me angrily.

"It's nothing, I said!" She looks livid now. "I was in the forest the other day and got caught in some brambles!"

"Alright…" I say, drawing back. She gathers herself and stands up, the book under her arm.

"I think I'll light the candle by myself then, Martha." She whispers and goes to walk over to the lantern.

"Hello, Martha!" a voice behind me exclaims and I spin around to come face to face with Father Kahlbach.

"Good Morning, Father Kahlbach." I say, curtseying as I was taught.

He smiles at me. "Early for Sunday school, are we? Well done." He praises and I smile.

"I enjoy being at church." I say, my arms going behind my back.

"Ah, yes, church." He says, looking around. "God's house, it's a sanctuary, if nothing else. What happened with Wendla there?"

"An accident." I reply quickly. "We both tripped and Wendla got angry because I accidentally landed on her."

"Ah, yes. An accident."

Father Kahlbach then takes me to light a candle, helping Wendla light hers as I do so. Wendla's face is a mask, showing little or no emotion.

Sunday school begins an hour later and children pour in, taking their seats in the church. Father Kahlbach goes up to the podium, his book in hand.

"Ilse Frei?" He asks and an astounding silence fills the room. He takes a pen and writes something. "Des anyone know where Ilse is? She has been missing for the past two weeks."

Another silence. He looks down at the book and continues.

"Marianna Wheelan?" He asks and Anna stands up, curtseys, and sits down. "Georg Zierschnitz?" He asks and Geog stands up, bows and sits down. "Hanschen Prilow?" and Hanschen does the same. "Thea Verrat?" He asks and Thea jumps up, not bothering to curtsey and sits down.

He laughs and shakes his head before reading the next name. "Moritz Stiefel?" and another silence fills the room. I glance around and, indeed, he is nowhere to be seen. Father Kahlbach tuts and writes something else in his book. "Does anyone know where Moritz is?" He asks.

"He's my next door neighbor and I haven't seen him all day, Father." Hanschen calls out. Father Kahlbach sighs and begins a sermon.

I hear a patter of feet and my eyes turn to see Wendla Bergman sliding out of her seat and walking to the slightly open side door. Father Kahlbach seems to not have noticed, too engaged in his sermon and she slips out the door, into the light of day.

My mind continued to wonder, and I stared blankly at Father Kahlbach. Did Wendla's father beat her? I had often spoken to Mr. Bergman in afternoon church and he had always seemed like such a kind, gentle man, whereas my father was outgoing, rough, a drunk as well. It seemed impossible that sweet, gentle, little Wendla Bergman would have ever been beaten. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Wendla wasn't the oblivious airhead that I had always put her down to be.

"Children, now we will sing the song that we learned last week." Father Kahlbach calls and we stand up, picking up our books. The organ starts and we begin.

"I fly to the future, I fly to the start, of the rivers that bring love and flow from my heart!" We cry, desperately out of tune but Father Kahlbach smiles and nods, singing along.

I love church. It is as he says. A sanctuary.