The train screeched to a somewhat sudden halt and the doors slowly slid open. Herr Eberhardt straightened out his uniform with the palms of his hands, seized the suitcases, and, without a single glance at me, left the creaky beast.

I stood and made my solemn way out of the train. The first thought that struck me as I reached the cool air was that there was this horribly nauseating smell of dead animals. I knew that it wasn't proper to do so, but I really felt like I was about to vomit, so I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose. The stench seeped in through my fingers as I held back a massive gag.

I carefully gazed around me. I was in a minuscule train station within the deadly fence that surrounded the camp. Everything seemed so gray. Gray bricks, gray roofs, gray sky, gray mood. A fancy Mercedes automobile stood gravely within the gloom. Its shiny black doors reflected the aged train behind me. A frightened man in a navy driver's outfit and hat was loading the suitcases into the trunk of the sleek Mercedes with some difficulty. Herr Eberhardt was sitting in the back seat, his face hard and somber.

My hand still protecting my face from the horrendous reek, I walked to the car and hesitantly opened the back door.

Herr Eberhardt snapped his head to me, glared, and came back out of the car. He walked around to the petrified man, who was now just closing the trunk.

"What is your duty?" Herr Eberhardt barked.

The poor man cowered under his glower. "To serve you."

"When a woman approaches the vehicle, you will leave everything you're currently doing and open the door for her," Herr Eberhardt's crazed eyes bore holes into the man. "Do I make myself very clear?"

"Y—yes, Herr," the man truly looked like he wanted to break down and cry.

"Good." Herr Eberhardt leaned back into the car and retook his seat. The man scurried to the door and held it open for me, his fearful eyes on the ground.

I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault that he was preoccupied. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't that important and that I can open doors by myself. But one look at Herr Eberhardt told me that if I spoke kindly to the man, I would receive equally cruel punishment.

"Thank you," I said softly so that only he could hear as I craned my neck and sat by Herr Eberhardt.

There were dark curtains over the back windows that prevented me from gazing outside while the man drove the car. I felt myself slightly recline as the vehicle made its way up an elevated hill. Before I knew it, the automobile was slowing down and we came to a stop. The man hurried out of the car and opened the door for us.

I slid across the leather seat and stood on my shaky heels. Before me sat a large, white estate with a baby blue roof and matching curtains in the insides of the windows. It looked so cheerful, so out of place in this ominous misery.

Herr Eberhardt marched toward the house. He turned, gave me his signature blink, and motioned for me to follow him.

My shoes made chafing noises in the gravel as I made my way to the tall front door. A thin woman in a maid's uniform with aging gray hair and generous eyes stood outside the door to greet us. Herr Eberhardt completely ignored her and simply walked into the house. I climbed up three steps to the wooden porch, made sure that Herr Eberhardt was not able to see, and smiled sweetly at the woman. A look of slight surprise washed over her face, but she quickly recovered and returned a wonderfully comforting smile.

I stepped into the house and found myself in a large living room. The first thing to catch my eye was the menacingly ample portrait of the Führer. I was devoted to my country and to our leader, but was it really necessary to have his stern eyes and meticulously linear moustache glare at us from every wall?

The room was occupied by floral couches and a vast crimson carpet. An outsized grand piano sat innocently under an elongated Nazi flag.

I heard the door shut behind me. The maid walked to me, gazed around the room, and gently said, "So what do you think of your new house?"

I shrugged my shoulders uncertainly. "It's okay."

"Come," she put a caring hand on my shoulder, "Chaim has made dinner for you."

She walked me into a grand dining room that contained a lengthy table and about a dozen chairs. On the table were two sets of porcelain plates, crystal wine glasses, and golden silverware.

I took my seat opposite Herr Eberhardt, whose square chin was pointing expectantly toward a door to the left. On cue, a small, balding man hurried out of the door with plates of dishes stacked on his frail arms.

He looked as if had just recently lost a very large amount of weight. His skin sagged over his meatless bones and his dark hair stood in weird places. A white apron wrapped around his slim body and his face, while anxious, was benevolent.

He laid a generous dish of barbeque pork ribs on the table, followed by a side of mashed potatoes and a plate of steamed vegetables.

He quickly began to serve Herr Eberhardt, and then me. I realized that I hadn't eaten in almost a day as the deliciously appetizing aroma percolated my nose.

I risked a threatened glance at Herr Eberhardt. He was already immersed in his meal. I spread out a white cloth napkin over my knees, picked up my knife and fork, and politely began to eat.

The smell of the food did not disappoint. As my pleased stomach filled, I vowed to, when Herr Eberhardt was not around, compliment the man on his gift for cooking.

After we had cleared our plates, the maid appeared to take them off of the table. On her way to the kitchen door, her ankle gave out under her and she tripped, creating a great tumult of leftover food and shattered porcelain.

I quickly stood up and leaned down to her. "Are you okay?"

A chair creaked behind me. "Brittany."

I turned around to meet the face of a bitter and agitated Herr Eberhardt. He stood on his firm legs and beckoned as he left the room.

I looked uncertainly at the maid, and she simply nodded for me to follow him. I straightened and made my way back to the living room.

Herr Eberhardt was waiting for me. "I don't want to see you care for them again."

I gulped and stared down at the thin carpet.

"They're Jews, they don't deserve your pity or your kindness."

I kept my eyes on the ground. There, again, this hate for Jews. Something I never understood.

One of my closest school friends, a girl named Amit, was Jewish. We didn't have the chance to be friends for long, however. The Nuremberg Laws were passed, and she was not allowed to attend our school anymore. Our instructors began to teach us why we were superior to the Jews, why they weren't worthy of the things that we were.

It always confused me. They were people. They had noses, and mouths, and eyes, and ears. They had memories, families, lives. They could feel joy, they could feel sorrow, they could feel love, they could feel hate. They could live, they could die. Why them? What made them so different that they were singled out by an entire continent?

"Understand?"

I nodded my head, even though I really didn't. He walked around me and up the wooden stairs.

I stood in the living room for a little while longer until I decided to return to the dining room. The mess that had been made was long gone, and the maid was cleaning up the table. She gazed up at me as I entered the space.

"It's very kind of you to care, honey," she began. "But it's not worth it. You'll only anger him."

I nodded gravely. "What's your name?"

"Ora," she smiled gently.

"That's a beautiful name," I said quietly.

"Thank you, sweetie. And yours is Brittany, yes?"

"Yes," I replied coyly.

"Come, Brittany. I'll take you up to your room."

She led me up the stairs and down a gloomy hall. We entered a dimly lit room with a spacious bed and a humble nightstand. "Thank you," I smiled at her.

"Mhmm," she turned on her heels and hurried down the steps.

I turned back to the room. My beige suitcases were set in the corner, by the antique closet. I walked to them and began to unpack.

After taking a shower, I returned to the room and snuggled up in my bed. I felt so lost, so alone. A miserable tear swam down my face as I thought about what the future would be like with Herr Eberhardt for a husband.

The door groaned behind me and a ray of light shone into the room. I turned in my bed to see Herr Eberhardt's shadowy figure standing in the doorway.

My body shook fiercely as he neared my bed. He ripped the blanket off of me and quickly and expertly removed my clothes. I let out a small cry as he shoved his strong pelvis into me.

All of the hopes that I had ever had for pleasurable sexual intercourse were thrown out the window. All of the rumors and the hurried whispers in the halls of my secondary school vanished into thin air. It was excruciating and shameful. It was no less than torture.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt so sick that I had to dash to the bathroom. I had horrible cramps, like the ones I have during my menstrual cycles, except a full world and back more painful.

I washed my face in the bathroom sink and gazed up at myself through the mirror. I was an Aryan. I was supposed to feel beautiful and powerful and superior. But all I felt at this moment was terrible weakness and shame.

I returned to my room and put on a short white slip under a thin blue dress that streamed down to my knees. I carefully walked down the stairs, glancing around for any signs of Herr Eberhardt. He was nowhere to be found, thank the Führer.

I walked into the kitchen to be met by a hard-at-work Chaim. He gazed up fearfully at me from the scrambled eggs that he was cooking. "Fräulein Pierce."

"Please, call me Brittany," I said reassuringly.

Ora walked into the kitchen. "Brittany, darling, you're up! Chaim's been making breakfast for you!"

Chaim gazed at her quizzically, and then back at me. "Oh," Ora noticed his confusion. "Brittany's a real sweetheart, Chaim. There's no need to be afraid of her."

I smiled sweetly at him to back up her statement. He grinned back joyously. "Well," his voice was sarcastically humorous. "Guess there are some nice Aryans after all, huh? You don't think that you're greater than us, then?" he turned to me.

"We're all people," I said simply.

They both looked at me with so much appreciation that I blushed. "God," Ora shook her head. "I wish there were more like you, Brittany."

I smirked down at the ground. It was nice to have them here with me, in the middle of all the chaotic loneliness. I felt like they were my long-lost grandparents.

Chaim served me the scrambled eggs along with some plump sausages and a few strips of bacon.

"Thank you," I said as I looked up at him. "But you don't have to cook pork for me. I know that, because you're Jewish, cooking pork might make you uncomfortable."

Once again, both he and Ora gazed at me incredulously. "Bless you, child," he smiled as he returned to the kitchen.

Ora sat down in front of me. "Now don't let your fiancé catch you being nice to us, alright? We want to keep you."

I grinned and began to eat Chaim's flawless breakfast. After a few moments of silent chewing, a question popped into my head. "What happens down in the camp, Ora?"

She slightly opened her mouth, as if about to speak, and then closed it. She shook her head miserably. "You don't want to know, honey, believe me," she sighed.

If you tell a curious eighteen-year-old girl that she doesn't want to know something, she will obviously go looking for it. So after breakfast, I told Ora that I was going out for a walk and left the comfort of the house.

I strolled to the side of the tall hill and gazed down. The house was situated outside of the fence, but I could see that the only road that led up to it went right through the camp. The buildings inside the jagged fence seemed like orderly barracks in a military base.

I began to walk down the road toward the camp. After around ten minutes, I reached a small gate, guarded by a very young man in a Nazi army uniform.

There was such an innocence, a purity, about him. His rosy cheeks shone under his olive green eyes and chestnut hair. The large weapon that was cradled in his feeble arms looked so out of place.

He looked at me alarmingly. "Fräulein, I really don't think you're supposed to be around here—"

"Please," I pleaded. "Can I just go in? I'm the fiancée of the First Commandant."

He hesitated. "Well…" He bit his lip. "I guess, if you're the fiancée of the First Commandant…" He turned around and used his key to unlock the gate. He slid it open and held out a hand to let me through.

"Thank you," I turned to him. "What's your name?"

"Rolf, Fräulein." His dimples showed as his lips rose into a shy simper, "Rolf Liepold."

"Well, thank you, Rolf Liepold," I smiled and walked through the gate.

The camp seemed deserted as I walked between the looming structures. As I advanced further in, the dreadful smell of death returned to my nose, almost persuading me to turn back. I mustered up my courage and continued to wander through.

I began to hear noises; shouting sounds and crying sounds. I walked around another intimidating building and stopped dead on my tracks.

At least a hundred people were running in a full circle around the area. What made me cringe, however, were their naked, vulnerable bodies. The men had their hands over their private areas as the women held one hand over their breasts and the other over their sexes. About a dozen Nazi soldiers stood around them, occasionally picking out some and sending them to one of two lines.

I hurried to one of the soldiers. "What are you doing?"

The woman looked at me skeptically. Her cruel black eyes twinkled under her matching inky hair. "Sorting them out."

"For what?"

"Those who are capable to work go to one line, and those who aren't go to the other."

An aged woman fell to the ground as the soldier spoke. She was quickly dragged out of the circle and thrown into the rightmost line.

This is a concentration camp? A concentration of people? But why? What did they do?

I couldn't bear the sight anymore, so I turned and continued on. Around the next building, I found a scene almost more horrific than the last.

Hundreds of people in filthy gray garbs stared at me, wide-eyed and utterly petrified. Their heads were completely shaved and their bodies so meatless that you could easily see every bone. As I walked through the masses, they parted to make way for me.

I heard hysterical, high-pitched cries and manly grunts as I made my way to the other side of the square. I looked to my left, where the sounds seemed to be coming from.

Three burly soldiers were beating a frail woman with the butts of their guns. She was curled up on the ground, attempting, and failing, to defend her bare scalp. The uniformed men pushed her back, forcing her legs in front of her. She brought up her head, tormented, and opened her eyes.

Even with the lack of hair and meat, even with tears flowing down her cheeks, she was the most beautiful person that I had ever seen. Maybe it was her dark, desperate eyes. Maybe it was her plump lips, so out of place in all of the boniness. I don't know what it was. But at that moment, I knew. I knew that she was different. I knew that I would do whatever it takes to protect her from the claws of those brutal men. As they pushed up her grimy garment and began to unzip their pants, my voice rang loudly and clearly through the square.

"Leave her alone!"