"Leave her alone," I repeated quietly.
It felt like time halted, and I was the only conscious soul in the plaza. The prisoners' faces were stuck in expressions of utter disbelief and the three soldiers were frozen in awkward positions, with hands reaching down to the helpless girl, whose eyes were wide with incredulous gratitude. The world remained trapped in the moment for a few more seconds, and then one of the soldiers, incredibly tall with a pointy chin, straightened his back.
"Fräulein," he nodded his elongated head at me. "This is not a sight for beautiful and superior eyes like yours to see."
"What did she do?" my voice was strained. "Why are you punishing her?"
"She disobeyed a direct order, Fräulein. She was told to slap another inmate and she refused to do so."
"You were going to rape her…" I began slowly, "because she refused to slap her peer?"
"In this camp, any disobedience leads to reasonable consequences."
"Reasonable?" I reiterated softly. I looked down at the tear-soaked face that was peering at me from the ground. Our gazes locked for a moment, and her eyes shone with absolute, overwhelming trust that warmed up my insides and sent a sharp flutter through my stomach. I had to get her out of here, and fast. But how?
"My fiancé sent me to bring him a girl from the camp," I raised my eyes back to the looming soldiers. "She'll do."
They grumbled in response and zipped up their flies. One of them grabbed the girl's feeble arm, so powerfully that I was sure that it would break in half, raised her off of the ground, and shoved her towards me. She stumbled forward and raised her bald head to meet my eyes again. I could see that the faith that she had entrusted in me moments earlier had slightly wavered. I couldn't risk even a reassuring nod, so I simply grabbed her elbow and led her through the masses. My hand sent electric sparks back to my body from where it was touching her surprisingly warm skin.
I could tell that the people around us didn't know what to think. Who is this Aryan, who entered this miserable hellhole and saved one of us only to provide her a different, possibly harsher form of punishment?
I led the girl around the next building, but chose a different path that would not involve us passing through the horrid circle of vulnerably bare bodies. We walked on further until all sounds of humanity were forgotten from our ears. I risked a look to my right.
Her dark eyes glimmered with dangerous curiosity. She was intrigued and petrified at the same time. I could see that she didn't know what to expect, whom to trust. Her life and soul were in my hands. And I was going to care for them as if they were my own.
I didn't let go of her elbow, partly because I was worried that a guard would appear out of nowhere and partly because I didn't want to stop the pleasant electric current that was running up my arm from the physical contact with her. Before we knew it, we were at the back gate, through which my house was clearly visible on top of its humble hill. Rolf turned around at the sounds of our shoes.
"Fräulein!" he exclaimed, eyebrows raised in astonishment as he saw the girl beside me.
"Please let us through, Rolf," I implored anxiously. He nodded his head, and, without saying another word, created a little entryway for us to get through. After taking a few steps on the safe side of the gate, I turned back around to gaze at Rolf. He nodded at me again, and I knew that he would keep this encounter just between us. I smiled gratefully and began to walk up the hill, the girl's frail feet shuffling beside me.
Ora, who was cleaning the front porch, raised her head when she heard the sounds of our arrival. Her eyes widened as they fell on the grimy garment and the girl who occupied it.
"Brittany, what are you doing?" she whispered under her breath.
I walked past her and led the girl into the house and to the grim dining room. "You can sit down, I'll be right back," I let go of her elbow and gave her a reassuring nod. Her eyes scanned the room reflectively. How long had it been since the last time that she was inside a house?
I made my way to the kitchen, where I found Chaim hard at work on lunch. "Chaim."
He gazed up at me from the pan. "Yes?"
"Will lunch be ready soon?"
"Not for another two hours."
I bit my lip and inhaled deeply. "Is there a way that you could make something quick? Just a simple but filling meal, I've got someone here who hasn't eaten in a while."
"Sure, Brittany," his gaze was questioning, but he nevertheless got out a loaf of bread and began to ravage through the large refrigerator.
"Thank you," I walked out of the kitchen and found the girl sitting apprehensively on the edge of her seat. Her thin shoulders were glued to her neck as her arms hugged her jutting ribcage.
"Chaim's going to cook something for you," I said softly as I took a seat in front of her. "I believe that I'm right in thinking that you're hungry."
She nodded, but just barely. Her eyes were so intense; I felt like they could see right into the deepest part of my soul and I wondered if she could read my most hidden thoughts. If she could, she would know that I was marveling at her natural and delicate beauty.
Chaim appeared out of the kitchen door surprisingly quickly, but almost dropped the two dishes in his hands when he saw the girl. His balding head bobbed up and down in disbelief as his eyes darted from me to her and to me again. After a few moments, he recovered from his initial shock and hesitantly served the food to the girl. He shook his head in disbelief as he returned back to the kitchen.
I turned back to the girl. Her eyes were ravishing the appetizing sandwich and array of fruit that were sitting in front of her. She gazed back up at me, incredulity clearly apparent in her eyes. I nodded my head encouragingly.
Her fragile fingers enveloped the sandwich and she took a modest bite out of it. Her eyes closed as she chewed slowly, in awe of the taste of decent food. She swallowed and opened her eyes to gaze deeply into mine. She had this look on her face as if she was trying to figure me out.
I lost myself in her immense beauty. Her full, supple lips were slightly parted above her demure chin, which was perfectly balanced between roundness and sharpness. Her prominent cheekbones sat innocently on either side of her magnificently aligned nose. Black eyebrows and eyelashes enlightened me as to what color her hair would be if it wasn't mercilessly shaved off of her head. But it was her eyes that made me gape longingly at her. They twinkled mournfully and told the long and difficult story of her life. They shone with the days of the past, happy and careless as a child. They glimmered with the despair of the present; so much was lost that will never be regained. They glowed with the hope for the future, that maybe, just maybe, she'll make it out of here alive and grow old with the person she loves. There was this fire behind her passionate eyes, a fire that, in the past, burned brightly, but was now slowly dying away. I found a fervent desire within me to keep that fire burning, to make it blaze so brilliantly that it will light up the whole world with the kindness and honesty of her heart.
Everyone had always told me that it was us, the Aryans, who were the perfect human beings. Every tiny belief in that statement vanished as I sat in the solemn dining room, completely immersed in the harmonious glory of this person that I did not even know the name of.
She broke off the gaze link to lean down and take another bite of her sandwich. I so desperately wanted to wrap my arms around her, to stroke her caramel skin, to kiss her.
To kiss her?
I was taken aback by that thought. Homosexuality was something unheard of and completely against every rule of morality. I had never thought that I would be faced with such a problem.
But now… It was obvious. I wanted her. I needed her. I…loved her?
I was puzzled beyond belief. I had only just met her. I hadn't even heard her speaking voice. How can you so devotedly love a complete stranger?
But she made me feel something that I had never felt before. A warmth and an acceptance deep within. A kind of comfort. It was like I finally found the escape that I had always been looking for, and she came in the form of a dazzling beauty. I had this strange feeling, strange but firm, that we would be together for a long, long time.
She finished her sandwich and looked back up at me. I finally found my voice. "What's your name?" I asked gently.
Her fingers were fidgeting with her foul garb and she tilted her head slightly to the right. "Santana," she whispered, almost inaudibly.
"Santana," I repeated, stretching out every syllable. "What a beautiful name."
A small smile appeared and quickly disappeared from her face as she looked down at the table. Santana. The name fit her well. It had this sultry, mysterious, yet pure sound to it.
Santana began to work on her plate of fruit. I watched as she forked a slice of watermelon and brought it to her mouth. After taking a slow bite and letting the sweet taste spread in her mouth, she gazed back up at me.
I knew that I was staring, and most likely making her feel uncomfortable, but I couldn't help myself. My eyes scanned every visible inch of her body, starving for more.
I decided to break the booming silence. "I'm Brittany."
Her eyes were fixed on me as the tips of her lips lifted into a coy smile. I melted at the sight; when she smiled, her whole face lit up like the sun after a rainy day, emanating a gloriously angelic rainbow.
It was all I could do not to lean across the table and kiss her. "Why are you here?" I tried to distract myself. "In the camp, I mean."
Her eyelids lowered as her long eyelashes somberly pointed to her knees. "I'm Romani," she said quietly.
"Romani?" I furrowed my brow in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"
"I'm what your people call a gypsy," she uttered the last word with such subtle but nevertheless apparent hatred.
"So all of the people in the camp are Romani?" I asked quizzically. Could there be that many Romani people?
"No," her voice was incredibly soft. "The camp is for all 'inferior' races. Romani, homosexuals, disabled people. But mainly Jews."
I was silent as I let the information sink in. "But why?"
She gazed at me thoughtfully, as if I was a new and unknown brand of humanity. I was an Aryan who didn't think that she was superior to others.
"I don't know," she said, just above a whisper.
Deep down, I knew the answer. The Führer wrote in his book, in our bible, Mein Kampf, that the "inferior" races need to be pulled out of the earth like unwanted weeds from a spotlessly clean garden.
Santana had finished her plate of fruit and was drinking out of the glass of water that Chaim had placed next to her meal. She gulped it all down, set it gently on the table, and raised her eyes back to me.
"Are you still hungry?" I inquired tenderly.
She shook her head. She paused for a moment, and then murmured, "Thank you."
I stood up from my seat, walked around the table, and held out my hand for her to take. She hesitated, but finally took it and stood on her feet. I led her to the living room, where we sat down on one of the floral couches. She gazed around the room. I felt a shudder pass through her body as her eyes fell on the portrait of the Führer. Her gaze drifted to the glossy grand piano. Her expression turned longing.
"Do you play?" I saw her blink as if lost in the memories of the past. She nodded slowly. "Go ahead," I urged her affectionately. I was eager to see those delicate fingers soar over the heavy keys of the piano.
She raised her eyebrows at me in pleasant surprise. My stomach somersaulted as another smile dominated her face, wide and toothy.
She walked to the majestic instrument, seated herself on the black leather bench, and lifted the cover off of the keys. Her fingers skimmed them and she closed her eyes, molding her fingers into the black and white.
She pressed down on the keys and began to play the most beautiful tune that I had ever heard. Her fingers glided smoothly and easily over the keys, and she leaned her whole body into the notes as she played them. I was fascinated by the way her fingers were able to jump so freely and effortlessly from key to key, emanating such a sad, touching melody.
After about five minutes, which seemed like five wonderful hours, she played the last notes of the piece. She opened her eyes and turned to me, a look of mournful ecstasy on her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"It was breathtaking," I gazed at her as her cheeks flushed beautifully and her eyes fell to the ground. "What's the name of the piece?"
"Moonlight Sonata," she ran her fingers over the keys. "By Beethoven."
"Breathtaking," I repeated, still dazed from the moment.
A certain thought suddenly came to my mind. "Your name, it's Spanish. How is it that you speak the language so well?"
Her face turned solemn. She opened her mouth slightly, considering her words. "I was raised in Germany, but my mother was Spanish."
"Was?" I asked quietly.
Tears filled her gorgeously sorrowful eyes. "No…" I mumbled as they began to flow down her sleek cheeks.
I made my way to the piano and sat down on the bench beside her, cradling her feeble body into my strong arms. She sobbed miserably into my chest, and I ran a caring hand over her exposed scalp as the other held her close to me. I wanted to engulf her into my body and keep her curled up safely in there, at day and at night, in warm and in cold, in love and in war, always and forever.