I rummaged through one of my beige suitcases, looking for a journal. It was small and brown with gold linings and beautifully messy writing on it that told: "Brittany's Journal."

Anna had given me this diary the day before I left for Poland. She told me that whenever times were hard, I could just write to her in it, and she would be able to hear me through the magic of the journal. I knew that she wouldn't really be hearing me, but I felt like I needed to confide in someone, someone who would keep my dangerous and miraculous secret, and what better way to do that than to write in a personal diary?

I moved aside a forgotten light pink blouse and finally found it sitting in the very bottom of the suitcase. I picked it up with gentle fingers and gazed lovingly at my sister's large, uneven writing.

I delicately opened the chocolate-colored journal, and found my sister's writing jumping up at me once again from the first page of the diary.

Brittany!

I knew that you'd open the journal eventually. You're still at home but I really miss you already. I'm afraid that when I get taken away, because I know that I will, I won't be as brave as you are. I hope your fiancé is nice to you and treats you the way that you deserve to be treated. I love you so much, and I'll always think about you, and you're my hero.

Love,

Anna

A grateful lump formed in my throat and I thanked whoever there was to thank for having such a sister. She was always so mature for her age. Where else can you find an eight-year-old that'll write something so deep and touching?

I thought back to the eight wonderful years that I spent with her. She was born on the day that I turned ten, and was by far the best birthday present that I had ever gotten. She was such a precious baby, always laughing and so full of life. As she grew up, I found myself willingly taking care of her more than both of my parents together. I would go with her to the park and push her swing and play with her in the sand. She even told me once, when we were walking back home, hand in hand, that I was her real Mami.

It was hard to be so far away from her, with no means of communication. Letters were not an option; it was too far away and we were engaged in a war. The German telephone lines didn't reach as far as Poland, and I didn't know if we even had a telephone in the house.

I sighed deeply and flipped the page. I picked up a sharp pencil that was sitting on my nightstand, held it above the journal, and pondered how to express my feelings, which were so abstract and overwhelming, through writing.

Dear Anna,

I want you to know that I'm okay. My fiancé, Herr Eberhardt, is cold and distant, but it's okay because there are two magnificent servants who are living with us, Ora and Chaim. They're Jewish, and Herr Eberhardt told me not to care for them, but I actually care for them a lot more than I do for him. But what I really wanted to tell you about is the girl in the camp. I went down to the concentration camp today and saw some horrible things, but I won't tell you about that. I was just very confused about everything, and I kept wondering what those poor people did to deserve such a fate. I walked through the camp when I saw her. She was being beaten by some Nazi soldiers, and they were about to do something horrific to her, but I stopped them. I took her back up to the house with me, fed her, and watched her as she played the piano.

I'm trying to think about how to put my feelings toward her into words. When I'm near her, it's like my heart swells to such a size that it becomes hard for me to breathe. It's like there's this aching knot in my stomach that can only be unraveled by her love. When she cried, it felt like my whole world was collapsing, like pieces of the sky were falling down to the earth with every tear that slid down her face. And when I had to take her back because I was afraid that Herr Eberhardt would show up, it felt like the atmosphere was closing in on me. I left her in the cruel hands of the guards, and as I walked back, I glanced behind me one last time so that her face would be etched into my memory. She looked so puzzled, but also strangely in peace. Like she's been looking for an answer to some question for a really long time, and she has finally found it. As I traveled back through the camp, I vowed to myself that I would return to her.

I love her. I love her with every fiber of my being, every cell in my body, every thought in my mind. I want to experience her with every one of my five senses; I want to see her gorgeous face, smell her delicate fragrance, hear her smooth voice, feel her glowing skin, taste her sweet tongue. Love at first sight exists, Anna. It really does.

Love,

Brittany

I put down my pencil as a tranquil feeling settled in my stomach. I felt like a huge weight was lifted off of my back. Writing down my feelings really helped me realize how true and concrete they really were.

Ora suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Brittany, darling, dinner's ready."

I nodded at her and placed the journal in the drawer of my nightstand. I stood on my feet and followed her down the wooden staircase.

Herr Eberhardt had still not returned from wherever he was at, so Chaim served me a dinner for one, composed of an appetizing garden salad and a delicious-looking plate of fettuccine alfredo. I lifted my fork and poked at the food.

What is Santana eating at this moment? Or is she not eating at all? How often do they feed her? What kind of food do they give her?

By the looks of it, she wasn't fed very often or very much. She was probably fed the minimum amount of food that her body needed to remain alive. All of that just because she's a gypsy?

It didn't make any sense to me. She was better than any Aryan that I had ever met. More beautiful, kinder, closer to perfection. How can Nazi Germany just decide who's superior and who's inferior? What led them to decide to single out several races like that? Take them to concentration camps, make them starve, and who knows what else. They were human. Just like me, just like Herr Eberhardt, just like Hitler. Human.

Ora sat down before me. "What are you thinking about, honey?"

I raised my gaze to her. I wanted to tell her about Santana, about my feelings toward her. I knew that she would always keep it a secret between us.

"Do you want to tell me about the girl?" she offered, as if she could read my mind.

"I love her," I said simply as I set my fork down on the table.

"You love her?" Ora sighed hopelessly as her eyes scanned me. "Brittany, such a love is impossible. You're an Aryan, she's a prisoner in Auschwitz. Not to mention the fact that you're both women. It's forbidden, Brittany. You'll be killed if you go through with it," she said softly. When she noticed that I wasn't convinced, she added, "She'll be killed."

I dropped my eyes to the table and chewed on my bottom lip. What was more important to me? Having a forbidden relationship with Santana or keeping her safe? Or as safe as you can be in a concentration camp.

That was a question I didn't know the answer to. My mind was torn. One part of it, the logical side, told me to never go back to the camp, never see her again because she would be safer that way. But the other part, the emotional side, yearned for another, and many other encounters with her.

By the time I finished dinner, however, my mind was made up. Her safety was more important to me than my satisfaction.

I thanked Chaim for the exquisite food and made my way up the stairs once again. I took a quick shower and snuggled up under my blankets, solemnly wishing that Herr Eberhardt wouldn't come back at all. I lay on my side and imagined Santana lying beside me. Another grave feeling of guilt overcame me as I realized that Santana is probably freezing right now as she's trying to fall asleep. I wondered if she was thinking about me the way that I was thinking about her.

I heard the front door open and slam from downstairs. Heavy boots ascended the stairs and made their way down the hall to my room. I closed my eyes. Maybe if he thought that I was asleep, he'd leave me alone.

The door opened and a streak of light washed my eyelids. The floorboards creaked under Herr Eberhardt's heavy feet as he walked to my bed. "Brittany."

I opened my eyes fearfully. His hard face was glaring down at me from above, furious that I had the nerve to go to sleep without first giving him satisfaction. He threw the blanket off of me, shoved up my nightgown, and pulled down my underwear.

He pushed down his pants and shoved his pelvis into me. As I lay there, clenching my teeth and squinting my eyes to stop myself from letting out sounds of misery, I longed to feel loved. I vowed, once again and against my previous decision, that I would bring Santana back with me to the house tomorrow morning.

The air was cool on my face as I made my way down the steep hill. Herr Eberhardt was gone this morning as well, to my great relief. Last night, after he had sex with me, he pulled up his pants and left the room, just like that. I was nothing more than a prostitute to him.

Rolf's eyes were just as astonished as before when he saw me approach his gate. "Fräulein…" he mumbled.

Without asking any questions, he unlocked the gate and slid it open to let me through. I thanked him and began to pace purposefully across the camp. It seemed deserted in the early morning.

I walked straight to the building that Santana had led me to the day before. She said that this was the building in which she resided. It was minuscule, ashen, and utterly depressing.

I swung open the heavy front door. About sixty shaved heads of women of all ages turned to me. Booming silence fell in the room.

I looked around. There were beds lined up on the walls and up to the ceiling, in columns of threes. I gazed at the beds and then looked back at the women. There was no way that this many people were using so few beds.

A young woman with pale skin and large green eyes turned and leaned down to one of the beds. "Santana."

My love's stunning face appeared from the depths of the bed. Her mouth parted and her eyes widened in astonishment. She crawled out and stood on her shaky feet. I nodded at her encouragingly.

She began to make her way to me when the door creaked open behind me. I turned on my heels to find myself face to face with the coal-black eyes of the soldier that I had talked to the day before.

"Can I help you?" she asked vindictively.

"I—um," I stuttered. "My fiancé sent me to get a girl from the camp. Her," I pointed a petrified finger at Santana, who was frozen in her place.

"You're not enough for him, are you?" Her red lips parted to reveal a set of yellowing teeth. She chuckled cruelly. "Well, then, you heard her," she shot callously at Santana. I had a sudden urge to reach out my hands and strangle her to death. "Go be his little whore."

Santana kept her eyes plastered to the ground as she walked to me. I led her out of the building, and although I didn't look back, I could feel the soldier's malicious eyes shooting daggers at my back.

Rolf didn't seem as surprised this time when I came back with Santana. He quickly shifted open the gate and let us through.

As we walked up the hill, a terrible and horrifying thought struck me. What if she doesn't love me back? The mere thought almost made me double over and fall to the ground.

We walked into the house, past Ora, who sighed deeply, and into the grand living room. I led her to the couch and we sat down side by side.

"Chaim's making us breakfast," I said softly as I looked sideways at her dazzling face. She nodded coyly and a small smile appeared on her face.

I held back the desire to pull her into me and settled for asking, "So you grew up in Germany?"

She gazed up at me. "Yes," she said delicately. "I was born there, and I lived there until I was nine years old. Then my mamá decided to try her business somewhere else. We traveled all over Europe, from Germany to Holland to Belgium to France. It was when we made it to Austria, last year, when I was seventeen, that I finally convinced her to return to Germany. And once there, it was discovered that we were Romani, and we were put on a cattle train to Auschwitz."

"And your father?" I asked curiously.

"I've never met him. When times were hard, when there was a lack of money…my mamá would run a business on the side. She wasn't proud of it, but she needed money for food. My father was one of the men who paid her for sex."

It made sense. She had the looks of a mixed race child. Half Spanish, half German.

"What about you?" she inquired softly.

"Me? I grew up in Berlin with my mother, father, and little sister."

"You have a little sister?" Santana's face lit up like a candle that flickered to life. "How old is she?"

"She's eight," I bit my lip. Writing to her in a journal was one thing, but talking about her was too emotionally difficult for me. I took in a shaky breath and said, "I miss her so much."

I looked down at my knees and tried to stop the traitorous tears from swimming down my face. A hesitant hand reached out to mine, and I let myself fall into Santana's chest.

The situation mirrored the one we were in yesterday. Her arms enveloped me and her hand stroked my hair. But it was when she placed a most gentle kiss on my head that the knot in my stomach finally began to unravel.