Four corners, four walls, and just a little naïve and insignificant me in the middle. This is the glass cube in which I live. I can leave my glass cube whenever I want to, but it always feels best to hide in here.

You might think that it would feel incarcerating, confining, to sit in a glass cube by yourself all day. But it's not. It feels rejuvenating with a pinch of relief. When you sit inside the glass cube, you can watch everything that's happening around you without being personally affected. You watch as crimson-faced Anger and teary-eyed Misery try to break through your glass cube, but it's sturdy and it keeps you safe. You watch as rancorous Anguish and dooming Despondency lean their heads together, whispering heatedly while sending threatening glances at you, scheming and devising a way to lure you out of your glass cube. But you simply smile at them and shake your head, because you're smarter than that.

And when you do leave your glass cube, when Anger and Misery and Anguish and Despondency overpower you, when you're lying under a man with whom you're destined to spend the rest of your life, when you bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from crying out, when all you want is for him to stop, just stop, then you can simply crawl back into your glass cube and watch the scene as if you're someone else. You can sympathize with yourself as an outsider, you can turn to the nearest friendly gossip, put your hand over your heart, shake your head regretfully, and say, "Such a shame. She really was a fine girl." Because you're in an impenetrable glass cube.

You can invite people into your glass cube. You can invite unexpected Joy and welcomed Safety and gleaming Hope and captivating Love to sit and share with you their deepest secrets. Or you can invite a girl, a breathtakingly beautiful girl, with supple lips and eyes as dark and mysterious as the bottomless ocean, who carries all of these longed-for friends in her fragile arms. And when you sit there, gazing intently into those comforting eyes, leaning in to kiss those delicate lips, that's when you know that everything will be okay.

The scene shifts, all meat and fat are brutally sucked from my body, my hair is ripped out of my scalp, and my glass cube morphs into Auschwitz. I'm a prisoner in one of the filthy garbs, and I'm sitting all by myself in the middle of the square in which Santana was beaten. The structures around me are cast under a gargantuan shadow, and the sky above me is bloody rouge. It's unnaturally quiescent; it feels like the universe is frozen in time. There are ashes flying carelessly in the air, and my cough rings loudly through the emptiness.

I begin to hear sounds. Thousands of feet perfectly synchronized in a march. There is a faint voice calling out orders. As the sounds become louder, I can make out what the voice is saying.

"Left. Left. Left, right, left. Left. Left. Left, right, left."

It seems like the voice and the feet are just around the corner now. The pounding boots boom throughout the square. As they walk around the nearest building, I want to leap up to my feet and make an escape, but I can't move my body.

"Left. Left. Left, right, left. Left. Left. Left, right, left."

An entire army of Nazi soldiers appears before me. Their aligned legs rise up and down in organized X shapes. Their burly arms clutch onto the ominous weapons that rest on their shoulders. But it's their faces that capture my attention.

Their faces, or lack of faces, to be more precise, are completely blank. No nose, no lips, no eyes, no ears. Simply stretches of skin under finely-trimmed crew cuts. The owner of the commanding voice is the inky-haired woman who called my Santana a whore. Her malicious eyes reflect the redness of the sky.

"Start the fire," she instructs as her head turns to me. Her red lips curl into a cruel sneer.

A faceless soldier quickly strikes a match and throws it to the ground. A looming fire instantly blazes brightly, sending unbearable waves of heat at me. I gaze back up at the woman. Her vindictive eyes challenge me. "Bring out the whore."

The feeble body of my one true love is shoved out of the mass of menacing soldiers. She hugs her frail arms around her jutting ribs and glances down at me. Her face reflects every fear that is boiling up inside of me. "Brittany, please, help me…"

I fight and fight against the force that's keeping me still. I squint my eyes in concentration, attempting to will my body to move. But it's no use. I'm helpless as I gaze back up at Santana.

Tears roll down her cheeks as she sobs miserably. The Nazi woman shoves her a little toward the fire and lets out a heartless laugh. "Please…" I beg.

The woman's laugh fills with insane excitement. She glances at me one last time, and then pushes Santana right into the fire. My screaming voice is lost in the joyous roars of the faceless soldiers, and the fire proceeds to engulf me into its merciless arms. All that I see is red, red, red, and then nothing.

"Brittany… Brittany."

I bolted upright in my bed, panting fearfully as I realized that it was all just a nightmare. Cold sweat glistened on my skin. I turned my head to see Ora leaning over me with her arm outstretched to my shoulder, which she had been shaking. Her expression was worried in the dim early morning light. "You've had a nightmare. I'm sorry to wake you so early, but we've got to take you to Kraków for your fitting."

"My fitting?" I cracked my neck to release the tension from the dream.

"For your wedding dress."

I gazed up at her in bewilderment. "My wedding dress? Already?"

She shrugged disapprovingly in response and urged me to stand up. I made my way to the shower, yearning to wash off the stickiness and the fear.

I reflected back on the dream as I stood under the cool water. The fire, the camp, the faceless soldiers… It had to have some meaning behind it.

The drive to Kraków lasted about three hours, in which Ora told me all about the particular shop that we were going to and its fame throughout the decades. It was supposedly the most luxurious and high-class wedding dress store in the country.

The driver dropped us off directly in front of the shop. As I slid across the seat and made my way out of the car, I glanced up at the grand building that was sitting before me.

It seemed to be modeled after ancient Greek structures. Its tall, white marble columns stood magnificently before its large, glossy display windows, which presented countless wedding dresses in all shapes and sizes. I gazed up at the sign, which I could not understand due to the fact that it was written in Polish. It read, "H i F: Ostateczny Ślub."

My head snapped from side to side as we walked through the store, my girly desire to try on dresses overpowering the grave meaning behind trying on these wedding garments.

"Your fiancé has already picked a dress for you, dear," Ora stated softly. I sighed and pouted in disappointment.

A tall woman with palpable cheekbones and an elongated chin appeared by our side. She began to chatter in Polish, and I turned to Ora in question. Ora conversed with her for a few moments, occasionally gesturing at me. The woman nodded her head in comprehension. At last, she gazed at me. "Come," she said with a very thick Polish accent. "We will get you fitted."

She led me to a back room, where three other women waited politely. When I walked in, they all sighed in amazement and began to babble cheerfully. They pulled me up onto a wooden stool and began to strip me of my clothes. Before I knew it, I was in the intended wedding dress, being poked and prodded by the excited women.

I tried to perceive the wedding dress from this angle, but it was difficult. It seemed very conservative. Its long bleached sleeves wrapped around my wrists and it had a lace turtleneck top. It reached down to completely cover my feet.

I glanced around the room at the different dresses that were lying about. There was one on a beige manikin that I particularly liked. It was simple. Thin, sleek satin that reached the calves with short sleeves that ruffled around the manikin's upper arms. I tried to imagine how it would look on me. Then I imagined how it would look on Santana.

I saw her before me, her hair full and her mouth widened in a heart-stopping smile. She held a violet bouquet in her right hand while her left stretched out to me, beckoning me forward. I imagined how I would walk down the aisle with her, how we would say our vows and exchange rings and kiss passionately as if it was our last.

It was an odd image, two women being wedded to each other. It was something foreign, something impossible. It was odd, yes, but also so very right.

At last, I was allowed to look at myself in the mirror. Colorful pins stuck out of the dress where the women had marked it. The dress fitted nicely around me, but it wasn't anything special. I glanced up at my face. Soulless and downcast.

I wished that I could live in another world. Somewhere peaceful, someplace that lacks war and hate and revenge. Someplace where it would be okay for me to love Santana. Someplace where we would be perceived as equals. Someplace that allowed our forbidden love. Someplace where Santana would love me back.

I wasn't sure that she did. She seemed somewhat distant, somewhat apprehensive. But, to be honest, I couldn't expect anything else of her. She wasn't used to being treated the way that I treated her by an Aryan. It wasn't her fault that I fell in love so quickly, so passionately, so ultimately.

But it wasn't my fault, either. It wasn't my fault that my heart leaped into my throat every time we made physical contact. It wasn't my fault that I melted with overwhelming feelings every time she smiled. It wasn't my fault that I had the desire to hold her close to me, to envelop her with my love, to kiss her. It wasn't my fault that we were born into a cruel world where one race could demean and shame another, concentrate it in camps and treat it viciously.

And what really happened down in the camp? The people who were deemed unfit, where were they sent? Were they sent back home while the stronger ones worked at the camp?

The women peeled the heavy wedding dress off of my body, snapping me back into reality. I was allowed to slip back into my mint-colored frock. Ora thanked them and we walked back out through the sea of ruffles and lace and satin to the busy streets of Krakow. It must have been closer to noon now; the sun burned brightly in the clear baby blue sky.

The car was waiting for us around the corner. The driver, the same man who drove me up to the house during my first day in Poland, hurried around the car to open the door widely for me, his anxious eyes on the ground.

"Thank you," I smiled as he raised his astonished gaze at me.

The Mercedes bounced up and down as we left the city for the open road. "Ora?" I ripped my eyes off of the window.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"What happens down at the camp?" I asked again.

Ora's chest rose up as she sighed deeply, her thoughtful eyes scanning me. "I think," she began slowly, "that this is a question for your friend. I think that she would have the best answer for you."

I turned my gaze back to the signs and fences that were flying by the window. If Herr Eberhardt is not home when we get back, I'll go down to the camp and get Santana.

When we arrived at the house, I quickly jumped out of the car to make sure that he wasn't home. To my relief, he was gone and nowhere to be seen. I wished that he would never come back.

I skipped down the hill excitedly, looking forward to the moment when my eyes would be able to satisfy their hunger for Santana's beauty. I longed for the moment when I would finally kiss her. Longed for it, but was so afraid to try it. So afraid of being rejected by the one person who had complete control over my life. The one person who I would do anything, absolutely anything, for. I would leap off of a sky-high building, swim across the endless ocean, fight and die in a bloody battle for her. If I had the choice of exchanging my freedom for her ensured safety, of changing our roles, of having her be the "superior" and me be the prisoner in Auschwitz, I would do so without a blink of thought. I would jump into a blazing fire to save her life.

Rolf shook his head with an all-knowing smile as he saw me prance down the hill. He automatically pushed open the gate and said, "Have a good day, Fräulein."

"Thank you, Rolf," I flashed a wide grin at him. "And, please, call me Brittany."

"Will do, Fräulein," he nodded. "I mean, Brittany."

I walked in the almost-familiar path to the gloomy building in which Santana resided. I was buzzing with eagerness at the thought of seeing her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her ears, her lips, her everything.

I swung open the heavy door to find only half of the women who were there before inside the building. They turned their grim gazes to me, many of them teary-eyed as if they had just been crying.

My eyes darted around. Santana was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Where is Santana?"

The kind-looking woman with the large green eyes who had retrieved Santana a few days earlier came forward. "They took her and half of our sect to the gas chambers."

"To the…what?" I asked faintly.

The women gazed at me regretfully. Some seemed like they wanted to hate me, but maybe the look of puzzlement that was currently expressed on my face caused their loathing to waver. They had these looks in their eyes, as if they pitied this naïve and unknowledgeable adolescent who was standing before them.

"To…"

My eyes widened as reality punched me in the stomach, knocking every bit of air out of me. My world crashed down in an instant, shattering my glass cube into a million tiny pieces.

"To kill her?"

Translations

German

"Fräulein" – Miss, a title for unmarried women.

Polish

"H i F: Ostateczny Ślub" – H&F: The Ultimate Wedding (the wedding dress shop in which Brittany gets fitted for her dress).