Dear Anna,

It's been two weeks now since I saved Santana from the gas chambers. We've been hiding her in Ora's room and, by an angel's doing, Herr Eberhardt hasn't discovered her yet. I feel more at peace now that she's safe.

I kissed her, Anna. I kissed her. But she doesn't love me back, I know that now. The way she looked at me…it made me want to crawl up in my bed and never come out. How is it fair that I fell in love with her so quickly, so ultimately, and yet she can't return the feelings? Can't, or doesn't want to. I don't know. But I thought…sometimes, the way that she looks at me, it made me think…but maybe I'm just making it all up. Maybe I want her to love me so devotedly, so desperately, that I make up her love for me. Maybe she hates me.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't stop thinking about her, Anna. I worry about her all day and all night. When Herr Eberhardt is in the house, and she has to hide down in the servants' quarters, I'm so anxious that I feel like I'm walking to my death. I feel like I'm being led up a grim, flimsy platform. The noose hangs innocently from a wooden bar, luring me to it with its dangerous appeal. On the one hand, I'm frightened of death and I dread it horribly. But on the other, it seems so comforting, so liberating. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. The rest is up to whoever is up there in the heavens. So I quietly stand on the trapdoor and let the guard slip the noose around my neck. And the more anxious that I get, the tighter the noose becomes around it. It gets to the point that I'm lightheaded and I can't breathe because the noose is blocking my airways, my brain can't function and I can't think.

I just want her to love me, Anna. It is really too much to ask to be loved by the person that you love?

Always thinking about you,

Brittany

I turned my head to the window and saw the sun shining lazily in the early morning. I closed my journal and hid it safely inside the drawer of my nightstand. It was imperative that Herr Eberhardt wouldn't find it. I sighed deeply and got out of bed.

Santana was already downstairs, sitting quietly at the long dining room table. She snapped her head to me when I entered, the look of apprehension quickly melting into a gleaming smile that made the butterflies in my stomach flutter excitedly. I returned the warm smile, that feeling of confusion enveloping me once again.

What would make her look at me the way that she was looking at me now if it wasn't love? What would make her stretch her mouth so widely as if it was trying to reach both ears at the same time? What would make her eyes sparkle with joy simply because I was in the room? Or was I just imagining all of it?

We hadn't talked about the kiss after it happened. It was a bit awkward right after it, but then she laid her head back down in my lap and fell asleep. When she woke up, she acted as if it never happened. I wondered if she was choosing not to bring it up, or if she really did not remember that it happened because she was so dazed from the horrid gas. Either way, I was too afraid to try to kiss her again.

She was horribly sick after I brought her back with me. She kept on vomiting, her body longing to rid itself of the terrible poison. She even had a high fever at one point. But after a few days of intense care by myself and Ora, and a lot of rest, she regained her strength and was able to finally climb out of bed. It was like she was a completely different person. She felt so much more relaxed, so much more at ease. I could tell how thankful she was to be alive. She had cheated Death. Met him, laughed in his face, and turned around back to Life. There were times when she would get a little quiet, as if she was thinking about her friends down at the camp, or her family that she missed so much. But, other than that, she turned into the most pleasant person that I had ever had the fortune to meet.

I sat down in one of the chairs and gazed at her with hungry eyes. She had tiny black hairs on her head now, and although she was still extremely skinny, she had gained some weight from eating three full meals a day. Her beauty was so delicate, yet so overpowering. When I looked at her, it was like I could get lost in her beauty. Get lost and never return, nor really wish to.

"How did you sleep?" she broke the booming silence.

I blinked hastily to snap myself back into reality. "Um, okay," I lied. How could anyone sleep okay after hours of a disgusting man shoving himself into you?

Just then, Chaim appeared out of the kitchen door, carrying two generous plates of scorching breakfast food. He laid them down before us and began to make his way back to the kitchen.

"Thank you," Santana and I said simultaneously. We turned to each other and giggled delightedly. Soul mates.

I picked up my fork and began to slowly nibble on some scrambled eggs. As soon as I did, however, I let my fork drop to the table and dashed out of the dining room and into the bathroom. I fell to the floor before the toilet and threw up what little food I had in my stomach.

This was the third time this week that I had vomited in the morning. I didn't know what caused it, whether or not I was sick or if my body had just decided to reject breakfast food all of a sudden. I felt fine except for in the mornings, which raised some suspicion in me.

Santana hurried to the bathroom and dropped down beside me as I continued to throw up into the toilet. She put her left hand on my back and stroked it back and forth. I thought about how I wouldn't mind vomiting like this all of the time if it meant that I could have some physical contact with her.

She wrapped her left hand around my hair, making sure that it was out of the way. Her right hand made its way to my forehead, stroking it lightly. Tears were swimming down my face in disorganized streaks. I felt like I was throwing up all of my internal organs.

After what seemed like hours, my stomach finally settled. Santana stood up, grabbed a towel, and quickly moistened it with water. She bent down to me and wiped my face clean. The warm towel and her other hand, which held the back of my head, gave me such gentle comfort. I yearned to always have this wonderful contact with her.

"You should really see a doctor about this, Brittany," she said softly.

"I don't want him to know about it," I said, my weak voice somewhat muffled by the towel. I turned to her and she lowered the towel so that I would be able to look at her. Her head was cocked slightly to the right as she brushed my hair away from my face. Her eyes scanned me and I felt like a widely opened book. I wanted her to read me, to understand how much I really loved her. How much I needed her, and how much I needed her to need me.

She was so very close; our faces were only centimeters apart. It would've been so easy to just lean over and close that unyielding gap. To press our longing lips together again, to taste her sweet flavor and show her just how much I love her.

But I had learned my lesson. The last thing that I wanted to do was to drive her away. She was too precious, too dear to me to lose. I decided that I would rather hold back my desires and still be close to her rather than lose her altogether.

She smiled warmly, her hand lingering on my cheek. Her dark eyes shone with some unknown feeling. It felt like she was dealing with just as many feelings as I was. Her lips parted and she inhaled deeply, her chin lifting up a little. Then she blinked and ripped her gaze off of me.

"Come on," she tugged lightly on my hand so that I would stand up with her. We got to our feet and made our way out of the bathroom. I still felt a little weak, so I sat down on the elongated floral couch in the living room. Santana hurried to the kitchen to fetch me a glass of water. I gulped it hungrily as she sat down beside me. When I was finished, I put the glass on the little coffee table that stood by the couch and turned to her. "Can you play something for me? On the piano?"

Her face instantly lit up like the infant sun in the rising dawn. Her mouth stretched into a luminous smile, so wide that the skin at the top of her nose scrunched up into a bundle of adorability. She nodded excitedly. "Is there anything in particular that you'd like me to play?"

"Beethoven," I couldn't help but return her smile. The butterflies in my stomach were playing a hurried game of catch.

If it was even possible, her smile widened even more, so much that her eyes could no longer stay open and they sort of disappeared into her face. All that I wanted to do at that moment was to envelop her into my arms and never let her go.

She skipped to the piano and lifted the cover off of the keys. The crimson dress that she was wearing bunched up in the back as she sat down and laid her gentle fingers on the piano keys. Then she raised her gaze to me, that breathtaking smile still wide on her face, and said, "This is the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique."

The piece began softly. It had a sort of hopeful ring to it. Like you're walking down an endless path, desperate to get to your destination. You're tired beyond belief, but there's a desire deep within you to continue on. And finally, after days upon days of traveling, the sun rises high up into the sky and washes the morose valley with hope. And it gives you the strength to walk on until you finally reach your longed-for goal.

Santana's eyes were shut and her mouth was slightly parted. She leaned her whole body into the keys as she played and her head swayed to the slow rhythm. The piece began to become more intense, and her face scrunched up in concentration, creating a deep crease between her eyebrows. Her expression was so ached, so heartbreaking. It was almost like she was holding back tears. I yearned to be inside her mind, to hear her thoughts and to know what caused her to be moved in such a way. She became one with the piano, one with the melody. No longer a gypsy, no longer a prisoner, no longer in Auschwitz. All she was, all that she wanted to be at this moment, was a pianist. Not even Santana, just a pianist. There was no better way for her to reveal or to release her feelings. And she really was revealing her entire self to me in those few but amazing moments.

She finished gently and inhaled deeply before opening her eyes again. I smiled tenderly at her. "Beautiful."

She smiled down to her knees in modesty. I had a sudden desire to know every tiny little detail about her. "Santana?"

She lifted her gaze to me, her eyebrows raised in question. "Yes?"

"Tell me about your mother." It wasn't a command, it was a request. A soft request that she knew that she could deny if she so wished.

She grazed her hand over the top of the piano, deep in thought. Then she looked back up at me, as if an idea had sparked in her mind. She covered the piano keys and made her way to the couch. She sat down beside me and held out her hand, waiting for me to give her mine.

I placed my hand in her warm palm and she flipped it over so that my palm was facing the ceiling. She traced a gentle finger across the lines in my hand, her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. She outlined the circular crease around my thumb and said, "This is your life line. People would pay my mamá to read their palms and predict their futures. Your life line is one of the longest that I've ever seen. If my mamá saw this, she would say," a smile appeared on her face as she began to speak in a heavy Spanish accent, "you, my dear girl, will live for years. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that I would want to live as long as you're going to live for." Santana chuckled, her eyes lost in the past. My heart swelled to five times its original size.

"And this," she traced her finger across my palm, "this is your head line. It predicts how wise you are, or how wise you will become."

"Well?" I grinned softly.

"You're quite the scholar, look. Your line reaches all the way to the other end of your hand. My mamá would say, 'You will grow up to be a queen with such a head line.'" Santana licked her lips, entirely in another world. "And this," her voice was almost hushed, "is your heart line." She gazed up at me.

"And what does that predict?" my voice was just as quiet as hers.

"How much you love, or how much you are loved." She gulped as her penetrating eyes remained on my face. "And I've never seen one as prominent and as deep as yours." Her gaze was so intense that it was almost like I could feel it on my face. Feel it stroking my cheeks, taking in every bit of it. Her eyes fell from my desiring ones to my lips. They lingered there, and I could swear that she was about to lean over and kiss me. But she never got the chance to.

Ora came hurrying through the front door. "Brittany, your fiancé has returned early today. Santana, you'd better go down to the room."

We both instantly snapped back into reality. Santana gripped my hand and rapidly said, "Ask him to fetch you a doctor."

"But—"

"Please, Brittany," she locked her pleading eyes with mine. "Please. For me."

I nodded quickly as I heard his boots making their way across the front porch. "Okay, now go. Before he comes in."

Santana silently jogged across the living room and disappeared through the door to the basement. Just then, Herr Eberhardt meandered in through the front door. He gazed at Ora and then at me, his expression hard and stern as always, and then began to walk past us. It was now or never. "Herr Eberhardt."

He turned to me, his astonished eyebrows raised high up. I hesitated, but remembered Santana's plea and said, my voice weak and frightened, "I haven't been feeling very well lately. Could you possibly call a doctor?"

He looked at me for a few more moments, his expression unreadable, and then nodded slowly. He turned back to his determined path and made his way down the hall to his office.

The doctor arrived within very little time. There must have been some Nazi doctors down at the camp. He was an older man with a vicious glint in his eyes. As he checked my vitals, that feeling of horrible anxiety returned to me.

I hear the citizens' eager shouting, but my sight is blocked by the black bag that was placed around my head. My hands are tied behind my back with a harsh rope that burns my wrists.

The hardhearted doctor asked me what symptoms I was showing. I quietly explained to him that I had vomited three times that week, and only in the mornings.

The two guards on either side of me lead me up some creaky steps to what must be a wide platform.

Herr Eberhardt was standing in the corner of the room, his arms crossed at his chest and his jaw clenched tightly. After he finally came to a conclusion, the doctor turned to Herr Eberhardt and said, "She's not sick."

The black bag is ripped off of my head, and the world is revealed to me. Thousands of people stand before the platform, their eyes malicious and hungry for revenge. The guards shove me forward and slip the noose around my neck. They tug on it so that it tightens to the point that I can't move, can't breathe, can't think. All that fills me now is the horrible anxiety that one feels before one's death.

"She's pregnant."