One

Sometimes I feel lost. Like a train that has run off its tracks, I feel I don’t quite
know what to do with myself, what to make of my life. I used to be so sure. Or perhaps I
was never sure, merely listening as everyone else told me what to do, how to be. But I
feel now as though it’s time for me to decide what path my life will take—and I have no
idea where to start.
When I was little, Mama and Papa used to tell me I could do whatever I wanted,
be whoever I was. By the time I was eleven or twelve, however, things started to change.
My father worked as a political advisor—to whom, I didn’t quite know—but he was very
involved in Hitler’s government. My eldest brother, Klaus, joined the army in 1933, the
day he turned eighteen. My sister, Helga, had married at nineteen and had her first child a
year later. Two children into a growing family, Helga was, as my parents constantly
pointed out to me, a good, strong German woman: a mother, a caretaker, and fiercely
loyal to her family and her country.
As for the rest of the family, they were perfect Germans. At thirteen years old,
Bridgette was the picture of German beauty; baby blue eyes complimented her long
blonde hair and fair skin, and she was perfectly stocky—not fat, merely healthy and
strong looking. Lucas was deeply devoted to his chapter of Hitler youth and often
marched around the house, straight-legged like the soldiers on the news, proudly wearing
his uniform and holding a pretend gun. Mama devoted herself to her family, raising us
children, keeping Papa comfortable, and organizing various events, both political and
social.
And then there was me. Mama and Papa had been saying that it was high time I
started thinking about settling down and starting a family. At seventeen years old, I
wasn’t quite the picture of the perfect German woman my parents had hoped I’d become;
I was skinnier than most, and, though perfectly strong didn’t look it. I had been to school
and was in my final year—one of the reasons I had fought looking for a husband was that
I knew I would not be allowed to finish school if I were married. For the most part, I did
as I was told, though every once in a while I would take issue with my instructions and
decide to regard them as optional for some reason or another.
We Heidrichs were perfect nationalists. A portrait of Hitler hung in our living
room above the mantle, another in the dining room behind Papa’s chair. We all
contributed in our own way to the war effort; Papa through his politics, Mama and Helga
by raising healthy children to enlarge the German race, Klaus by serving in the army,
Lucas through his chapter of Hitler youth, and Bridgette and I through our chapter of the
League of German Maidens, through which we engaged in a number of activities,
ranging from camping to knitting to sorting food to send to the boys on the front.
I was born in Berlin, but when I was four, Papa was promoted and we moved to
Weimar where he was promoted to a very prominent position the Nazi party. I wasn’t
quite sure what Papa did at work, but understood that the nearby Buchenwald camp was
for those who would stir trouble for the government and so were kept out of trouble for
their own benefit as much as that of Germany. We lived on the edge of the town in a
house larger and more remote than most. Behind our house lay miles and miles of woods
that were thick, deserted, and beautiful. There’s nothing I loved more than a long,
relaxing walk alone in nature, sometimes alone, sometimes with Isabelle, with whom I
had been best friends since the day we arrived in town. When we were little girls, we
used to run wild through the forest, collecting leaves and flowers, climbing trees, and
pretending we were fairies of the forest. About a mile into the woods was an old, deserted
bomb shelter. Isabelle and I never knew who built it, but we used to play house in it,
making and smoothing the sheets on the bunks, rearranging the cans of food, challenging
each other to see who could more effectively camouflage the wooden door with dirt,
twigs, and leaves. Every once in a while we would collect branches and lean them against
trees to make forts, which we would sit in for hours at a time, talking, reading, or playing
cards.
Mama and Isabelle’s mother, Frau Adler, met almost every day and spent a good
deal of their time planning out Isabelle’s and my futures. Isabelle didn’t need much help;
with her straight blonde hair and blue eyes she could have any man she wanted, and had a
line of suitors waiting for a date that she was working happily through. People were
always saying that Isabelle looked more like Bridgette’s sister than I did, and they were
right. It didn’t particularly upset me, but every once in a while our maid, Hannah, would
decide that I ought to have been upset for something for which I wasn’t and would bring
a cup of sweet, milky tea to my room, telling me to “cheer up, Fräulein Abigail, it’s not
as bad as all that.” I never thought it was.
When Mama came into my room one day in late May, I expected her to start
berating me for not being more interested in boys, as she had been for the past year. It
wasn’t as though no boys had shown interest in me—I just had no interest in marrying
any of them, so, though I had gone out a few times, nothing had lasted. I braced myself
on my bed, where I was reading The Magic Mountain while my gramophone played
Beethoven on a corner table.
“Abigail, turn that off for a moment, will you?” Mama asked briskly. Though
very loving and loyal, Mama wasn’t one to waste time with excessive displays of
affection. I silenced the music, carefully marked my place in my book, and turned back to
face her.
“Abigail,” Mama began, “Have you given anymore thought to Gregor’s offer?”
“I’ve told him he can take me out for dinner on Saturday night, but that’s all for
now.” Gregor Grünewald lived down the street from us and had been asking me for a
date for the past six months. Mama and Papa were quite keen on him; he was educated,
came from a good family, and, at just twenty-three, was a well established, if still rather
junior, part of the government.
“Abi,” Mama cautioned, “don’t go into this with a closed mind. You want to fall
in love, don’t you? To be married and have your own family? Gregor is a fine young
man—he would ensure your place in society and his status would guarantee your children
every opportunity they could want.”
“Ja, Mama, I know,” I replied. “I just feel very young to be marrying. I have my
whole life in front of me. What if I want to be me for a while before being someone’s
wife?”
 “But you don’t, Abi,” my mother said sternly. “You don’t want to be on your
own. It’s not the romantic brave badge of honor you young girls seem to think it is. Alone
is shameful—it means no man has chosen you. And so many men want you, Abi, so why
would you chose to live a life of shame?”
“I don’t—” I began, but Mama cut me off.
“Abi, your papa and I love you so much, and we only want the best for you, you
understand that, don’t you?”
“Ja, Mama, I do,” I replied.
“If you weren’t to marry until you were older, how would you see your life
going?” she asked patiently.
“Well—I—” I didn’t know, never having been aware that it was in fact a realistic
possibility. I just wondered if I wanted something different.
“See, Abigail?” Mama asked. “Uncertainty. You don’t want that, and we don’t
want it for you. You want certainty and security, don’t you?”
I nodded uneasily. Mama beamed.
“How would you like to go shopping for a new dress for your dinner?” she
suggested happily. How typical of Mama—trying to solve her problems with
appearances. It wasn’t my idea of a good time, but I knew better than to say so, so I went
along.
“That would be great, Mama,” I said, my mouth smiling and my eyes watching as
one more wall was build between me and the freedom for which I longed.

***

It was half past six on Sunday morning when Mama woke me up much earlier
than she had to for us to be at church on time.
“Abigail, do you want to be alone all your life?” she demanded as she wrenched
open my curtains, flooding my room with bright sunlight.
“What—Mama—why—” I stammered blearily, rubbing my eyes and sitting up.
“Why can’t you just do what you’re told?” she asked, standing at the foot of my
bed with her hands on her hips.
“What did I not do?” I asked, still very confused.
“Did you or did you not insist on paying for half of the meal last night?”
Of course. Dinner with Gregor. Mama was asleep by the time Gregor brought me
home the previous night, but leave it to her to know everything going on everywhere. I
didn’t even bother to ask how she had found out. Perhaps she had been through my
purse—I usually left it with my coat downstairs by the door.
“I ate half the meal,” I said through a yawn, climbing out of bed and sliding my
feet into my slippers. “Why shouldn’t I pay for my share? It’s only fair.”
“A gentleman pays for the lady,” Mama snapped. “You know that. You insulted
his dignity when you insisted on paying. He probably thinks you think he’s poor, or that
you have money to be throwing around and are spoiled by it.”
Neither was true. My family was quite well off, but we weren’t throwing around
money, and I had always been the least interested in my family in showing off our
wealth. Gregor was not particularly wealthy, but he was comfortable enough.
 “All he talks about is cars and politics, Mama,” I complained as I pulled a sweater
over my nightdress. “He’s nice enough, but I’m perfectly happy to stay neighborly with
someone like that.”
“I will never understand you, Abigail,” Mama sighed. “What do you want from
life?”
“I don’t know,” I said shortly. “But I detest politics and don’t care how much
horsepower a car has; if it moves, it’s good enough for me.”

***

When we returned from church that afternoon, Mama asked me to join her in the
living room. Lucas had run off to play with friends after church and Bridgette was having
lunch with Helga and her husband, Ralf, so it was just Mama, Papa, and me at home.
“Abigail, your vater and I have been talking,” Mama began without pretext.
“Mama, if this is about Gregor again—”
“Nien, Abi, just listen,” said Mama, cutting across me.
“In a few months, engaged or not, you’ll be done with school,” Mama continued,
“and your vater and I don’t think it’s good for you to be too idle.”
I listened, for once unsure where Mama was heading with this. Shrewd and
calculating as she was, Mama was usually very predictable. Not this time.
“If you’re not interested in marrying yet,” Mama continued, “we want you doing
something useful with your time. Papa was thinking you might help with his work.”
“What—what would I be doing?” I asked tentatively.
“Secretarial work,” Mama continued. “You would be responsible for
organization, messaging, the likes.”
“Can I finish school?” I asked slowly.
Mama stood up, smiling. “You’ll start on the first of July. Now, I’m going out for
lunch with Frau Adler. Hannah will have lunch ready for you in an hour.”

***
When summer came, I was in no mood to start work. I passed much of June with
Isabelle, walking in the woods, strolling through the town, laughing as she agonized on
what makeup to wear to catch the notice of any boys left in the neighborhood, and
discussing plans for our future. Isabelle was quite interested in my upcoming work with
Papa, even going so far as to ask if there might be a position for her as well. Papa found
her one, and so on the first of July, we rose before dawn and met my father outside his
office in the back of the house.
“I’m going to Berlin for a meeting.” Papa said by way of greeting. I’ll take the ten
o’clock train this morning and be back in time for dinner tomorrow. I want you girls,”
Papa continued, leading us into his office, “to get my materials in order for me while I’m
away. See those baskets?” he pointed to a collection of wicker baskets in a corner. “I
want you to sort the papers—telegrams in one basket, letters in another—there are a few
from Führer Hitler himself; I want those to go into a different pile. Separate
organizational, scheduling, policy, political, relocation, and anything that doesn’t fit in
those categories and label the baskets so I know which is which. Any questions?”
We shook our heads.
 “Then I’ll go pack. After you’ve sorted materials, do me a favor and tidy up,
organize; make this place look nice—I’ll be entertaining more after I return. I’m afraid
I’m a bit of a slob. Goodbye, dear,” he added, kissing me on the check. “Goodbye,
Isabelle.”
“Goodbye Papa.”
“Goodbye Herr Heidrich.”
“Safe travels,” I muttered.
Isabelle and I spent the day sorting as Papa had instructed, sitting on the carpet in
the bright sunlight surround by baskets and piles of paper. Papa’s had redecorated his
office throughout the last few years, and it was a grand room now, the heavy curtains tied
with gold tassels, the walls a rich red, the carpet thick and inlaid with the pattern of a
swastika in the center.
We laughed and talked as we did our work, discussing the end of our school
years, the local boys who had gone off to war, the flowers in bloom now, the lives we
fantasized of living after Germany won the war, and everything in between. Over the next
weeks Isabelle and I continued to organize, take calls, deliver messages to local
government officials and post letters and send telegraphs to others. Once in a long while
Isabelle—who had the better writing of the two of us—would be asked to sit in on a
meeting and take notes, which I would then type up on Papa’s typewriter and distribute to
the offices of all involved. Our hours were fair, and we spent much of our evenings
walking in the woods, or else strolling down to the local ice cream shop. Our mothers
expected us home for dinner, but from seven in the morning to seven at night, we spent
every minute in each other’s company. Mama and Papa were happy that I was helping
my country, I was glad to be able to work and not marry to rely on a man, and we were
all happy to be helping the German cause.

***

The problem was, the more involved I became in Papa’s work, the more uneasy I
grew about the morals of his job and, indeed the National Socialist government. I
couldn’t understand what was so horrible about Poles that would justify the displacement
of an entire ethnicity, or what Jews had done to ruin our country, especially those who
hadn’t been born when Germany slipped into recession. And as for political prisoners—
all I had heard of their misdeeds was that they had spoken out against the government,
but what would ever improve a government if no one would critique flaws so they could
be fixed?
The Buchenwald camp made me uneasy as well; though it was a ways from our
house, I could often see smoke in the distance and, on occasion, had smelled truly putrid
odor when walking in the woods in the vicinity—something that strongly reminded me of
the time I had burned myself at the age of twelve trying to cook sauerkraut for dinner; it
was the unmistakable smell of burning flesh. Often guards or other administrators would
come to the house to meet with Papa, and, though they behaved with the utmost respect,
some brought strange smells with them, smells of urine and feces, rotting food and
human body odor, animals and other smells I couldn’t identify, all mixed with that
horrible smell of flesh. After a while I realized that those who brought the stenches with
them were those who were coming directly from work, those who hadn’t washed since
they had last been at the camp.
Listening at closed doors, I started to piece together what was happening. The
more I heard, the more dire the situation appeared, and the more dire the situation
appeared, the more suspicious I grew of the world I had grown up in. From the hushed
conversations I overheard between Mama and Papa to the meetings I listened to outside
Papa’s office to the occasional letter I pulled out of the trash, I learned that Hitler had
made it his mission to purify the German race—by eradicating all people with
undesirable traits. People who opposed the government, those with physical and mental
disabilities, gypsies, homosexuals, Jews, Poles, Slavs, and others of ethnicities regarded
as Sub-Aryan were removed from their homes. Some were executed, some were
restricted to ghettos, and some were sent to camps like Buchenwald. Some children who
might otherwise be killed, I heard Papa tell Mama a few days after I started my work,
were selected for “Germanization” and sent to live in German families if they possessed
the ideal Aryan physical traits, among them blonde hair, blue eyes, and a specific facial
structure.
On occasion I my conscious panged at the thought of snooping on my family, but
it wasn’t long before I realized that no one was going to tell me the truth about what was
happening under the Führer’s regime; if I wanted to be informed, I was going to have to
educate myself. I rationalized my actions by reminding myself that letters thrown out had
been discarded, and any meetings for which secrecy must be absolute wouldn’t be
happening in my father’s office.
One evening in late July Papa called me to his office to collect materials to bring
to the administration at Buchenwald. After handing me a basket and pointing out the
letters and papers I would be transporting, Papa stepped out to ask Hannah for a cup of
tea. As I sorted the envelopes and papers into piles depending on their recipients and
loaded them into my basket, one particular paper caught my eye. It was a list of names,
each accompanied by an age and the reason for incarceration. Beside certain names were
notes scribbled in Papa’s writing; “execute for example”, “medical test subject”,
“troublemaker”, as well as several names of other camps to which prisoners were to be
sent. Across the top of the paper was scrawled the phrase in Papa’s writing: “Vernichtung
durch Arbeit”—extermination through labor. I stared at those words, feeling as though
the bottom had dropped out of my stomach—surely Papa couldn’t be condoning the
working of prisoners to death?
“Ahem.”
I jumped at Papa’s deep voice; I had been so absorbed in the papers that I hadn’t
heard Papa reenter the room behind me.
“Papa, you scared me!” I gasped, my heart still pounding as I stuffed the last few
papers into my basket. I felt uneasy—try as I might to remind myself that it was only my
Papa who had scared me, the uncertainty in his work made my suspicious.
Papa chuckled. “You scare too easily, Abi; work on that, won’t you? Germany
needs brave women to keep homes running while the boys are at war.”
“Ja, Papa,” I murmured, turning to face him.
“Take this,” he said gruffly, handing me a flashlight. “It will be dark before
you’re back. And Hannah gave me this for you.” He held up a cookie. I took both and
tucked them carefully into my basket.
 “Are you sure you don’t want a ride? I could call you a car. Or if you wanted to
ride, we could get Rosenblüte saddled up and you’d be back in half—”
“Nien, Papa,” I said, shaking my head. “I like a good walk.” With that, I hurried
out of Papa’s office, down the hall and out the front door. Once I had shut the door, I
stood on the step for a moment, my mind still on that phrase, “Vernichtung durch
Arbeit”.

It was past eight o’clock in the evening but the sun was still high in the sky as I
approached the front gates of Buchenwald. Papa had phoned ahead, and as I walked up
the drive a young man in uniform made his way down to me. His blond hair was slicked
down carefully exactly as the Führer styled his, but his cheeks were rosy; he couldn’t
have been older than nineteen or twenty. Suspecting that he was only a few years older
than myself, I instantly felt more relaxed than I normally felt around SS officers.
“Hans Glöckner, assistant to Commandant Pister,” he said in a pleasant, but
serious voice, reaching out to shake my hand. “Thank you, Fraulëin Heidrich.”
I handed him the papers, taking care to keep them in the correct order. He was
slightly shorter than me, and over his shoulder I could see the prison yard. It was
scattered with men in stripped blue uniforms sitting on the ground. They all looked
emaciated, and as I watched, several had difficulty rising to their feet when the guards
instructed them to. The largest of the guards walked over to an old man who was unable
to rise to his feet and kicked him in the head. Horrorstruck, I saw the guard pull out a
pistol and point it at the old man’s head. When the old man didn’t stand up, a shot rang
out through the night. The old man’s body jerked once and was still.
The stomach that still had not returned to its proper position seemed to drop
another level, as though it had fallen through a trap door in what was supposed to be the
floor of my emotions. I gasped and made to dart past Herr Glöckner and up towards the
gate, but Herr Glöckner grasped my arms and held me still.
“Go home, Fraulëin,” he said seriously. “This is no place for you.”
“But that man!” I shouted, now fighting to free myself. “Your guard just killed
that man!”
“I mean it, go home,” Herr Glöckner repeated. “And please ask Herr Heidrich to
send a car next time he needs something delivered. This is no place for a young woman.”
“Her Heidrich,” I said stoutly, drawing myself up even as I could hear my voice
shaking and struggled to fight the tears trying to burst out of the corners of my eyes,
“says Germany needs brave women.”
“Brave,” Herr Glöckner agreed, “but not hardened. Go home, Fraulëin, and try to
forget what you saw.”
He released me and I remained where I was, my eyes darting between him and the
gate. Herr Glöckner nodded respectfully, turned crisply on his heal, and began walking
back to the gate. I remained where I was, staring at the camp until the sun had set and the
prisoners had long since been marched inside. In that moment, everything I thought I had
known seemed wrong. But I did know one thing; I was never going to forget what I saw
that night at Buchenwald. Slowly, I made my way up to the gate and walked along the
fence until I was even with the old man’s body. I put my hand on the fence and jerked it
away quickly to see blood dripping from my palm; lost in darkness, I hadn’t noticed the
barbed wire. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wrapped it around my hand and
stared at the body on the ground. I could just see, by the light of a few flickering lamps,
the man’s face. Below the bloody hole in his temple there was a look of pure agony on
his face. It was the face of a man who saw no end to his misery.
I didn’t understand—how could one guard take it into his hands to decide when
someone lives and when they died? An hour ago, there had been a man sitting in front of
me; now, there was a corpse.
The minutes stretched into an hour, and still, I stood, staring at the body on the
ground in front of me, not twenty feet away. I heard a door open in the distance and
jumped, retreating a few steps from the fence, but it was only two prisoners, come to
collect the body. The men crouched on either side of the body but as the man facing me
looked up, he stopped, carefully set the old man’s arms down, and stepped forward. I
stayed where I was, scared to stay, terrified to move.
“Hello?” The man whispered quietly.
“Shhhhh! Yikes, you’ll get us both killed!” his companion hissed angrily. “What
is it?”
“Thought I saw a person,” the first man said gruffly. I stepped forward timidly.
The men stared.
“Who is it?” the first man asked quietly.
I stepped forward. “Who are you?” I asked, noting their thin, dirty, frayed
clothing.
The first man looked blankly at me, turned to look at his friend, and turned back.
“Who do you think?” he asked after a pause, a note of sarcasm coloring his rough voice.
“Is it horrible here?” I whispered.
The men looked at each other. The second gave a dry chuckle. “Hell on Earth.
Who are you?”
“Never you mind,” I said quickly; Papa would never let me leave the house again
if it got around to him that I’d been speaking to prisoners. “But—why? What did you do
to get in here?”
“What do you mean, what did we do?” The first man asked angrily. Looking at
him, I saw that he couldn’t be much older than I was. He was about a head taller than me
and his brown hair was shaggy and matted with dirt. His eyes were sunken, his checks
hollow. “I happened to be born into a certain religion.”
“You’re a Jew?” I asked, startled. The man looked at his friend, who, I now saw,
was considerably older, gray and going bald.
“Not the brightest, is she?” the young man asked his companion.
“Careful, aye, you don’t know who she knows.” The older man looked at me. “I
happen to possess a set of political beliefs deemed dangerous by the government.”
Spotting the confused look on my face, he added, “I’m a red.” A Communist.
I turned to the younger of the two prisoners. “I’m not going to get you in trouble,”
I said heatedly, stung by the assumption that I would wish them ill.
“Ja, well, you and no one else,” the man said bitterly. “C’mon,” he said to the
older man. “Let’s get him across camp before the SS come out.”
“Wait!” I said suddenly as the prisoners made to lift the old man up. I reached
into my basket and held out the cookie Hannah had packed for me. “It’s not much,” I
began apologetically, “but you look like you could use it more than I could.” The
younger of the two men walked over to me and I slipped him the cookie through the
barbed wire.
“Thanks,” the young man said quietly.
“Take care of yourself,” I told him. He nodded, his eyes slightly brighter and
suddenly curious, and, slipped the cookie into the pocket of his thin jacket, and walked
slowly back to his friend.
Both men were so skinny and frail looking that I was shocked they could lift the
body, but they did, and, treating the man with the utmost respect, they walked off into the
darkness.
I stood and watched until the three silhouettes disappeared into the darkness, then
turned, clicked on my flashlight, and began the walk home.

By the time I got home around half past ten, I was still completely shocked at
what I had witnessed. Seeing the light on in Papa’s study, I hurried down the hall and
burst into the room.
“Papa!” I gasped, nearly toppling over a chair by the door as I raced in. “I saw—I
saw—the most horrible—at the camp—” Papa looked up calmly from the papers on his
desk.
“Abigail,” he said, surprised, “what’s gotten into you?”
“A prison guard shot a prisoner!” I burst out. “Papa, you have to stop them, they
can’t be allowed to do that!”
The instant I told Papa I felt better. Papa was a good, respectable man. Now he
knew, he could put a stop to the inhumane treatment of camp prisoners.
“Why shouldn’t they?” Papa asked. I stood there, staring at him, feeling as though
my world had turned upside down, sending me falling into the fathomless heavens. Papa
was always so involved and loving with his children and grandchildren, he delighted in
helping impoverished people, and had been advocating on behalf of my education for
years whenever Mama had tried to curtail it.
But the man sitting in front of me had eyes that no longer seemed warm and kind,
but icy and menacing. His poker straight poise no longer seemed seeped in dignity but
aggression. His voice, always so gruff but well-meaning, had lost its affection and was
sharp and frightening.
“Because…” I began slowly. “That man…he was a person. No man should have
the right to take a person’s life.”
“The prisoners in those camps are bad for the country. It was a public service.”
“But—Papa—It’s wrong,” I stammered, praying that I was caught in some
horrible nightmare. “You have to stop them. Someone needs to stop them. This—this
can’t be what the Führer wants!”
“Herr Hitler know how to better our country, and I trust him,” Papa replied
shortly. “Together, the National Socialist Party will make Germany the most powerful,
the most splendid country in the world. Superiority will be proven to all.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I took a step back.
“What took you so long, Abigail?” he demanded. “Why did you linger? Were you
fraternizing with the filth in that prison? What happened to your hand?” he added, a note
of concern trickling into his voice but failing to balance out the harshness in it.
I shook my head quickly.
 “Nein, Papa. I—tripped—over a root—in the dark.”
“It was a mistake to send you to the camp.” Papa muttered after a pause. “I won’t
ask you to again. You’d better go up to bed,” he added in a suddenly gentle voice. The
shift caught me off guard. I didn’t know what else to say. I backed slowly out of the
room, shut the door quietly, then raced upstairs, dashed into my room, threw the door
shut, and flung myself facedown on my bed. As my face hit the bed, I could feel my nose
being flattened, and I burst into tears as the last pretenses vanished and the hope that I
was caught in a bad dream was shredded.
I had always lived in such a sheltered world. Mama and Papa were loving, if
strict, parents. I never wanted for anything. I had clothes, toys, delicious food; I was
raised without a care in the world. I had never once feared for my safety, or that of my
loved ones. Now, on the outskirts of town, people were being murdered and not only was
no one stopping it, the government was endorsing and facilitating it and my own father
was defending it. I didn’t sleep that night, but lay awake wondering what the world had
come to, and if there was anything I could do to stop the horrendous acts of violence
perpetrated against innocent victims.
 Two
The sky was still dark outside the windows whose curtains I hadn’t bothered to
close the previous night when I climbed out of bed, changed into a fresh blouse and skirt,
and pulled a brush hurriedly through my hair. By the time I had pinned my hair up,
brushed my teeth, and pulled on my boots the clock on the table by my bed read five-
fifteen in the morning. I stole out of my room, grateful for the thick blue carpeting in the
hallway for muffling my footsteps, made my way down the stairs taking care to avoid the
creaky step near the bottom and crept into the kitchen, looking instinctively over my
shoulder, though I knew Hannah wouldn’t be up for another hour. I found my basket,
which Hannah had replaced on the shelf, set it quietly on the square table in the back of
the kitchen, and began looking through the cupboards. I didn’t know why I didn’t dare
switch on the light—perhaps I was becoming paranoid—but I searched in darkness
throughout the kitchen, looking for the perfect filling for my basket. Food that wouldn’t
be missed, wouldn’t perish in the warmth, and wouldn’t leave evidence behind. When I
had taken all the bread, fruit, crackers, carrots, and nuts as I dared, I crept back upstairs,
slid my basket under my bed, and took Leyna out for her morning walk.