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plaster walls and a warped, wooden floor. Three tables stood at the far end of the room beneath a

row of bare windows. Two SS officers and two women prisoners sat waiting behind the tables,

ledgers and writing utensils in front of them. She refused to see the tears, the misery, or the pain

of the women surrounding her reflected back into her own eyes, but felt like she were inside

someone elses body, certainly not her own. This meek attitude was not hers. This surrender of

spirit did not belong to her, but she felt disembodied and emotionally disconnected from the

events taking place around her. Suddenly, it was her turn, and she stared at the woman in striped

prisoners garb who grasped her left arm and tattooed a number onto the inside of her forearm.

The prisoner did not glance up at her while she silently dipped dual needles extending from a

wood-handled tool into a dish full of black China ink and quickly imprinted a number. It was not

particularlypainful, but Giselas heart cried out in misery. She knew what this meant. Somehow,

without realizing quite how it had happened, she had allowed herself to be herded, sheared, and

branded like a pasture animal. She took a deep breath and fought against the overwhelming

instinct to resist, fight, and rage against the travesty taking place around her. Despite her outrage,

despite the grief of the past weeks, the losses, and the indescribable pain of it, all she wanted to

live.