She was lying on the road in front of me; his thick black hair, usually so prim and proper, a tangled mess. A strange sound echoed from his throat as he rolled over and sat up. Blood oozed from a cut on his knee. Her lips were trembling, her breathing was inconsistent. Despite her naturally dark complexion (stereotypically Jewish, Halina always said) her face seemed ashen with fear. When he saw me, he let out a muffled sob and ran backwards like a frightened crab. “You,” I said, showing no sign of heat. Being Roza Wiesniewski, I expected some snide comments in response. This was in line with our usual exchange. The mutual hatred we had for each other had little to do with Halina's prejudices. It was personal. Roza Wiesniewski was not only one of the richest girls in town, she was also gifted and talented. He excelled in everything he touched. And if that wasn't enough, she was pretty and popular and knew it. The only thing I could beat her at was popularity. We were the famous class rivals and I liked to think I was first. In any case, the fact remained that she hated me perhaps even more than I hated her. We were equally rude and surly to each other, even though Roza was better at saying hurtful things. So now, in the last evening sun, I waited for the long-awaited comment. Except it never arrived. Instead Roza began to sob loudly. I raised my eyebrows. Are you crying? She was a spoiled, grumpy brat. He didn't cry. Only now it was. I had never seen her so desperate and pathetic before. Considering the way he'd treated me in the past, there was something sickeningly satisfying about it all. “Please,” she gasped, her voice little more than a pitiful sob. I just didn't feel pity. 'P... half of the paper... ar, returning to the living room after a short trip down the hall. Our previous conversation had come back to me. “When you wanted the address, you said it was just a census.” Oskar hesitated, trying to decide what to say. "Yes, I said it." "Were you lying?" "Not exactly." While anyone else would have squirmed when his falseness became apparent, Oskar simply raised his eyebrows with the lazy arrogance I had grown to adore. 'Why? Are you complaining?". I looked at the necklace still in my hand, drank in the fact that I was in the Wisniewskis' living room, and broke into a broad smile. “No,” I laughed. 'I'm certainly not complaining!' Looking around the beautiful room, I suddenly had a great sense of euphoria; this feeling that we were on top, that we were superior. At that moment I could only think about how good it was to be German, now that the Nazis had arrived.