I looked out of the small, grimy window of the truck just in time to see the swastika above the doors of Dachau. It was the concentration camp that I, along with 30, 000 other Jewish prisoners would be staying. The date was November 8th, 1938.

I felt the thin, shivering bodies press against mine as I ducked back into the caravan. Hoarse whispers filled the air, along with the sounds of children crying. I closed my eyes to try to block what was happening from my mind.

I was taken back to last night.

I was being shaken roughly awake by my mother. Screams filled the air as the smell of smoke reached my nostrils. "What's happening, Mama?" I asked in a panic.

"Gabriella, you must leave," my mother whispered back, fervently. "The Nazi's are coming. You must get away from this place now."

She ushered me out of the house. Crashes and fires were all around. Kristallnacht, they called it – the Night of Broken Glass.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, but before I reached the edge of the town I felt strong arms wrap around my waist. I struggled to get free, but it was no good. I was too small, and too weak.

The arms threw me into a truck, along with many other people from the town. More and more bodies pushed against mine as the back of the truck filled. I could hear their scared, quick breathing and their ragged sobs.

I snapped back to attention as the truck rolled over a patch of uneven ground. I looked out of the window again and saw the Nazi's standing guard. Shuddering, I sank back down.

I was taken to a large room with small, uncomfortable looking bunks along the walls. I heard more crying, more hurried whispers, and then more silence as the doors opened again.

Three Nazis walked in. One was tall and muscular, and he scrutinized us as he walked up and down aisles, his large leather boots clunking dully on the ground. The other two men flanked him. They were younger; one looked about my age, sixteen or seventeen at most. He was tall, and had dark brown hair that hung just below his ears.

I dropped my eyes as the three passed, feeling a shiver run down my spine. I dared a glance at the seventeen-year-old once his back was turned to me and bit my lip. How could one so young be entangled in something like this? I wondered.

Once the trio reached the back wall they turned, and the leader surveyed us all.

"You will stay here," he grunted. "You will not leave, unless accompanied by one of us." His eyes slid from one tired face to the next. "Food will be brought."

With that, the trio left, shutting the door behind them and leaving us in semi-darkness.

The 'food' wasn't so much satisfying as dimly sustaining. A small portion of weak broth was all.

That night, I sunk into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning and trying to drown out the sobs coming from the bunks around me.

The next morning we were woken early by one of the men who had come to speak to us the day before. He told us we were to dig tunnels for the use of weapon factories. The work was hard and long, made worse by the cold.

The weeks that followed slipped by in the same fashion. We were offered one meal a day, at best. As time passed, less and less people were found in our bunk. I preferred not to think about what happened to them. They were always taken away in large groups – usually prisoners who were not strong enough to work.

I found myself holding on, somehow. I kept thinking that I was going to get out of here. I was going to live, and escape. Somehow I knew that something was going to protect me while I was here.

It was maddening sometimes, seeing the prisoners fight over a scrap of bread or a bowl of broth. They were too weak to really do much, but they bit and scratched at each other, becoming animalistic in nature. I kept away from these fights, telling myself that I had to stay sane, or they would take me away. They would come and get me and I wouldn't come back. I wouldn't be able to escape.

But after two months, I felt myself getting weaker. I was numb in my work, going through the motions, but not realizing what I was doing. Sometimes I would sneak a rest when the guard wasn't looking, but those rests did not last long.

I happened to take one of these rests when the seventeen-year-old was standing guard. I dimly heard him approach, but out of exhaustion, I couldn't open my eyes again. I panicked as I heard him stop in front of me. He exhaled, then walked around me and placed his arms around my waist.

"No…" I mumbled. He said nothing, but carried me away from where the rest of the prisoners were standing.

I saw darkness through my closed eyelids, and tried to open them slowly. I looked around.

I was in a tent. I closed my eyes again, unable to keep them open. Then I felt myself being place on a small cot. I frowned slightly in confusion. What was happening? I heard the clanking of metal on metal, and smelled a gas fire. If I had been less tired, I would have been concerned, but as it was, I felt myself falling asleep on the cot.

When I awoke, some five or six hours later, the boy was staring down at me. We held each others gazes for a while. Finally, he spoke.

"Eat this," he grunted, handing me a large loaf of bread.

Too hungry to be suspicious, I wolfed it down, keeping one eye on him. He alternated between casting nervous glances at the entrance to the tent and looking at me with…what? Anger? Concern? Disgust? Perhaps a mixture. I couldn't be sure.

When I finished, I looked at him. My mind was working more properly now, and I had enough sense to be suspicious of him.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked him in a hoarse voice. I hadn't had reason to speak for many months now.

He gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment, a frown on his face. Then: "I don't know…" He leaned back, his hands clasped in his lap. "You fascinate me. I've never seen anyone so strong." He reached a hand up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across my face. I flinched away, and he withdrew, biting his lip. He looked down, returning his hand to his lap.

"My name is Friedrich," he said, looking up at me again. He studied my face, and then looked at the entrance to the tent again before continuing in an undertone. "I will help you to escape, if you will let me."

I froze. Was this a trick? Would he help me escape, then report it to his superiors? I looked at him. Our eyes met, and suddenly I knew he wasn't lying. I don't know how, but there was something there that told me to trust this boy. I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes on him.

He swallowed and looked to the entrance again. "Stay here until it's dark," he muttered. "I will be able to smuggle you out. Until then, sleep. You'll need the rest."

I felt tears come to my eyes. I was going to be rescued. This boy, Friedrich was going to help me. I had to say something, to thank him. "Friedrich – " I began, but nothing I could think to say seemed good enough.

He smiled and sat on the edge of the cot, pulling the blankets around me. "Sleep, geschätzt," he said, using the German word for 'cherished', "and I will help you in the morning."

And with that, I slept. I slept like I hadn't slept in weeks, feeling safe as he watched over me.

Friedrich woke me early the next morning, telling me we had to go quickly. I slipped out from under the covers and he wrapped me in a shawl. I followed him to the edge of the camp. He told me to wait in the shadows while he spoke to the man keeping guard at the gate. They exchanged a few words, and the man left.

As soon as he was out of sight, Friedrich beckoned to me to come. I crept silently out of the shadows and through the gate, and we ran.

We ran far and fast, my weak legs aching. Finally we came to a stop some miles from the camp. I slumped against a tree, exhausted, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. Friedrich came to sit next to me.

"Rest here," he panted. "And leave as soon as you can. You must leave Germany, or they will catch you again. They do not treat runaways lightly."

I looked to Friedrich, and felt and overwhelming sensation of gratitude towards him. "Where will you go?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Back to the camp, I suppose," he said. "I have no where else to go, after all."

"But they will kill you!"

"But you will have gotten away," he said, looking to me. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then, ever so slightly, he inclined his head towards mine. I bit my lip and leaned forwards. Our lips met and I closed my eyes. His hands reached up behind my head.

Then, as quickly as it began, it ended. He pulled away, a look of panic on his face at what he had just done.

"Come with me," I begged him. "Escape with me. We can run away together, and start a new life in France," for that was where I had planned to run to. I looked at him desperately.

"I can't," he said, bowing his head in defeat. "Hitler is a powerful man, and he will find me." I felt myself beginning to cry again. He stood up, and looked in the direction from which we had come.

"Can I just ask you one thing?" he asked. I nodded. He paused, "What's your name?"

"Gabriella," I said shakily. "Gabriella Rosenberg."

"Gabriella Rosenberg," he repeated under his breath. "I will remember that," he whispered. "And if we both live through this, I will find you again. Wait for me in France." He placed a hand on either side of my face, wiping my tears away with his thumbs.

I nodded, and kissed him one last time, and then he ran off into the darkness, back to the camp.

Twelve years later, I was sitting in a café in Paris. My fingers played with a locket at my throat. The locket contained a picture I had found in the paper a few years ago. It was of a boy named Friedrich Engel. He was a Nazi soldier in 1938. He died to save my life, and I would never forget it.