The weeks passed slowly, turning into months, the feeling of hope I had previously clung to fading faster than my body weight.
     Every day, I was taken in to be interrogated and tortured, but it had recently turned to scientific experimentation. I would sit chained to a wall railing for hours after being injected with various drugs and serums, watched closely by doctors taking notes on the effects. Sometimes, I could hear the screams of others being experimented on and remind myself it could be worse. At least they were poisoning me, not cutting me open.
     The hysteria and feelings of panicked desperation that had once filled my heart with terror were gone, replaced with despair and numbness. I knew I was never coming home.
     "Hey," one of my bunkmates, Clara, said as I rolled over with a grunt one morning after a long night of experiments, "I'm glad you're awake. Do you feel alright?"
     "I'm fine. Do you need something?"
     Clara was a French Jew, and we had become close since she arrived a few weeks ago. She knew I was American—everyone did—but only knew me by the name Anne-Laure, clinging to me for the first few days she was here as though her life depended on it. It had recently seemed like it was the other way around.
     "I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You looked like you were in a lot of pain yesterday when you came in. Have you eaten?"
     I shook my head and she rolled off the bunk. "I'll see if I can find something."
     The sound of a train's squealing brakes outside the gates echoed through the barracks, and everyone exchanged worried glances. There had been a number of trains that had come to take people to German camps recently, and we could only hope this would be one to bring people in, not out.
     A little while later, Clara returned with empty hands. "I'm sorry," she sighed, "no one seems to be in a very charitable mood."
     I waved a hand and sat up to face her, trying to smile. "Don't worry about me; I ate yesterday so I'll be alright for a while. Come on, let's talk about something—"
The door flew open violently, sending the screams of SS guards into the murmuring barrack. A group of eight men staggered in reluctantly, obviously hit by the odor of the place.
"Schnell!" one of the guards said, shoving them inside before retreating from the smell himself.
     I squinted at the men as they tentatively made their way through the bunks, obviously terrified. The color in their cheeks, the wide-eyed expressions they held, and the muscles they still had were typical of new prisoners, but they seemed different—more passionate. Perhaps they were French resistance members.
The atmosphere quickly went back to its normal chaos, losing interest in the new members of barrack A2.
     A woman in one of the bunks across from me leaned over and threw up violently onto the floor. I groaned as I climbed out of bed towards her, putting a hand on her back and wiping stray hair from her face.
     "Are you alright?"
     She tried to answer but threw up once again, just barely missing my already-stained prison uniform. She had a high fever.
     "You need to go to the infirmary. Come on, I'll help you—"
     "No," she said in a strangled voice, "I can't go there. I can't go."
     "I know they aren't great, but maybe you can get some medicine-"
     She shook her head desperately. "You don't understand. I can't go to the infirmary."
     Pulling away the blanket, the woman revealed her pregnant stomach and my heart sank. She was right. Pregnant women were experimented on as soon as they were found out, and this woman had obviously done a good job of hiding it.
     "Please don't tell."
     "I won't. What is your name? How far along are you?"
     "My name is Adrienne. I'm at least eight months. I don't know what I'm going to do when the child is born—if I survive long enough."
     I couldn't help but gasp at how close she was to giving birth. If that was the case, she was not experiencing sickness that comes with the early stages; she was truly sick. And there was nothing I could do.
     "I'm Anne-Laure. You'll be okay; I'll help you deliver the baby if it comes to it."
     "Thank you. Thank you so much. You're the girl that gets called up by the officers every day, right?"
      I nodded, swallowing hard.
     "What do they do to you?" she asked, "If you don't mind me asking."
     "Mostly experimentation. Usually they'll give me a drug they're trying out, chain me to a railing and let me suffer with the effects for a few hours, and then either make me vomit the drugs back up or give me a reversal injection."
     "And you're still alive?"
     "I've come close to death more than you know. I don't think it'll be much longer until my body catches up to me."
     "You're so brave."
     I tensed at the statement, turning away with a false smile. 
     "Let me know if you need anything."
     I went back to my place on my bed and sighed, despairing over being called brave. I was anything but brave. I was surviving.
     Thomas, a nine-year old French boy I had grown fond of, bounded over to me and put a sickly hand to the tarnished necklace around my throat.
"Das ist—" he hesitated and asked in French, "How do you say 'this is beautiful' in German?"
"Das ist Schön." I answered with a small smile, "Merci."
     I had been tutoring a few adult prisoners in English during the long days. At night, I taught Thomas the German words he heard from the SS officers so he would be able to understand their orders. He had been beaten severely for not understanding them, and I began teaching him while treating his concussion a few weeks ago.
"Come sit with me before I have to go," I told him, trying not to think about the terrors the day might hold.
He pulled himself up onto the bunk with me and plucked a large bug from the thin blanket before sliding next to me.
"Will you sing?" he asked me softly, looking up with bright, sunken blue eyes. Everyone always wanted to hear me sing—even though I could barely carry a simple tune. I didn't mind the requests; I welcomed any opportunity to take our minds off of our suffering.
"I suppose, but I'll warn you," I patted a hand on my chest, "My throat is a little hoarse." I didn't mention that it was from screaming in agony the night before.
"Would you like me to sing something in French? Or German?"
"English."
I smirked and raised my eyebrows at his strange request. "Don't you want to know the song?"
"I'll learn it once you sing it."
With a sigh, I pulled him close to my chest and began singing "The Very Thought of You," the song Benjamin and I danced to the first night I came back to America.
I skipped to the second verse of Billie Holiday's version, the one that I resonated with the most. Tears streamed down my face, and I thought about how unlikely it was that I'd ever dance with Benjamin again.

The mere idea of you
the longing here for you
you'll never know
how slow the moments go
'till i'm near to you.
I see your face in every flower,
your eyes in stars above.
it's just the thought of you,
the very thought of you, my love

One of the men who had just arrived in the barracks approached me warily. I tried to ignore him, assuming he was there to beg for extra food.
"I like that song," Thomas said in French, oblivious to the new prisoner's intense concentration on us.
     "I'm glad," I replied, hugging him tightly, "It's my husband's favorite song. I wish I could dance with him one more time."
The man tentatively raised a hand to get my attention, seeming to regret it at soon as I looked at him.
     "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" I asked, assuming he was a Frenchman. What's wrong?
"I'm sorry to disturb you," he stammered, "but I heard you singing and I thought you were—"
     My expression faltered when I recognized his language. He spoke perfect English.
"Who are you?" I asked incredulously in English, sitting up in the bunk. Clara glanced up at me with raised eyebrows, understanding enough English to know the general conversation subject.
"Lieutenant Albert Williams, United States Army Air Force. Are you with the English Red-Cross?"
"I'm American."
He took a step back in surprise and looked around. "Why are you here? Who do you work for?"
Hesitating a little, I tentatively answered, "I—well, I'm a First Officer in the Women's Air Force Service Pilots."
It was mostly true; I still held the rank of a First Officer but I was no longer active in that position. I was a full-time agent and case officer for the OSS.
"You're a WASP? I don't think they send women to France, Ma'am; I don't understand. What is your name?"
"You can call me Anne-Laure. Or just Anne, if you'd like."
He pursed his lips and seemed to be examining me closely. I felt self-conscious about my dirty, bloodstained clothing and sunken face.
"I can 'call you' Anne-Laure?" he questioned, "Is that not your real name?"
I was getting very tired of his interrogation, so I replied, "It's the only name you need to know for now, Lieutenant. Are you with a group here? I'm assuming you crashed or were shot down."
He nodded. "There's eight out of eleven of us that survived our crash. Colonel Armstrong is over there; he's the leader of the 97th Bomb Group. I'll introduce you to him."
I limped out of the bunk and followed him to the other side of the barrack, stepping over dying people covered in vomit, blood, and urine. Rats were literally eating one man alive.
Thomas and Clara watched me with interest, and I gave them a glance of amusement when I looked back. Meeting more Americans had made my miserable week a little better, but it was certainly unexpected.
"Colonel," Lieutenant Williams said when we reached a stout man with the lines of stress around his eyes, "this woman is an American. First Officer Anne-Laure."
The colonel raised his eyebrows, obviously taken aback by the fact that the emaciated young woman in front of him was from the United States. I barely looked like a human, let alone like one of the beaming girls in the victory posters plastered all over the home front.
"You can just call me Anne. I'm glad to meet you, sir, despite the circumstances."
Albert Williams glanced at me, obviously trying to figure out the reason I was giving this French name.
     "How long have you been here?" the colonel asked with concern, eyeing the giant lice bites on my head and the bruises on my forearms from constant injections.
     "Two months, I think. They probably will not be so cruel to all of you; I don't want you all to look at me and be afraid to end up like me."
     I surprised myself with how calm and even cheerful I sounded, as though I didn't despair over my life every night and live through torture every day.
      "Do you have any news on the war?" I asked the men, all eight of them now watching me with wide eyes. I could tell many of them had been crying.
     "Well," one man piped up, "we liberated Guam a few days ago—on August 10th, I think."
     "I didn't even know we had landed on Guam," I said, to their amusement.
     Just as a I was about to ask the details of their capture, the barrack door flew open and they called for me, Prisoner 182.
     "I have to go," I breathed, the sinking feeling of dread falling into my stomach, "I will probably be back tonight. It was wonderful to meet—"
     "Where are they taking you?" the colonel asked, looking outraged at the harsh-sounding SS officers standing at the doorway.
     "It's fine. Don't worry about me. I'll be back. I'll be back."
     As I followed the guards outside, I thought about what they said. If August 10th was a few days ago, August 15th—the day Operation Dragoon and the invasion of Marseille were scheduled to begin—would be any moment now. That is, if it was still going to happen.
     The thought filled me with terror and excitement. If Benjamin was still in Marseille, he would be in danger of bombing, or even counterattacks by the Germans. But the Allies would probably win, and the city would be liberated, meaning safety for Ben.
     Still, the liberation of Marseille, a port city, would probably have no effect on Compiègne Internment Camp, just north of Paris. It may even cause the Germans in charge of the camp to send us deeper into Nazi territory where there would be no hope of escape or liberation.
     The guards shoved me into the building I went to every day, but brought me into a room far down the long hallway—one I had never seen before.
     The room ended up to be more like a warehouse, with corrugated metal roofing and concrete floors, and two giant pools of water in the middle separated by a plexiglass wall. That was the part that terrified me.
     There was another woman being brought into the warehouse as I was handcuffed to the wall, but she could barely walk because of how starved she was.
More soldiers and scientists arrived as the minutes passed, and one of them approached with his arms full of a German airmen's flying suit, complete with fur-lined boots and a leather helmet.
     "Put this on," he demanded, throwing them at my feet and uncuffing me from the railing.
I furrowed my eyebrows, running my hand along the expensive black leather jacket that would have made Benjamin green with envy.  
     The other woman was given an identical uniform and made the mistake of asking the guards why she was supposed to put it on, and they knocked her to the floor. I donned the heavy clothing without a sound.
     They led us to the edge of the 15-foot deep 'pool,' and it was then that I realized the severity of this situation. Their goal was to drown us.
     Dragging me towards the edge, the guards cuffed me by the ankle to a iron chain that reached all the way to the bottom of the tank, doing the same to the other woman in the similar tank.
     A group of doctors swarmed me with instruments, taking my heart rate, blood pressure, a small blood sample, and my body temperature. I could barely breathe for fear of crying, but I knew I had to be calm for the other girl who was much more terrified than I was.
     One of the scientists approached me with a large needle in his hand and stuck it roughly into my spine. I cried out in pain, and I noticed the woman beside me received no such injection.
     "Go ahead," the scientist said in German, standing back up.
     Suddenly, both of the chains were pulled tight, and we were both jerked into the water by our legs until we were just barely able to keep our heads above the water.
     I involuntarily gasped when the water temperature hit me—it was far below freezing.
     Trying to think about the little training I had received in cold shock response, I did everything I could to stay afloat despite the chain pulling me down and the heavy flight suit I was wearing.
      It was then that I understood what the purpose of the experiment was. We were the test dummies for the Luftwaffe fighter pilots who landed in freezing water. Whatever was in the injection I received was being tested to see if I would survive longer with it than the woman without it. I felt sick.
    I gasped for air as I attempted to keep myself up, crying out as my muscles tensed from the cold.
     "Help me!" I heard the other girl scream in French, flailing desperately on the other side of the plexiglass. The scientists stood at the edge of the pool, taking notes furiously and glancing at the two of us with nothing but scholarly interest.
     I felt terrible that Benjamin would never know what happened to me. I had kissed him hurriedly in our apartment, thinking only that it would be goodbye for a week—at the most.
     Now I would die wearing a Nazi uniform, and Benjamin would live the rest of his life wondering what happened to his Duchess girl.
     One of the scientists checked a stopwatch and wrote something down, confirming my suspicions. They were going to leave us in here until we both drowned, and then probably send for two more victims to die in the same way. I wondered how many had drowned before me in this very tank.
  The minutes dragged on, my body growing weaker and weaker. My head was aching and I felt dizzy and nauseous—despite the fact that the freezing water should have made me almost unable to focus on anything but swimming.
     In addition, sweat began to pour from my skin despite my shivering muscles. Something was wrong.
     The girl beside me made brief eye contact with me and she seemed to gasp, "I don't want to die yet."
     Suddenly, a Nazi officer burst into the warehouse room with wide eyes, carrying a telephone with a stretched cord in his hands.
"The enemy has invaded."

GERMAN & FRENCH WORDS:
Schnell- Hurry (German)
Das ist schön- This is beautiful (German)
Merci- Thank you (French...everyone knows this one right??)

What up y'all I'm back hehe I'm back at home home from a month of traveling (I went on a mission trip to Costa Rica, a mission trip to Charleston, SC right after, and then a trip to visit family in New Jersey and NYC so I am TIRED OUT) so sorry it's taken so long but this is an exciting part so hopefully I'll be extra motivated to write the next part soon

ALSO shoutout to DeathbyDeathAKAMe who is STILL the best editor out there and we are going on at least a year and a half ?? I think ?? Of her being the best and giving me ideas and editing stuff!!! She's literally the reason I didn't stop Of Wildflowers and Gunpowder at chapter 5 and that's stinking amazing