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Dear Diary
I'm not going back to school after what happened today. That popular, stuck-up, Arian boy, Olev, came right up to me at lunch and said, "How's it going, Jew?" And he picked up my tray of food and spit in it. Then he dropped it back down in front of me. I stood, the anger boiling up inside of me. He just stood there and laughed, almost as if to say, "What are you going to do about it, you little Jew?" I tried to push him, but he grabbed me by the shoulders. The rage exploded. Without knowing what I was doing, I pushed away his hands and punched him repeatedly. Olev's six-foot form was on the ground. Still I attacked again and again; I hated him for not being a Jew, for not having to go through what I had to go through, for being an Arian, and therefore one of Hitler's children.
I stopped, regaining myself, catching my breath. Olev's eyes spilled forth tears and he scrambled away from me. His left eye was closed and swelling. His nose bled messily down his face. I stood slowly, half realizing what I had done, half aware of the crowd that now surrounded me.

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I looked down at my hands. Olev's blood, Arian blood covered my hands. I shook my head, my dark, innocent eyes now welling up with tears. I ran out of the school, crying. I will never be able to go back there again. But, still, my dear Johaan would tell me that I had accomplished something. That I had done what every Jew dreams of doing: taking revenge on an Arian. I still feel cold, a deeper, darker cold than before. I feel as guilty as Hitler himself.