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it carelessness, getting pregnant. But it was bound to happen sooner or later. I always hoped to become a mother before I died.

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Dear Diary,
It has been four months since I last wrote. In that time, I've managed to steal enough food for myself and the child. Just enough. The hunger has doubled. It's unbearable now, this yanking of strings, it feels, in my stomach. I think I'm showing now. My stomach sticks out a little more than it used to. I'm also becoming weaker. In the mornings I feel sick. My body tries to vomit, though not much usually comes out. I don't want to have to deal with this much longer; this torture that doesn't have to be, that wouldn't be if I weren't careless. I'm just worried for when the soldiers notice I'm the only plump Jew in the camp. Such futile strife! I wish I could just end it, but I can't. If I went up to them and asked them nicely to kill me, they might. What am I saying? Oh, I give up. I'm going to tell Aaron. I'm sure he won't be angry with me, but he won't be pleased.
This is the last thing he needs to hear. He too is becoming sick of life; has mentioned death and murder, plans of escape, any solution he can think of. But all will fail badly, I fear. So shall I in time.