February 14. 1349. Strasbourg.
France.

My name is Mireille Marchaut. I am, and will remain, 19 years of
 age.

Why do I write this?
It is because today I know I will die, and feel too young to be forgotten.

There is no one to protect me.
Even the pope himself cannot control these people here.
I am more frightened even than when the terror of the Black Death tore my
beloved husband and babies from me.
That, too, they say is our fault; we poison their wells.
But Arnaud, my husband, was a respected Frenchman. He was of their faith. Could
he have saved us?

Father has his confidants, but no word comes from them today.
Perhaps already they have been arrested, or left the city. It is too late for us. Besides, we have
nowhere to go. Many of us hide here in this chateau cellar, but they will find
us. I already hear the shouting of the mob from above. Father is old and
suffers so, but his mind is keen. He told them the falling corn prices are not
his fault, but people do not listen.

Yesterday, in the square, a child spat and kicked out at me and his
mother laughed. She spat also and threw a stone at my head.
They hate us.
They believe we murder their children.
Ignorant fools.

My head hurts. The cut was deep. It is letting in daemons, I am
certain.
I had a vision of a girl I do not know.
Her face glowed and she dressed strangely.
I believe she may be a spirit come to claim me.
Yet she did not seem frightening.

Am I mad? I believe so. Father thinks it is just fear that addles my
mind. I wish to beg her to save us. Save just one.

Save me.

I will hide this parchment in the back of my mother’s hairbrush.
Even though they will steal it after I am gone, the note may not be found
instantly and, one day, someone will remember what happened here.

They are coming!
Solomon said that they are lighting bonfires in the cemetery.
People are screaming!

No!
Not to be burned to death!

I am Mireille Marchaut. Nineteen years old. And I am a Jew.