Dedication

For Poppy: my grandfather, my godfather, and my biggest fan.

I love and miss you with all my heart.

Epigraph

“No one in the world can change Truth. What we can do and should do is to seek truth and to serve it when we have found it. The real conflict is the inner conflict. Beyond armies of occupation and the hecatombs of extermination camps, there are two irreconcilable enemies in the depth of every soul: good and evil, sin and love. And what use are the victories on the battlefield if we ourselves are defeated in our innermost personal selves?”

—St. Maksymilian Kolbe

Chapter 1

Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

THREE MONTHS AGO, I escaped the prison that held my body, but I haven’t found freedom from the one that holds my soul. It’s as if I never shed the blue-and-gray-striped uniform or set foot beyond the electrified barbed-wire fences. The liberation I seek requires escape of a different sort, one I can achieve only now that I’ve returned.

A drizzle falls around me, adding an eerie haze to the gray, foggy morning. Not unlike the first day I stood in this exact spot, staring at the dark metal sign beckoning me from the distance.

ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

I remove the letter from my small handbag and read over the words I’ve memorized, then pull the gun out and examine it. A Luger P08, just like the one my father kept as a trophy following the Great War. The one he’d taught me how to use.

I drop the handbag onto the wet ground, straighten my shirtwaist, and tuck the pistol into my skirt pocket. With each footstep against the gravel, the scent of fresh earth mingles with the rain, but I swear I detect traces of decaying corpses and smoke from cigarettes, guns, and the crematoria. Shuddering, I wrap my arms around my waist and take a breath to assure myself that the air is clean.

Once I pass through the gate, I stop. No curses, taunts, or slurs, no cracking whips or thudding clubs, no barking dogs, no tramping jackboots, no orchestra playing German marches.

Auschwitz is abandoned.

When the loud voice in my head deters me, the little whisper reminds me that this is the day I’ve awaited, and if I don’t see it through I may never have another chance. I continue down the empty street, past the kitchen and the camp brothel. Turn by Block 14 and come upon my destination, my hand against my other pocket to feel the rosary beads tucked inside.

The roll-call square. Our meeting place. And he’s already here.