“That’s because you won’t let me teach you how to play.” I attempted to tug a curl again, but she slapped my hand away and darted out of reach.

“I’ll play chess with you, Maria. Zofia, you can set up Monopoly,” Mama said. A few years before the war, my father had returned from a trip to Germany and surprised us with the game, an American import; ever since, it had been my sister’s favorite.

We parted ways. As Mama and I sidestepped patches of snow and ice, we passed apartments and shops that had survived the bombings, but gaping holes indicated less fortunate buildings. Nazi propaganda contaminated every wall and storefront, and each bloodred poster featured a loathsome black swastika against a white circle. A street vendor offered Mama a brooch from his collection of trinkets, but she politely declined without slowing her pace.

Once inside a small gray apartment building in the Mokotów district, we discreetly followed a narrow hallway covered in cheerful yellow paint. Mama rushed to the last door on the right, knocked three times, waited, and knocked twice more. An unusual pattern, one I hadn’t heard her use before. A short woman opened the door, and Mama shoved me inside.

Though I’d learned that Mrs. Sienkiewicz was a prominent resistance figure, it was difficult to grasp because I knew her as my mother’s friend. She welcomed us with a beaming smile and fresh ersatz tea. I drank mine to be polite, though I wished the unpleasant mixture were real tea. I sat next to Mama on the sofa and studied a large portrait over the mantel. It depicted Mrs. Sienkiewicz and her late husband on their wedding day—she in a beautiful white lace dress, he in a decorated Polish army uniform.

“This is dangerous work, Maria, as I’m sure you understand,” Mrs. Sienkiewicz said. “Until you’re familiar with what we do, you’ll have a companion at all times.”

That was the last thing I’d expected to hear. Mama eyed me with disapproval, probably warning me not to look so sullen. At least the arrangement was temporary, and I supposed it would be beneficial to learn from someone. Once I’d proved myself, I could work alone. Mrs. Sienkiewicz disappeared to fetch my companion. She returned with her daughter.

Irena stepped into the room behind her mother and frowned at the sight of me. “Shit.”

Not quite the reaction I was hoping for from a colleague, but not unexpected when that colleague was Irena.

Mrs. Sienkiewicz grabbed her daughter’s forearm. “Language.”

I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t share Irena’s feelings; the idea of working with her didn’t appeal to me, either. Irena had always acted as if our three-year age difference were three hundred, even prior to the war, when we’d sat through endless dinners with our parents. She listened while the adults expressed fears that war was brewing, discussed Nazi Germany’s Anschluss, a plan to unify with Austria; I, eleven years old at the time, hated the thought of my father returning to military service, though he insisted it was impossible for him to fight. I had no reason to fear he would be sent away, where he might be injured again. Despite his reassurances, the incessant talk of increasing strife in Europe always prompted me to escape to my chessboard.