WINTER IN AUSCHWITZ was a vicious beast. I’d never been as cold as I’d been these past few months. When it became unbearable, I thought of evenings spent drinking hot tea in our cozy apartment on Bałuckiego Street while playing chess against Mama and Tata or Monopoly and checkers with Zofia and Karol. Memories warmed me as no fire ever could.

Early one evening, during free time, Hania and I walked through the camp while snow fell around us and transported me to wintry family outings at Park Dreszera. The ARBEIT MACHT FREI sign above the main gate was quick to remind me that I wasn’t in Warsaw. To its right, four bodies dangled, stiff from death and cold and covered in a dusting of snow. Hanged for attempting escape, left on gruesome display to deter anyone brave enough—or foolish enough—to follow their example.

I swung my arms at my sides, and my fingers bumped into Father Kolbe’s rosary. I let my hand linger. Hania noticed my fingers brushing over the hidden pocket and offered me a small smile. She didn’t know what I’d witnessed the day of Father Kolbe’s execution, but she knew I always kept his rosary close.

“Maria, was it your idea to take a walk?” As I turned my head to acknowledge Hania’s younger brother, Izaak puffed on the last of his cigarette, tossed it into the snow, and pulled his collar up for more protection from the icy wind. “You’d be the only one crazy enough to suggest going out in this weather.”

In response, I scooped up a handful of snow and hit him squarely in the chest. Izaak retaliated, but I darted behind Hania, so his snowball found her instead. She cursed in Yiddish while he and I laughed, then she eyed us with disapproval before flicking snow off her shoulder.

Izaak pointed an accusatory finger at me. “She started it.”

“You’re the one who hit Hania,” I replied. “Checkmate.”

Before I could launch my next missile, Hania knocked the snow out of my hands. “Enough, kinderlach.”

“Truce, Maria?” Izaak asked. “My sister is no fun.”

Giggling, I nodded, and Hania and Izaak continued bantering in Yiddish and Czech. Listening to them reminded me of tugging on Zofia’s curls or scooping Karol into my arms and kissing his cheek before he could run away.

Thoughts of my family reminded me of finding them outside Block 11, of the chess game that had taken place shortly after I joined the resistance. A memory so fierce it pulled me from this frigid day and shoved me into the roll-call square on that warm summer evening.