She finished in Yiddish, and whatever she said must have been a particularly heavy threat or weighty insult because the Jewish man raised an arm, but the Czech man grabbed it before he struck.

Hania didn’t flinch. Only nodded toward his clenched fist. “Go on, if you’d like to be reassigned to the road crew.”

The Jewish man didn’t move, but he seemed to reconsider. Hania leaned forward as far as his grip allowed and focused a murderous glare on him.

“Take your hands off me.”

He obeyed, even though he looked as if he wanted to close his hands around her throat.

The two men turned their backs on her and strolled past my hiding place. Once they’d made it a safe distance, they paused, and the Jew sent a withering glower over his shoulder.

“A khalerye, nafka.”

“A khalerye, yenta.”

As Hania watched the men go, I stared at her, frozen in my hiding place, but it wasn’t the frigid temperatures that prevented me from moving. At last I forced myself into motion and sprinted down the alley. I took a left behind the block and came up another alley between Blocks 13 and 14, slipping on ice and filthy snow as I went, then paused long enough to peer around the corner. Hania hadn’t moved, and she was holding a lit cigarette. Once inside Block 14, I rushed to my bunk and threw myself upon it. I steadied my breathing and pretended to study the various scrapes and bruises on my arms. A few minutes later, Hania arrived and smiled at me.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to take care of some things. Nothing important.” She waved a hand, brushing the matter aside as if the scene I’d witnessed had been a trivial inconvenience. “Let me show you what I brought, starting with cigarettes. I know you hate them, but most people covet them, so take some for trading purposes.”

While Hania went through her goods and we set up a chess game, I did my best to seem engaged, but I couldn’t shake the recollection of that small, arrogant smile she’d given the men. It was as though I had reached the endgame and ignored my father’s counsel: When few pieces remain on the board, the king’s activation is necessary. I had trusted her for no reason other than she had been kind, a woman, a friend; I had continued sheltering my king. A beginner’s mistake, one I should have known better than to make. In Auschwitz, trusting too freely could be the difference between life and death.

After running my numb finger along the dirty floor to redefine the grid lines, I moved one of my knights and closed my hand into a fist to fight the sudden tremor that overtook it. Maybe I could blame the trembling on the cold.