“No, but she spoke German like a native. She took my sons during curfew. Adam was sedated so he wouldn’t cry, and Jakub was so confused. He asked me why, why wasn’t I going with them, why was I sending them away, and I—” Hania broke off when her voice caught. “How was I supposed to explain it to him? Before I could say anything, Stanisława knelt down, held his hand, and said, ‘Jakub, listen to me. Your mother and father love you and Adam so, so much. Will you promise to be a brave little boy for them?’ That calmed him down. He nodded, and she never let go of his hand. That’s the last I saw of them.”

While Hania steadied herself, I considered everything she’d told me. It couldn’t be, but it had to be. There were too many similarities for my suspicions to be incorrect. I closed my eyes, and I could picture Mama kneeling before Jakub, holding his hand so he knew she was there, murmuring reassurance, while he focused on her, only her, not sorrow, distress, or pain. It was exactly what she’d done so many times for me and my siblings.

Now I imagined Mama kneeling in front of me, and I met her bright blue eyes and felt the warmth of her hands over mine. She took me away from the cold, hunger, and fear that constantly surrounded me in this place. I clung to her, seeking the clarification she’d already given me. A slight smile played on her lips while she stood and placed a gentle hand on my cheek.

Please don’t go, Mama.

I kept my eyes closed a moment more, clinging to warmth and peace, then opened them. Next to me, Hania was silent, lost in a world all her own.

“Stanisława Pilarczyk,” I whispered. “That’s who rescued your children, Hania.”

“Oy gevalt, you know her? Are you certain it’s the same woman?”

I nodded and ran my fingers over my cigarette-burn scars. “Her real name was Natalia Florkowska. She was my mother.” I took a shaky breath and met Hania’s incredulous gaze. “Which means I know how we can find your sons.”

Chapter 18

Auschwitz, 15 January 1942

DESPITE HOW MUCH I loathed working in Block 11, where so many innocents were sentenced to punishments and executions, it had its perks on some days. At least I was indoors most of the time.

During a vicious January morning’s appell, I stood as still as possible, teeth chattering, knees knocking, while the wind howled across the dark sky and snow and freezing rain pelted my emaciated form. When the häftling beside me collapsed, I kept my eyes forward and listened as his breaths weakened and then stopped.