The SS men were safe inside their guard towers, protecting themselves from the raging weather. When roll call was finished, I would have run to Block 11 if I hadn’t been required to march with SS escorts. As I stood in line, waiting for the order, Pilecki appeared beside me.

“Do you remember the day you were registered, when you spoke to a man removing bodies from the death wall?”

I dipped my head in a discreet nod.

“That prisoner is one of our recruits now, and I asked him if he knew anything about you or your family. He remembers speaking with you that day, and he remembers an SS officer who didn’t work in Block 11 often, but who was there when you approached the truck. He suggested you talk to him. The officer’s name is Untersturmführer Oskar Bähr. Middle aged, gray hair. He’s assigned to Block 11 today.”

I remembered noticing a middle-aged officer when I’d found my family. I opened my mouth to voice my thanks, but Pilecki had already melted into the crowd. When the SS men ordered us to Block 11, the members of my kommando pushed, shoved, and tripped over one another to get indoors.

During my reprieve from the horrible cold, I performed miscellaneous tasks and hunted for the gray-haired SS officer; at last I found him. He was stationed at the end of a small hallway leading outdoors to the courtyard, calm and observant, watching the condemned men file past him. His uniform indicated he was an Untersturmführer, as Pilecki had said, but, to ensure that he was the man I sought, I cast my mind back, pinpointing the other places I’d seen him. Father Kolbe’s cell for his execution. The roll-call square during my flogging. And the courtyard between Blocks 10 and 11 when I found my family.

Don’t be too hopeful. I can’t afford to be too hopeful.

Combatting my hopes was more difficult than I anticipated as I returned to work. The officer stayed near the washroom and courtyard all day. When it was over, the guards shouted for my kommando to line up outside. Ignoring the order, I rushed back to the hallway as the officer made his exit.

“Herr Untersturmführer, may I have a word with you?”

He paused, likely taken aback by my boldness, but before lowering my gaze I noticed his own held no anger as it assessed me. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“My family. They were sent to the wall in May of 1941. I saw you there that day, so I have reason to believe you—”

“I’ve seen thousands of people march to that wall,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Even if I’d seen your family, I wouldn’t remember them.”

When he turned to go, I grabbed his arm. “It’ll only take a moment.”

Oh, God, why did I touch an officer?