“You’re certain it was Fritzsch? And you’re certain he saw my family?”

Oskar nodded. “He spoke to them.” He opened his mouth again, then closed it. “Do you want to hear this?”

I nodded. “Please keep going.”

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he replied. “After Fritzsch went back into the hall, Natalia spoke to her husband, then she went after him. Like I said, I was intrigued, so I followed at a distance. I didn’t hear their whole conversation, but I heard the last thing Fritzsch said before—”

“What did he say?”

Oskar’s face fell. His chair groaned in protest as he shifted position, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d rather not repeat it.”

“What did Fritzsch say to her?” I asked with as much force as I could muster. “Tell me his exact words.”

Oskar took a deep breath and ran his thumb across a nick in the table. “He smiled, then he said, ‘I’m not doing a damn thing for your children, you filthy Polack bitch.’”

The words hung heavy between us, and I bit my bottom lip until I tasted blood. I was certain my parents had realized what fate awaited them, and their first thoughts would have been how to spare their children. They would have agreed that Mama should talk to Fritzsch, though Tata would have hated for her to put herself through that. They had to die knowing they’d done everything they could. Mama would have offered Fritzsch anything, anything at all, to spare her children’s lives. Not her own, not even Tata’s. Just her children’s.

And Fritzsch would have delighted in her desperation before refusing her.

My parents had put forth their best efforts, but it wasn’t enough.

“Fritzsch sent her to the holding cell where they’d placed the rest of the family, and when it was time to go to the wall, they went together. He went out, too, and I stood at the far end of the courtyard. I don’t think the little boy was aware of what was happening. Your father was distracting him, but the girl—your sister, I suppose—looked panicked until your mother knelt beside her and said something. Then she calmed down. All four started speaking in Polish, and I couldn’t hear very well or understand it, but it didn’t sound as if they were voicing their patriotism, and they weren’t singing a Polish national anthem. Whatever they were saying sounded . . .” He seemed to search for the right word. “Comforting. Prayerful, even.”

My hand strayed toward the secret pocket in my uniform. They’d been praying the rosary.

“They held hands and faced the wall, and Fritzsch . . .” Oskar let his voice trail away.

“Fritzsch didn’t let the executioner do it,” I finished for him. “He killed them himself.”