On a warm summer morning, I hurried from Block 8 and made my way to roll call. Block 8 had become my residence in March, when transports of women started arriving, and the guards had transferred us to our own set of blocks separated from the men’s by a concrete wall. As I walked, I checked my sleeve to make sure the tiny nick in my arm wasn’t bleeding through my uniform. Hania had managed to obtain typhus vaccines for me, herself, and Izaak, equipping us to fight the epidemic, which worsened every day. She’d assured me that she’d come by the vaccines honestly, but I suspected empty threats had been involved—though she wouldn’t admit they were empty or that the SS men were unaware she used their names to protect herself. She’d woven an intricate web, and it wouldn’t come apart until she gave the word.

Following roll call, I walked with my kommando to Block 11 and resisted the urge to scratch my upper back. It was probably a flea bite. Fleas had taken a liking to the women’s blocks. When the itching became unbearable, I succumbed and gave it a quick rub, and my fingers passed over a hard lump of skin. One of my flogging scars. I moved toward the secret skirt pocket with my rosary while a wistful smile played around my lips. Father Kolbe.

The smile disappeared as I entered Block 11. The first wave of victims for the day would be executed soon: prisoners who had been caught participating in the camp resistance, or underground resistance members who had been sent here simply for death. As I walked down the hall toward the women’s washroom, I passed a few rooms outfitted as barracks. Inside, civilians were being held, awaiting trial. I didn’t know why the SS men bothered putting anyone on trial. They sentenced almost everyone to death anyway.

Ahead, I glimpsed shorn, dark hair beneath a headscarf, and I craned my neck to get a better view as the owner navigated the hallway. When the female prisoner approached, my hopes deflated. Not Hania. For her sake, I was glad she wasn’t translating for trials or interrogations today. Given the torture she was forced to witness, she hated working in Block 11. For my own sake, though, I wished it had been her.

When I reached the small washroom, I paused in the hallway. Focus, I told myself, repeating the mantra I recited prior to every workday. Focus on living. Fighting. Surviving.

But no amount of focus could take away my shock when Irena Sienkiewicz walked into Block 11.