It was her; it was unmistakably her. She looked exactly as I remembered, though more haggard because she would have just come from Pawiak—and I knew how that felt. She was still dressed in civilian clothing, and she lifted her chin with her usual defiance, but her eyes roamed, quick and uncertain. The guards directed some political prisoners into the courtroom or a holding room; then they sent others in my direction, including Irena. As she followed the crowd, she didn’t notice me, so I hurried to meet her.

“Irena Sienkiewicz? Or should I say Marta Naganowska, so you won’t yell at me for using your real name in front of the SS men?”

She stepped back and stared at me, but, as her wary gaze drifted from my face to my prisoner number and back, my words must have triggered recognition. Her eyes widened, then she grinned and shook her head. “Dammit, Maria. You’re alive.”

Never did I think I’d take comfort in hearing Irena swear at me, but it almost brought tears to my eyes. As much as I hated that she was here, I couldn’t help how thrilled I was to see her. After all this time—

The thought stopped short. Irena had been sent to the women’s washroom, the last stop before the courtyard. And no one sent to the courtyard emerged alive.

Yes, she was a woman, but she was young and healthy, and usually the young, healthy women were kept for labor. Why hadn’t they kept her for labor? When I noticed her swollen stomach, the answer was clear.

“Irena, you’re pregnant.”

“Am I? I had no idea.”

We followed the other women into the washroom, and a passing SS man ordered them to undress. While Irena did so, I mechanically accepted various articles of clothing the other women handed me. Once undressed, the women left the room or moved into the adjoining one to use the latrines.

“The baby’s father?” I asked at last.