When Janina and I parted ways, I retraced my steps along the unpaved road, stumbling over jagged pieces of brick, rock, and rubble. I reached a large, deep puddle and moved closer to a pile of decomposing corpses. I kept my eyes on the cold, slick mud, seeking camouflaged limbs so I wouldn’t trip, and kicked muck at a rat in my path. My missile landed with a squelch, but it missed the rat, which rejoined its companions gnawing on the mass of blue-gray skeletal forms.

Upon reaching my brick barracks, I paused at the threshold and cast an envious glance over my shoulder, imagining that I could see three kilometers east, all the way to the main camp. Although Block 8 had been infested with fleas, it had level floors, latrines, and a water supply. This structure had none of those.

I shook off as much mud as possible, using the rain to my advantage, then utilized the raindrops to quench my ever-present thirst before going inside. Shivering and wiping off stray droplets, I skirted the rat lingering by the door and crossed the uneven floor toward the rows of wooden slats. When I reached my row, I climbed to the top bunk. The bunks didn’t leave enough space to do much besides lie flat, but I had a few centimeters to spare, even when I extended my legs. I hadn’t inherited Tata’s height.

I selected a piece of bread from my stash of organized goods and tore off a chunk. Despite the rain trickling through the roof, it was my favorite day of the week, because it was Sunday. On Sundays, we didn’t have to work.

I produced my camp letter form so I could compose another letter to Mrs. Sienkiewicz. Though I’d been afraid to write to resistance contacts, Irena’s fate had left me no choice. Before crafting my response, I read hers again.

Dear Maria,

Thank you for telling me about the deaths of my daughter and grandchild. While the news was devastating, I appreciated it coming from my daughter’s loving and trusted friend. It means so much to know she visited with you one last time. I’m glad you’re doing well, my dear. Please write again soon.

Best regards,

Wiktoria Sienkiewicz

A simple, safe letter. As a resistance member, Mrs. Sienkiewicz knew how to write letters that would pass the Nazi censorship office. I had a feeling she also knew that Irena didn’t die during a complicated childbirth and the baby wasn’t stillborn, as I’d said in the message I sent her following Irena’s death. Someday I’d relay the real story.

I killed the louse that found its way onto my arm, then I began writing. This time maybe I’d keep my tears from staining the pages and causing the ink to run.

Dear Mrs. Sienkiewicz,