I WOKE TO THE sound of familiar voices raspy and hoarse from constant yelling. The SS-Helferin—the female guards. As I lifted my head—not too high so I wouldn’t hit the roof—I blinked to clear my vision, but the darkness lingered.

“Oy, what now, a selection?” Hania’s voice was heavy with sleep while our two bunkmates hurried to the ground. “Didn’t we have one a few days ago?”

I shrugged and offered her the pale pink lipstick I’d organized a few months ago to bring more life into our pallid complexions, our secret weapon against selections. We dabbed our lips and cheeks—just a little so as not to be obvious to the guards or wasteful of such a precious resource—then blended it in. The hue was light and natural. I removed Irena’s crucifix from my neck and tucked it into the pocket with Father Kolbe’s rosary, making sure the button was secured so the items wouldn’t fall out. Once satisfied, I followed Hania and the other women outside.

As the biting wind cut through my thin uniform, I dreaded the thought of taking it off in a few short minutes. It was hard enough to pass as fit for labor when the weather was nice, but worse on days like this one, when we’d be nude in fresh snow while the SS men looked us over. The smallest flaw could get a häftling sent to the gas chamber, where inmates were murdered in massive numbers before their bodies were cremated. The last selection had ruled in Hania’s and my favor, but this was a new day. Nothing was guaranteed.

“Watch out for the Beast,” Hania whispered as we trudged through the snow and fell into line.

The head of Birkenau’s female camp, Lagerführerin Maria Mandel, stood with our guards. As a macabre joke, Hania and I had dubbed her the Beast because the bitch was too vicious to be human, but somehow the name caught on. It was all over the camp, spreading from prisoner to prisoner as easily as the ashes from the crematoria spread on a breeze. As we assumed formation, Mandel cursed and beat any woman within reach. Her usual tight updo secured her hair away from her wide forehead, and her eyes were wild and bloodshot beneath heavy brows. Mandel was the Fritzsch of the women’s camp, and she was almost as bad as he had been.