Another guard patrolled ahead, eyes narrowed, shoulders stiff as she paced back and forth, tapping her riding crop against her thigh, as if eager to use it. Her opportunity arose when one prisoner shivered. The young guard was the more promising choice. I slipped an item from my pocket and waited for the strict guard to march to the front, away from me.

“Frau Aufseherin.”

My whisper startled the young woman, but, before she could silence me, she noticed the gold bracelet in my palm. I closed my hand into a fist. A glimpse was all it took. Gradually she stepped closer, and I spoke without turning my head.

“Prisoner 15177 is in the selection. She’s in line now, ten prisoners from the front. Make sure she isn’t chosen.”

The guard dipped her head in a discreet nod, then snatched the bracelet from my extended hand. Tucking it into her pocket, she moved toward the men conducting the selection. She took her time, as if with no particular purpose in mind. She exchanged a few words with various guards and approached an SS man who clutched a handful of documents. As they conversed, she whispered into his ear. Her hand lingered on his arm a bit longer than necessary, and she left him with a coy smile before returning to her place beside me.

When it was Hania’s turn, she stood before the same man. She extended her arms to the side, and he jerked his thumb to the right, sparing her. As she joined her group, Hania’s gaze found me across the snow-covered ground, her blue lips twitching into a faint, appreciative smile, as she likely suspected what I’d done.

“I have another bracelet identical to the first, Frau Aufseherin,” I whispered. “If you’ll bring me a loaf of bread, it’s yours.”

“Tonight,” she muttered. She moved away before anyone caught us speaking.

I relished my success and blinked to clear the snowflakes obscuring my vision. Bartering with guards was a risk, but I was willing to take it.

When the selection was finished, the guards shoved the condemned into a truck. It roared to life and hauled them away, never to bring them back, while the rest of us marched to our labor assignments. Surrounded by vicious dogs, SS guards on horseback and on foot, and my fellow inmates, I followed my kommando across the frozen, snowy ground until we reached the basket-weaving workshop.

Each day in the workshop was as monotonous as the last, though far better than Block 11. It wasn’t the worst job, but my fingers were made for chess, not meticulous weaving. Sometimes as I worked, I imagined twisting Zofia’s hair into the basket patterns instead of our usual braids, though the mental images were always accompanied by a heavy ache.