The workshop was humid, thick with the stench of humans who hadn’t had a real bath in God knew how long. At the far end of the room, Pilecki was bent over his own basket. He’d transferred into the kommando a few days ago, which made it far more enjoyable for me. Toward the end of the day, I stationed myself next to him. We kept our eyes on our individual tasks while I updated him on the morning’s selection and the female guard willing to barter with me. He was particularly thrilled to hear I’d secured a whole loaf of bread, which I’d share among as many women as possible. I’d reserve a larger portion for Hania, but I wouldn’t tell her I’d tweaked the proportions.

“Any news from the main camp?” I asked, once my narrative was over.

“No updates on the war, but a friend of mine recently escaped through the sewers, so I sent a report with him. I plan on transferring to the parcel office soon. The SS men take the packages sent to dead prisoners, so we have to organize those goods before they do.”

Pilecki had an uncanny ability to secure the most advantageous labor assignments. Even without his numerous connections, his cleverness and confidence were enough to bend anyone to his will. He was in the basket-weaving kommando only because I worked here, and he wanted to spend time discussing the women’s resistance with me before relocating. Sometimes I thought Pilecki could have convinced Kommandant Höss himself to step down.

“Do you miss Warsaw, Tomasz?” I asked as I finished my basket. I was proud of myself for remembering his alias, even though I knew his real name. For some reason, calling him Tomasz was much easier than referring to Irena as Marta had been.

“I miss the city and my family, but I won’t go back until my work here is done.” Pilecki paused to inspect his basket. “And you, Maria? Will you return to Warsaw when we’re free?”

“Warsaw is home. I’d like to go back, but with my family gone, I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”

“You’ll establish a life for yourself beyond Auschwitz,” he replied as he set his finished basket aside; then we separated to avoid drawing suspicion.

A life beyond Auschwitz was what I’d imagined these past two years. It was an encouraging thought, but, as I pictured myself back in Warsaw, I couldn’t erase my family from the image. We were together, as we’d been before. It was a wonderful dream, but that was all it was. Survival was easier to fight for when all it required was living from one day to the next; when it required a new life in a place once familiar and reassuring, now devoid of loved ones, of security, of vivacity, of home, it felt impossible.