“Will you listen to my Yiddish? I’ve been practicing.”

“Oy vey, if I must, but my head hurts enough as it is.”

I narrowed my eyes in mock reproach, but a new voice wiped Hania’s smirk away.

“Prisoner 15177.”

Over her shoulder, I glimpsed Protz standing between the lines of prisoners. Hania muttered a Yiddish curse, so quiet that I was probably the only one who heard. I opened my mouth, though nothing I said would have convinced Protz to leave her alone, but a tiny shake of her head made me close it.

“We’ll practice Yiddish some other time,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and took a small breath, then she squared her shoulders and followed Protz out of the block. Once Hania was gone, I swallowed the lump in my throat and faced the line.

The hours ticked by until it was finally my turn. The tattooist placed my left forearm on the table. When his needle pricked my skin, I automatically pulled away, but he held me steady, despite a brief, apologetic glance. Guards stood near, and I had no choice but to yield, so I clamped my teeth together and tried to remain still while my fellow prisoner worked. The needle’s sharp point injected blue-black ink into my skin, and I watched in numb silence. Worse than the pain was the knowledge of what it would leave behind.

When the process was complete, 16671 was forever branded into my skin. It lined up perfectly beneath my five cigarette-burn scars.

Following orders, I exited Block 26 to wait for the other women before returning to Birkenau. As I fretted over whether or not Protz had let Hania go yet, movement near Block 20, one of the hospital blocks, drew my focus. Pilecki motioned from the shadows of the building. After making sure no guards were watching, I hurried to meet him.

“It’s time for me to finish my report and speak to the Home Army about the attack,” he said as I reached him. “I’m getting out tonight.”

“You’re escaping?”

“Through the bakery in town during my night shift. I got myself admitted to the hospital a couple days ago and was informally discharged today. Those in my block think I’m still sick, but I switched to the bakery kommando and reported to Block 15 instead of my own.” He flashed a sly smile.

“If you have trouble at the bakery, the owner’s son is my friend Mateusz. They’re on our side.” A guard’s distant shout reached my ears, so I moved deeper into the shadows to avoid detection before continuing. “And tell the Home Army when the time to fight comes, we’ll be ready.”