“You know, Maria, if you’d ever like to transfer back to the Union Munitions Factory, we can arrange it,” she said by way of greeting.

“You’re the ones smuggling the gunpowder, not me,” I replied with a smile. “All I did was work there for a time to lend my support.”

“Which we appreciate, because we need those hiding it in the camp just as much as we need smugglers. But this time, instead of bringing you a capsule, I brought this.” She pressed a slip of paper into my palm, then we parted ways.

As I followed the kitchen kommando to my work detail, I clung to the tiny scrap, certain that I knew who had sent it. When the guards were distracted, I stole a peek at the paper, which contained two hastily scrawled words.

Front lines.

According to the date, Mateusz had written the note a few months prior, which meant he’d had some difficulty getting it to me. As he’d said, Pszczyna wasn’t far, but he sent or received letters only when he visited his parents’ bakery, so our exchanges had been infrequent. Although he hadn’t brought me many updates when we’d worked together, his presence had been a comfort, and I always knew he’d pass word along as soon as he received it.

I closed my hand around the paper and tucked it into my pocket. Anyone else would have been thrilled to hear that Fritzsch had been sent to the front lines. Not me. Had he been imprisoned, getting in touch with him would have been difficult but not impossible. He would have stayed in one place. Now his location was subject to constant change, and my plan to go to Flossenbürg after liberation was ruined.

Fritzsch couldn’t fall in battle. Not before I’d had my say.

When we reached the kitchen, I assumed my place at the sink to prepare for dishwashing, my typical morning assignment. I plunged my arms into hot soapy water, cleaning the ladles and large cauldrons that served our meager soup. If I blocked out the supervisors cursing and demanding we work faster, I could almost imagine I was washing dishes at home.

I was vigorously scrubbing a cauldron when a firm hand grabbed my collar and pulled me backward. Sometimes even my best efforts weren’t enough to escape a guard’s wrath. As I tensed and took a gasping breath, a contemptuous voice met my ears.

“You’re not working very hard.”

When the guard released me, I didn’t turn around, but something in her voice sparked my curiosity. It sounded familiar. She must have yelled at me before. The insults, curses, and slurs came from so many people that they started to run together.

A shove against my shoulder indicated the guard wasn’t finished with me. “Stupid bitch, look at me when I’m talking to you.”