“Listen to me. You can’t do this, Irena. I’ve already lost everyone I love, and I won’t lose you, too. Not a second time.”

There was an unusual amount of emotion in her resilient gaze, but, when she spoke, her voice remained level and unyielding. “Then we’d better make damn sure we both get out of here alive.”

I’d dreamt of freedom for so long. I’d promised myself I would attain it; I’d lived and fought for it, for myself and my family and Father Kolbe, but now I dared to believe it could happen. Something rolled down my cheek, and I touched it. A single tear. I stared at the moisture against my dirty fingertip. My fingernail was cracked and broken, skin torn and calloused, each groove and crevice coated in grime, yet there it was, the first droplet in years, sitting atop the filth, clear and pristine.

“Good Lord.”

I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed hearing Irena’s favorite complaint, and I laughed and blinked back the tears. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say.”

“You should be cursing your bad luck, because Frieda Lichtenberg has officially made Prisoner 16671 her target. And Frieda is a real bitch.”

Unable to speak, I pulled her into a tight embrace, and she wrapped long arms around my emaciated frame. It took me only a moment to remember that I was filthy beyond comprehension and covered in lice, fleas, and God knew what else. I hastily released her and stepped away.

Surely Irena knew why I was hesitating. But she guided me back into her arms.

It was the first time I’d embraced anyone other than Hania in more than two years. The last time had also been Irena. Right before her intended execution.

My body was starving, yet my soul was starving even more. Starving for kindness, compassion, love, everything I once took for granted. Raw hunger never ceased to gnaw at me, but the hunger for human affection was a sharp ache that pierced me to the depths of my being. One simple gesture was all it took to alleviate the agony. And in this moment, this one moment, the hunger within my soul was satiated.

* * *

No prisoners were transferred to Block 25 all day, so I spent my time alone and attempted to comprehend what had happened. Irena was alive. She had a daughter. And she was risking everything to help me escape.

She slipped me some bread and sausage at lunchtime—food from the SS supply, a rare delicacy—but she didn’t linger. Seeing her a second time was enough to remind me that the day’s events had been real.