When the workday ended, I sat on a bunk and peered through the bars on the window, watching as the women returned to camp. I stayed there until the door burst open, then I flipped onto my stomach, praying I’d remain undetected.

“Maria? Maria, where are you? First Izaak was transferred to the Sonderkommando, and now this—”

At the sound of the familiar, frantic whisper, I stuck my head out so Hania noticed me, and relief washed over her face. “Oy gevalt, shikse, I was so worried. I came as soon as I heard.”

I quickly climbed down from the bunk. “Izaak was transferred to the Sonderkommando?” I asked as she reached me. The name tasted of ash on my tongue. Those prisoners were condemned to work in the gas chambers and crematoria and forbidden to interact with others—and frequently liquidated to prevent them from revealing the horrors they saw. If the work was so awful that the rest of us were not permitted to know details, I couldn’t fathom what the Sonderkommando was required do.

“I was in the central office and saw the work record of inmates reassigned to Crematorium II, and his number was among them,” Hania said. “Oh, and these are for you.”

I opened my hand, suspecting what she’d brought. She pulled two small gunpowder capsules out of her mouth, smuggled to her from other resistance members who had gotten them from the women in the munitions factory. I’d pass them on to a woman in the clothing detail, another person in our long, complex chain. When the time to fight came, we’d be ready.

I grimaced as she dropped the wet capsules into my palm. “I always appreciate when you carry these in your mouth.”

“There are worse places.” A teasing grin accompanied the words while I tucked the capsules into my pocket, then it disappeared. “Here we are going on and on when we don’t have time to waste. I’ll get you out of here, I promise—”

The door swung open, cutting her words short. Gasping, she whirled toward the sound, and Irena stepped across the threshold.

At once, Hania moved in front of me. She would attempt a deal, as any prisoner might in such a desperate situation. To survive in this place was to depend on what others were willing to give in return. One prisoner might offer cigarettes for another’s medication. A kapo might grant a woman a morsel of bread in exchange for a quick favor—the kind that took place behind the block or in the darkened barracks after curfew. As for bartering with the guards, even a request for a life might be granted for a suitable price.

I had no time to tell Hania that negotiations would not be necessary; she was already speaking, her tone filled with the confidence and determination she always adopted in these instances.