“Frau Aufseherin, in exchange for her release, I—” And then her voice broke, shattering her usual resolve as if her intended proposal had fled. Silence fell, broken only by a distant guard’s faint shout, before she went on in an unsteady whisper. “Please.”

Irena appeared too stricken to respond while I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. I placed a hand on Hania’s forearm. She glanced at me, her eyes dark with fear, desperation, as though unable to fathom two devastating blows—her brother’s reassignment, then my supposed imprisonment. With a small, reassuring smile, I gave her an appreciative squeeze before stepping forward to address Irena.

“We can trust Hania.”

Hania spun me around to face her. “You know a guard working both sides?”

“Not exactly,” I said with a laugh. “Meet Irena.”

At this, she looked at me as if I’d truly gone mad. “Your dead friend?”

“Right, I’m a fucking ghost. Can we go?” Irena moved toward the door; when I tried to follow, Hania caught my forearm.

“It’s been over three years since you’ve worked together,” she said, voice low, wary gaze on Irena’s turned back. “She comes here as if to die for the resistance, then returns as part of the SS-Helferin?”

Before I could explain or dispute her concerns, Irena came to an abrupt stop by the window. “Shit.”

A few guards crossed the courtyard with a group of prisoners, women who would remain in Block 25 until they were sent to the gas chambers. And if Hania and I didn’t have a convincing reason to leave, we’d be joining them. Despite the imminent danger, an old, familiar thrill pulsed through me, and I imagined walking down the streets of Warsaw with Irena. Two resistance girls outwitting the Nazis. It was time for us to be those girls again.

When Irena turned to me, I gave her a small smile. “Are you ready, Frieda?”

Hania looked more confused than ever. “Frieda?”

“I’ll explain later. For now, you’re my interpreter.”

“You don’t need a—”

“Do you have a better excuse as to why you’re here? Just follow my lead, Bubbe.”

But Hania looked as if the betrayal she feared had been set into motion: that Irena would leave us with the condemned and walk out with her SS counterparts. She was wrong, I knew she was; I needed her to trust me enough to let Irena prove it.

The door creaked open, and the guards ushered the half-dead women inside. Some were so weak and sick that they leaned heavily on one another as they shuffled toward the bunks; others pleaded for their lives, insisting that they remained fit for work. One guard looked at Irena and opened her mouth, but we were already deep in conversation.