Sudden sobs broke me in a way I hadn’t broken in so long. I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around her. If only an embrace were all it took to prevent us from ever being separated. Liberation called to me, and the temptation was so strong. Once free, I could find a way to contact Fritzsch on the front lines. Once free, I could confront him.

The opportunity to move forward with my plans was most tempting of all.

Hania held me close and kissed the top of my head, then she shushed me and took my face in her hands. As she searched my gaze, a small, affectionate smile played around her lips.

“Go with Irena,” she murmured, brushing a tear from my cheek and blinking back her own. “Go home, shikse.”

Chapter 27

Birkenau, 7 October 1944

IN THE TWO weeks following her arrival, Irena learned all she could about her SS coworkers and their routines. I promised I’d go with her when the opportunity arose, but I still hoped for the Home Army’s attack or the Red Army’s advance. Pilecki had been free for more than a year, giving him plenty of time to plan our liberation, and the Soviets drew closer every day. The revolt we’d been awaiting would come, and we’d fight from the inside while our allies fought from the outside.

I was so close, almost in a position to take control of my life again, to find the man whose name I heard in the echoes of every gunshot. The thought of getting to him was almost more enticing than freedom.

One October morning, while breakfast preparations were underway, I grabbed a cauldron and filled it with the grain mixture that served as our coffee. I didn’t add water to the pot, then left it on the fire to burn. If my plan worked, I’d get sent out of the kitchen, and I could attend the brief meeting Irena and I had arranged to share our latest tidbits of information relevant to our escape.

I sliced old turnips and potatoes until a burning stench filled my nostrils, then the kapo threw a piece of rotting potato at me and ordered me to dispose of the burned coffee. With profuse apologies, I poured water into the cauldron to cool it off, attempted to scrape the burned bits clinging to the inside, then hefted my burden and let myself out into the crisp autumn morning. An orange-and-crimson carpet of leaves painted the ground, and I drank in a cool breeze, a pleasant alternative to the stuffy kitchen air, which smelled of filthy, sweaty bodies and rotting food—and now smoke, thanks to me.