“Izaak refuses to let me visit anymore. He wouldn’t admit if he participated in the plot or not, but he said it isn’t safe for me to be seen with a Sonderkommando member. The guards will assume I was involved in the uprising. He didn’t give me a chance to argue before he moved away from the fence, and when I asked him to wait, he only paused long enough to tell Protz not to bring me back.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll change his mind once the danger has passed.”

Rather than responding, Hania gripped the vodka bottle with both hands, closed her eyes, and spoke in Yiddish. The words emerged through her clenched teeth and sounded angry, almost frantic, but after a moment she relaxed and opened her eyes. Her next few breaths were small and tremulous while a single tear escaped, then they steadied and she blinked slowly, calm and dazed.

“After Izaak left, I’m not sure what came over me, but I broke things off with Protz. He wasn’t happy.” She giggled and pointed to her face, the sight a vicious reminder tempering my marginal relief. “Now he’ll kill me, but it doesn’t matter. My kinderlach don’t need a nafka for a mother.”

“You’re not a nafka, Hania.”

“No, Protz won’t kill me,” she amended as if she hadn’t heard me; then she laughed again. “He said he won’t, and he won’t turn me in for race defilement or force himself on me, either, because our arrangement isn’t over, not until he’s finished with me, and his untermensch will come crawling back the moment she needs something, begging for help and forgiveness. All he has to do is wait. And he’s right. It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

“You don’t need him. We’ve survived without goods from him for a while, and when Izaak lets you visit again, Irena will help.”

She sighed and turned the empty bottle in her hands. “I wish I had your confidence, and I wish I had more vodka. But I mean it this time, don’t let me organize alcohol again.” It was what she said every time. “Do you promise?”

“I promise, and I want you to promise that you won’t go back to Protz.”

She giggled. “I can’t, but even if I could, I wouldn’t remember, would I?”

“Yes, you can, and you can do it again in the morning.” I eased the bottle from her grasp and gave her hand a fervent squeeze. “If not for yourself, please do it for me.”

A bit of warmth joined the inebriated haze in her eyes, and she patted my cheek. “All right, my little shikse. If it means that much to you, I promise.”