Even if he could have helped, Protz would refuse out of spite. I was sure of it, and, somewhere beyond her familiar relentlessness, Hania must have known it, too. He’d make her atone for angering him, then say he was permitting her to implore forgiveness, and that was her repayment. She’d go through hell for nothing.

Hania’s arm trembled beneath my grip, her eyes glistened despite their hard edge, and I didn’t think the cold was responsible for either. She tried to push me away again, but she paused when I relaxed my hold and stepped closer.

“Please, Bubbe.”

Hania looked from me to Irena. At last she cursed in Yiddish, sighed, and placed a hand over mine. “Maybe we can’t get you out of this, but we’ll get you through it.”

My stubborn, darling friends. Every part of me wanted to order them away, to insist I could do this on my own, but the little voice wanted them, needed them, selfish though it may have been.

The cold air burned within my lungs, but I fought around it in order to speak. “Promise you won’t give yourselves away. No matter what happens to me, I have to know you’ll be safe, so please, please promise me—”

Hania pulled me close, her embrace as sure and comforting as my mother’s and father’s had once been. I held tight to the rough fabric of her uniform, let her soothe my trembling breaths, sensed her heart pounding through her thin chest. “We promise, shikse. Don’t we, Irena?”

“Dammit, Maria,” she muttered. I took it as a yes.

With every step, the chilling air grew colder, fouler, as if carrying the pungent odors of singed hair and flesh and dusting my skin with ashes. No matter how I chided my mind for playing tricks on me, because the crematoria were not currently running, the scent clung to me while the feeling of the particles lingered. I wrapped my arms tighter around my waist. Death was a constant, familiar assailant, poisoning the air while the sky wept snowflakes of gray ash, mourning each stolen life.

Through the darkness, I located the ARBEIT MACHT FREI sign above the gate. The sign triggered memories of following my family out of the railcar, lingering with Tata as he comforted me one last time. I nearly smelled the wax and pine from the polish he used on his cane, almost felt his gentle hands warming my frozen cheeks while his reassuring voice warmed me to the core.

True freedom comes from bravery, strength, and goodness. The only one who can take those from you is you.

I closed my hand, as though his fingers were wrapping mine around the tiny pawn.