I hadn’t been to Block 11 since transferring out of the kommando, and when we arrived it felt as if I’d never left. It looked the same, stark and cold and bare, and smelled the same, like filth and death and bodily fluids. And it felt the same. Hopeless, desperate, agonizing.

We walked down the eerie halls until we reached an interrogation room, one where I’d spent numerous hours cleaning blood, urine, and vomit from the floor. As I entered, the Gestapo agent conducting the interrogation was sitting behind a small table, smoking a cigarette.

Sturmbannführer Ebner.

Sheer horror brought me to a sudden halt. Fortunately it was an appropriate reaction for my situation, so Irena pushed me farther into the room. I wasn’t aware that Ebner had transferred from Pawiak to Auschwitz, yet there he was, and suddenly I was fourteen again. Almost naked, alone, terrified, immobilized by strong men, remaining as silent as possible while this man cursed and struck me, this man who had outwitted me, tormented me, and threatened my family. This man who had sent us to Auschwitz.

Irena didn’t know my history with him, but she clapped a hand on my shoulder, as if pushing me into my seat, and gave me a quick squeeze. Reminding me I wasn’t alone.

Once I was across from Ebner, I swallowed hard, suppressing my terror. Think. Study him.

I knew this man, but as I looked into his face he didn’t appear to recognize me. He didn’t seem to remember the girl he’d tortured all those years ago, likely because he’d tortured many more since me. Which meant I had an excellent advantage.

The last time I’d faced Ebner, he’d won. We’d matched wits, we’d fought long and hard, and he had emerged the victor. But the pieces had been set up again. It didn’t matter who won last time; it mattered only how the game was played this time. And this time, I had two more pieces on my side, and I knew how to play Ebner’s game.

Let him believe I’m falling for every trick he plays.

My strategy was in place, and it was time for a rematch.

“Prisoner 15177 is the interpreter, Frau Aufseherin?” Ebner indicated Hania with a nod.

“Correct, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

He focused on Hania. “You will speak only to interpret. If you say anything else to Prisoner 16671, I’ll assume you’re encouraging disobedience and take necessary action upon both of you. Do you understand?”

She managed a small nod. “Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

Ebner placed a fresh cigarette between his lips and lit it before turning to me. “My name is Wolfgang Ebner. Would you care for a cigarette?”