It took a moment for her words to register. They were leaving thousands of sick people to die. As the realization settled over me, I shook my head. I wasn’t surprised, not at all. Just angry. And I wouldn’t let that happen to Hania.

People died every day in Auschwitz. Losing friends, strangers, and fellow resistance members was a normal part of the life I’d led for so long. But this was different. This was Hania, my oldest friend in the camp, the friend who had mothered me, educated me, and taught me Yiddish words, the friend I’d taught Catholic prayers and how to play chess. The woman whose children Mama had smuggled from the ghetto, the children she’d fought to remain alive for no matter how desperate the measure, the children I’d promised to help her find. We’d gone through too much for it to end like this. I wouldn’t let it end like this.

I had a plan.

After making sure no guards were approaching, I stepped closer to Irena and lowered my voice. “Go to Crematorium II and find Hania’s brother. His name is Izaak Rubinstein, and he’s Prisoner 15162. Bring him and meet me in the latrines as soon as possible.”

She nodded, and we parted ways. Once I returned to my block, I gathered fresh snow into my small cup, melted it over the stove, and took it to Hania. She was more delirious now, but I roused her and coaxed her into taking a pill. After drinking the melted snow, she settled back into her feverish stupor.

We were supposed to be in bed, so I was forced to bide my time until the SS guards finished prowling outside the blocks. I nestled close to Hania, providing some additional warmth, voicing gentle reassurance in a hushed tone. After the barks of both the guards and their Alsatians had fallen silent, I slipped out into the frozen night, avoiding the searchlights, cloaking myself in darkness. My journey was maddeningly slow, but, between the frigid temperature and the guards who would shoot at any movement, speed was impossible.

Inside the latrines, two familiar figures waited in the shadows, and the sight of one brought me to an abrupt halt.

Izaak had changed. He looked as if he’d aged ten years, but that wasn’t what shocked me. It was his eyes. I’d expected to find relief and happiness upon seeing me after all this time. Instead the eyes that once held richness and warmth now displayed a haunted, painful darkness and anger. So much anger.

“Why am I here, Maria, and who is this?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Irena.

“A friend, but there’s no time to explain. It’s Hania.”