At the mention of his sister, I hoped a bit of worry or love or something, anything, would chase away his hostility. Instead he shifted into an even deeper fury. “What did that bastard do to her?” Izaak didn’t need to name Protz for the implication to be clear; I refrained from lifting a hand to the tender imprint his fist had left around my nose, certain to develop a bruise.

“Nothing. She’s sick. The camp is being evacuated tomorrow, and the sick will be left behind.” I swallowed hard, unnerved. “I . . . I thought you’d want to stay with her. You can hide in the latrines, and when everyone is gone, you can care for her until the Soviets arrive.”

“I’ve already added your number to the list of dead,” Irena said. “Your absence won’t be detected.”

Izaak was silent. He looked between me and Irena, then jerked his head in a quick nod. Once I’d voiced my thanks and promised to visit him in the morning, Irena escorted me back to my block. As we walked, I felt as if his eyes remained upon me, and I crossed my arms to suppress a shiver.

“I’ve only been near the crematoria and gas chambers a few times, but it was a few times too many,” Irena said. “If you were allowed to see what the Sonderkommando has seen, you’d understand.”

Back in my block, I lay in silence, unable to sleep. Hania’s shallow breaths hovered around me while I moved my fingers along my rosary beads. Almost four years of my life had been spent in this place. Tomorrow, they would come to an end. The thought should have brought me comfort, but it didn’t. Not now that I was leaving Hania and Izaak. And I was leaving liberation. The Soviets would arrive any day, but I would be gone. Freedom dangled just beyond my reach—and with it my ability to confront Fritzsch. Until I had heard the truth from him, my fight for survival—for justice—would continue. Justice alone held the power to ease the ache in my chest—one that longed for my family, prompted me to imagine them standing in the courtyard between Blocks 10 and 11. Their confusion; their grief; their terror.

I gripped the rosary tighter, pushing the thought away while I drew a shuddering breath. Someday, escape would come; for now, the bars on my prison were no weaker.

My captivity wasn’t over. Just changing.

Chapter 30

Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

DESPITE MY ORDER to disarm, Fritzsch hasn’t touched his gun. Instead he glances at his king in check before settling back into his chair and watching me, watching the pistol in my shaking hands. “Do you plan to kill me like I killed those Polacks? Watch me die like you watched Prisoner 16670?”