Every part of me wants to shoot him, to pull the trigger and bury a bullet in his skull. Pain urges me to do it. But my wits, my final piece in this game, urge me to play a different move. The weight of Father Kolbe’s rosary is heavy in my pocket, and I can almost hear his gentle voice guiding me as he did so many times before, removing me from the darkness within this dreadful place, within myself. My cigarette-burn scars tingle, five marks for the five Florkowskis, aligned above five tattooed numbers, 16671, the brand upon my skin like the brand this place left upon my soul. And here, so close that the barrel of my gun is hardly a meter from his chest, the man who murdered everyone I loved.

Fritzsch waits for my answer, so I choose my play. I choose my wits.

“I didn’t come here to kill you. You have the rest of eternity to burn in hell. Put your gun on the ground, and after I take you to the authorities, you’ll confess to everything you’ve done. You’ll be arrested and charged for your crimes, and I’ll verify your confession and show everyone the scars you left on my back. You’ll be sentenced to death or prison, but I hope it’s prison so you’ll live a long and miserable life in captivity. And you’ll never escape.”

The rain has stopped. The only sounds are my unsteady breaths, the heartbeat pounding in my ears, and the names playing over and over in my mind. Mama, Tata, Zofia, Karol, Father Kolbe.

Fritzsch laughs. “Deranged rants and a few scars won’t win a trial. Why go through all that trouble when you could simply pull the trigger?”

The suggestion banishes everything else—everything but the chorus of names keeping pace with my racing heart. As if of its own accord, my finger moves toward the trigger. One bullet. That’s all it would take.

“If you attempt to testify before a court, you won’t make it through without an outburst, then you’ll lose all credibility. No one will believe a word you say.” Fritzsch pushes his chair away from the table and stands, exposing the front of his body to me. “You’ve managed to get this far, Prisoner 16671. Don’t let it fall to ruin.”

The trigger is smooth and slick against my wet, cold finger. One bullet.

Just one bullet.

Chapter 31

Death March, 18 January 1945

AFTER A FITFUL night’s sleep, I slipped from my block while our nighttime curfew was still in effect. Armed with a bundle of belongings, I hurried to the latrines.

Though it was still dark as I slipped inside and eased the door shut, I found Izaak sitting with his back against the far wall. As I tiptoed closer, he didn’t stand; suddenly I felt like an intruder.

“Is Hania dead?”