The second day was even more arduous than the first, but the pattern remained the same. Walk, hunger, cold, gunshot, live, fight, survive.

More prisoners attempted to escape. A few were successful. Most weren’t. Some were shot as they ran; others were caught and brought back so we could witness their executions. Blood and death. So much blood, so many deaths.

To attempt escape would have been reckless. But, as every step became more difficult, escape was ever-present on my mind. And when I stole a moment to meet Irena’s gaze, I suspected it was on hers, too.

The only SS personnel surrounding us were a few men and women, including Protz. He rode a motorcycle and traveled up and down the column of prisoners, shooting at every given opportunity. No one was paying attention to me, so I glanced at Irena again. She looked to me before moving her eyes to the road ahead, then gave one small, swift nod. And our mutual agreement was made.

When the opportunity arose, we would escape.

* * *

By the time we reached midday, I felt as if we’d walked for weeks. I wiggled my toes to alleviate the painful swelling and numb cold, then I scooped up another discreet handful of snow. When I straightened, I slipped it into my mouth. The snow melted against the heat of my tongue, the only part of me that was warm, and I savored it as long as possible. When it was gone, the emptiness in my stomach didn’t feel better, but I tried to convince myself it did.

I slipped my frozen fingers into my sleeves, hoping to warm them. Ignoring the shouts and gunshots around me, I felt the rough, uneven skin of my cigarette-burn scars and traced my prisoner number, even though I couldn’t see or feel the tattoo.

When my fingers were warmer, I hugged my arms around myself and bowed my head against the wind, pressing onward. I stepped over a fallen body in my path. The snow had ceased for now, a slight blessing on this cursed evacuation. I was at the edge of my row against the left side of the road, so my front and right side had a small buffer thanks to fellow prisoners, and there was one row of inmates behind me. Not an ideal position, but it was the best way to stay close to Irena without drawing suspicion.

A familiar sound disturbed the rhythmic tramp of footsteps. The man behind me had stumbled. He hadn’t fallen, but now he was a few steps behind the row, which meant I knew what to expect next. The gunshot.