When the crack pierced the air, something collided with my back and threw me to the ground. The landing was hard and painful, enough to knock the breath out of me. Dazed, I blinked to clear my vision. Had I been shot? I didn’t feel injured, and I didn’t think I’d been behind the column, but my lungs couldn’t expand enough to draw a proper breath.

No, it wasn’t a wound affecting my breathing; something was on top of me, pinning me down. The dead man.

We’d landed halfway on the road, halfway along its side. From my position, I didn’t think anyone could see me. I’d be shot if a guard saw me hurrying to my place, and I’d be shot if a guard found me underneath this corpse. But if I remained hidden and avoided discovery, then I would have successfully managed to escape.

So I didn’t move.

Holding my breath, I peered through the gap between the road and the dead man’s shoulder, watching the columns of prisoners. None of the SS men or women stopped, no one wondered where I was, no one cast a second glance at the dead man. No one noticed at all.

All I had to do was alert Irena.

She walked along the left side next to the final row of prisoners, and I watched her feet as they passed. Protz hovered in her vicinity. Once she was a few meters ahead of me and the dead man, she sent a deliberate glance over her shoulder. Of course I didn’t need to alert her. She already knew.

When no eyes were on her, Irena collapsed and grabbed her right leg. “Shit!”

At her cry, Protz parked his motorcycle and dismounted. “Damn this weather. Is it your ankle?”

Irena nodded, grimacing. He moved closer, but she bit her lip and waved him away, as if in too much pain to speak.

The prisoners had continued marching, growing smaller and smaller in the distance, but one guard turned around. “Protz, Lichtenberg, let’s go!” he shouted.

“Right, I’ll start crawling,” Irena replied, glaring at him.

“We’ll catch up,” Protz said. “Frieda’s hurt.”

The guard nodded and returned to the group. Protz sat next to Irena, who was nursing her supposedly injured limb, wincing and cursing. I had a feeling she enjoyed the theatrics that accompanied our charades, though she never would have admitted it.

When Protz leaned closer, she slapped his hand. “Bastard, don’t touch me.”

Of course she found a way to give him hell.

Protz didn’t dispute her, and she ignored him, absorbed by the injury, while the rows of prisoners disappeared down the road. At last, after the gunshots had grown distant, she sighed.

Protz seemed to decide it was safe to engage her. “Does it feel better?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, you’ll be riding with me for a few days.”