“Why didn’t we steal Protz’s motorcycle so we could drive closer to the nearest town?” Irena muttered after we’d been walking for some time. She crossed her arms more tightly as a frigid wind swept over us, so cold it stung my eyes.

“You couldn’t have suggested that before we ran?”

“I didn’t think about it until now. Why didn’t you suggest it? You’re the one who comes up with the ridiculous plans, not me.”

“Right, so sorry. By the way, how is your ankle?”

Irena narrowed her eyes but didn’t mask a small smile. She cursed when she tripped over a root camouflaged by snow. Despite the harsh climate, I was glad we hadn’t spent a moment longer than necessary on the open road. Had we fled closer to town, we would have risked exposing ourselves to civilians, SS men, anyone who could potentially have seen us. Here at least we were alone. But with a town came warmth, food, and shelter, and those would have almost made the risk worth it.

“Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle, Irena?”

“No.”

As we pressed onward, blue and gray stripes caught my eye. When I returned Irena’s overcoat and gloves, as it was now her turn to wear them, she followed my gaze to the body and turned aside as I inspected it. A young man, near my age, stiff with cold, covered in ice and snow. Tattered uniform, too tattered to be useful. Empty pockets. I knelt beside him and lifted his bony wrist. Something was ensnared within his frozen fingers, something I recognized right away—half a bread ration. He must have saved it and was attempting to eat it when the cold rendered him unable to put forth the effort. With some difficulty, I pried his fingers apart to access the offering and pressed the sacred morsel between my palms, affirming its existence.

Survival was a selfish instinct. Desperation didn’t allow time for gratitude. Still, when good fortune found me, I did my best to recognize it, as if my acknowledgment of the favor would encourage fate to shower more blessings upon me. Even when survival depended on it, taking advantage of another’s sacrifice never felt like a fair play.

I whispered a thanks to the dead man before returning to Irena’s side. Once I managed to tear the bread in half, I offered a piece to her. She shook her head as her mouth warped in disgust.

“All yours. I’d rather not eat something that came from a corpse.”

A valid claim, but when I met her gaze she averted her eyes, proving it wasn’t the entire reason behind her refusal. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Irena. You can’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

“Good Lord, Maria, you are fragile. After what you’ve been through, you should know that better than anyone.”