I ignored her sarcasm and continued with our story. “You and your colleagues were relocating inmates to Loslau, and I attempted escape, but you caught me. Since we got separated from the rest, we need somewhere to stay for the evening. And remember, you don’t speak Polish.”

When I offered an amused grin, she glared in mock reproach. “If you tried to escape, why didn’t I shoot you?”

“You couldn’t get a good shot, you didn’t want to waste a bullet, I don’t know,” I replied with an impatient wave. “They won’t question why you made the decision you made. Draw your gun and let’s go.”

Irena held the pistol loosely and led the way. When I didn’t follow, she looked back. “What?”

“Is that the best you can do, Frieda?”

She clenched her jaw. “They can’t see us.”

“Not now, but if they happen to look outside and see us walking to their door like two friends on an evening stroll, do you think they’ll believe our story?”

“Good Lord.” She sighed, brushed a loose strand of hair aside, and closed a hand around my upper arm. When I looked at her again, she tightened her grip begrudgingly and pushed the gun barrel between my shoulder blades.

“Much better.” I nodded in approval as Irena forced me to walk in front of her. “Don’t forget to be convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“Forgive me, Frau Aufseherin.”

“Dammit, Maria.”

When we reached the farmhouse, Irena pounded on the door until the woman answered. Irena said nothing, waiting for her to speak, but the woman looked so surprised that I had to remind myself not to laugh. The farmer joined his wife by the door and immediately raised his right arm in salute. The woman blinked, as if coming out of a stupor, then imitated him.

“Heil Hitler,” they said in unison.

“Heil Hitler,” Irena said with the faintest hint of force, though her hold on me gave her a reason to avoid raising her right arm. “Frieda Lichtenberg, Aufseherin of Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

“Hermann Meinhart, and my wife, Margrit,” he replied. “What can we do for you, Frau Aufseherin?”

After Irena relayed our tale, Frau Meinhart stepped aside and shooed her husband out of the doorway. Inside, I took in my surroundings. This was the first time I’d been inside a home in almost four years. We crossed the wooden floor in the living room, where there was a sofa, rug, and two armchairs. A cheerful fire danced in the fireplace while a small mantel displayed a framed wedding photograph and a few baby portraits. An enticing aroma of meat and vegetables wafted from the stove as we reached four chairs and a square table set with a floral tablecloth, a small loaf of bread on a platter, two white cloth napkins, two spoons, and two bowls.