While the couple cleaned up after the meal, Irena and I stayed where we were. In keeping with my act, I’d kept my eyes down, but it was difficult. Because I couldn’t watch their faces, it was almost impossible to determine whether the Meinharts believed our charade. Since their backs were turned as they bent over the sink, washing and drying dishes, I chanced a quick look at Irena. She toyed with her pistol, as if to ensure my obedience, but she was tense, likely thinking what I was thinking. If our ruse was discovered, they’d turn us in.

The couple led us to a small room with two beds on either side of a window, and after bidding us goodnight they closed the door. I waited with bated breath, listening. Their footsteps grew fainter as they retired to a bedroom down the hall, and I relaxed when the door closed.

In her haste to get rid of it, Irena almost threw her gun on the nightstand, then she sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. Meanwhile, I stayed where I was, staring at the second bed. A strange feeling came over me, much like I’d felt upon walking into the home. I still couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but again I struggled to draw a proper breath.

“What’s wrong?” Irena whispered.

“Nothing.” I kept my head down to hide the tears, which had returned. Again. “Stop talking, they’ll hear us.”

“If they can hear us whispering from down the hall and through two closed doors, they must have damn good hearing.”

“We can’t take any chances.”

To my relief, Irena didn’t dispute me. She didn’t even bother removing her boots before collapsing on the bed and pulling a blanket across her midsection while I moved to the window. Snowflakes, illuminated by the silvery gleam of moonlight, floated down and settled over the open fields. I wondered how many times I’d crossed snow-covered fields on my way to and from Birkenau. Thousands, probably. Maybe more.

If I’d been at home, I would have leaned over the iron railing on our small balcony or joined my siblings by the window, watching the snowflakes collect on the cobblestones and buildings along Bałuckiego Street while Mama and Tata drank tea and told stories. But I wasn’t at home, and, when I thought of trudging through fresh snow again, dread joined the strange feelings that had overtaken me since we’d arrived. As I sat on the hardwood floor near the foot of the second bed, I prayed the snow would stop.

Irena propped herself up on her forearm. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.

“Going to sleep.”

“On the floor?”

“Where else would Frieda have me?”

“Frieda has retired for the evening,” she said, getting up and pulling me to my feet. “And Irena says sleep on the damn bed.”