I shrugged her off and returned to the floor, ignoring her muttered curses. The day had taken its toll, and I was too tired and overwhelmed to argue. Besides, I couldn’t explain feelings I didn’t understand myself. I certainly didn’t understand why the wooden floor quelled a bit of the chaos swirling inside me. As I sank into the familiar depths of slumber, I was faintly aware of Irena tossing a blanket over me.

Chapter 32

Pszczyna, 20 January 1945

MY EYES FLUTTERED open when something touched my shoulder. At once, I sat up and looked around to see if my bunkmates were still breathing. But they weren’t there. Neither was Hania, and someone hovered over me, a guard preparing to force me from the block—

I blinked to clear the drowsy, confused fog surrounding me. The evacuation. Our escape. The farm.

Frau Meinhart put a finger to her lips and guided me to my feet. She led me into the living room, where faint light streamed through the window. It was almost sunrise. I supposed she’d awakened me for breakfast. I looked back to see if Irena was following us; instead I saw Herr Meinhart disappearing into the bedroom, wielding a rifle.

Gasping, I stopped short while Irena’s surprised, furious voice reached my ears.

“What the hell? Get your hands off me!”

She continued spluttering curses while Herr Meinhart’s angry voice joined hers, and she stumbled into the hall, half-asleep. Herr Meinhart had secured one arm behind her back, and he prodded her along with his rifle. Her pistol was at his belt. As he shoved Irena into the living room, both still yelling, I swallowed hard against my dry throat.

It was over. They knew the truth, and now we were at their mercy; they’d kill us or turn us over to the closest SS man they could find.

No, we’d sacrificed too much to let it come to this. Ignoring the possibility of being shot, I struggled against Frau Meinhart’s firm hold. I would break free, I would get to Irena, and we would run. For so long, death had been in constant pursuit, nipping at our heels while we eluded its grasp. This was not the day we would succumb.

While I thrashed, Frau Meinhart’s grasp tightened. “Shhh, it’s all right, dear,” she said in soothing Polish.

At this, I stopped fighting. The firm grip must have been meant to protect me, not restrain me, and she was murmuring reassurance. And now, as I assessed the situation, I realized Herr Meinhart’s gun was pointed at Irena, only Irena.

“Filthy Nazi,” he spat as he forced her to the nearest chair. “Shut up and sit down.”

We hadn’t been found out—on the contrary, we’d been convincing. But we were wrong about this couple. They may have been Volksdeutsche, but despite appearances they weren’t Nazi sympathizers.