Irena was already unbuttoning her jacket, seeming eager to shed her uniform and never touch it again. I followed her to the bedroom. From a crude little wooden dresser, she picked a skirt and blouse for herself and tossed a few options onto the bed for me. I surveyed the dresses, blouses, skirts, and trousers, knowing none would fit me, feeling as if I were sifting through organized goods. Before making my choice, I pulled Irena’s crucifix from under my uniform and unfastened the chain, then I touched her shoulder to get her attention. When she faced me, I placed the necklace in her palm. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at it in disbelief and traced a gentle finger over the crucifix before fastening it around her neck.

We continued changing, and I removed my striped uniform.

Behind me, Irena gasped.

There was a full-length mirror in this room, something I’d been too exhausted to notice last night. Now I studied the reflection I found. A slight form, every bone exposed, covered in various bruises, scars, cuts, and insect bites. Blue-gray skin; small, deflated circles where breasts should have been. A shaved head that made the ears stand out. A sharp jaw, small nose, concave cheeks, jutting cheekbones, and thin lips within a gaunt, sallow face absorbed by sunken eyes. Eyes that were haunted and vacant, but also bright, almost wild and desperate, clinging to the shreds of life that remained. And on the left arm, an arm that looked as fragile as a bird’s wing, were five round scars and a tattooed number, 16671.

I hadn’t seen my reflection since I was fourteen, but the number proved that this figure looking back at me was me. Maybe I should have felt something, but I felt nothing. This figure was no different from every other figure I’d seen during the past few years.

But it wasn’t my emaciated form that had made Irena gasp. Her horror was concentrated upon my back, so I turned and craned my neck, getting a first look at them myself.

My flogging scars. Some were pinker than others, some long, some short, some thick and raised, others thin and less protruding. The gruesome web covered me from shoulders to lower back. The scars were hideous, but, at the sight, I smiled. Father Kolbe.

My body told the story of my life during the past few years. I was feeble and broken, a shell of a human, but when I looked at these scars I saw life. My life. The life I’d almost given up.

I folded my striped uniform and placed it on the bed. Then I donned a simple dress, which hung on my body like a sheet.

Irena stepped closer, so I allowed her to take my wrist. She rotated my forearm upward and brushed her thumb over my prisoner number. When she spoke, her voice was hardly audible.