There it was, the information I’d been hoping for. Fritzsch was still alive somewhere on the front lines. And now that I was free, I could move forward with my plans.

“If I write a letter, could your connections take it to Fritzsch?” I asked, before releasing Mateusz and hugging a pillow to my chest. “I need to hear directly from him that he’s on the front lines. I know it’s foolish, and I don’t expect a response, but I’d feel better if I tried.”

The more I lied to Mateusz about my intentions with Fritzsch, the more surprised I was when the lies didn’t concern me. I didn’t have any other choice. If I told the truth, I’d put Mateusz in jeopardy and risk losing his help; I’d lose my chance at justice for my family, Father Kolbe, and myself. And until I got justice, I wouldn’t go home. I couldn’t.

He gave me a small, reassuring smile. “It’s not foolish, Maria. One of the men in Fritzsch’s battalion has been working both sides and supplying a friend of mine with information. I’ll bring you paper, a pen, and an envelope for the letter, and once you’ve written it, they can help us get it to Fritzsch. Whatever it takes to help you find peace.”

Mateusz believed me. He always believed me.

Chapter 33

Pszczyna, 19 April 1945

A FEW SCATTERED WHITE clouds chased one another across the pale blue sky as the sun warmed my skin and a cool breeze tugged at my skirt. Grass stretched across the field, emerging after winter like the deep blond hair emerging on my head. I stretched out on the soft blanket and closed my eyes with a contented sigh.

Three months. I’d spent three months without forced labor, beatings, disease, and the constant threat of death, and it still didn’t feel real. Every morning I expected to wake up in Auschwitz. Every night sleep took me there.

When laughter reached my ears, I opened my eyes and rolled over toward the sound. Farther into the field, Irena held a line while Franz ran with a kite, its tail streaming in the wind. As the wind picked up, he released it, and the kite plummeted to the ground. Cursing, Franz tried again—they’d been at this for at least twenty minutes—but Irena was laughing too much to be of help, so he wrapped the line around her instead. Her laughter transformed into protests; even amid her complaints, she pulled him close and welcomed his lips against hers. They’d kissed in front of me many times, but this time I saw Protz’s arms around her, Irena’s reluctant lips against his, she squirming to escape his touch—

I blinked and dismissed the image. Disgusting.