Reminders of Auschwitz came when I least expected them. The thud of Herr Meinhart’s boots against the wooden floor, the smell of burning skin when Frau Meinhart suffered a minor cooking injury last week. Franz’s strong, heavy hand on my shoulder this morning, trying to get my attention, feeling too similar to the men whose hands found my shoulder before their fists found my face. A little while ago, Irena serving our picnic lunch, reminding me of measuring portions of organized food.

I didn’t know why the memories came. When they did, it took time for me to realize that was all they were. Memories.

I plucked a few blades of grass, broke them into various lengths, and set them up like chess pieces. When a breeze blew them away, I abandoned my efforts. On my path to recovery, I’d had books, friends, and games, but not chess. Even if I’d had pieces, Irena didn’t know how to play, and neither did Mateusz, Franz, or his parents. I could have taught them, and I could have made pieces like Father Kolbe did, but somehow it didn’t feel right. That part of me was missing, and I didn’t know when I’d find it again.

Or Hania. Her absence was another missing piece, one I needed desperately. When would I find her again? She was alive; she had to be alive. If I had left her to die as I had left my family—

“You know, I never thought basket weaving would be a skill I’d acquire.”

I turned to acknowledge Mateusz beside me. He’d spent many afternoons on the farm. Sometimes we took walks or picnicked with Irena and Franz, and sometimes we just talked. We’d gone from exchanging simple letters and having whispered conversations in the basket-weaving workshop to spending entire days together.

When Mateusz held up the tiny, crude basket he’d made from grass and straw, I wrinkled my nose. “After all the baskets we made, why would you ever want to do it again?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Not when your employment was voluntary.”

The words came out far more harshly than I imagined they would. Whenever the memories were on the cusp of overwhelming me, somehow I lost all control.

I gathered the blanket into shaking hands and closed my eyes. Memories, just memories. The debilitating migraine would follow if I couldn’t get ahold of myself. I had to recover before I succumbed, before my friends discovered how the memories crippled me, because if they did, they’d start asking questions . . .

I managed to push the memories down, and the trembles subsided. With a sigh, I opened my eyes and plucked another blade of grass. “I’m sorry, Maciek, that wasn’t fair.”