I grip the pistol tighter so I can focus on the ache rather than the overwhelming desire to move toward the trigger again. A confession is enough to win a trial. My testimony won’t be necessary. I’ve spent the entirety of my imprisonment anticipating this game, and I will control the board. I can’t lose now.

“Do it.”

The croon almost makes me reconsider, but I resist the urge. A few more minutes. I held his interest in this camp for almost eight months. I can do so again for a few more minutes. My friends will be here before he tires of me, I’m sure of it.

“Put your gun down and finish the game.” The quiver in my voice is worse than ever before, making my words sound more like a plea than a demand, but I don’t break eye contact.

Fritzsch doesn’t react. The familiar hunger lights his eyes while he watches me, and I use both hands to steady the gun. My aim remains level with his chest as I combat unsteady breaths, but with some effort I take my finger off the trigger.

A few more minutes.

His chuckle breaks the eerie silence. “What did you expect upon coming here, Prisoner 16671? All this time, you’ve planned to escort me into custody and make me confess during a trial? That would require me to comply with your wishes, but you’ve forgotten one very important thing, you useless little Polack bitch.” He steps closer and smiles. “I don’t follow orders.”

He pulls the gun from its holster before I even blink.

The pain in my head is blinding, and I hear a scream that must be my own as I squeeze my finger against the trigger and one shot follows another, then I’m splattered in warm blood.

Smoke and blood, such familiar stenches, surround and suffocate me, and I wait for the pain to come, but I feel nothing. The blood isn’t mine. I’m not wounded, and Fritzsch, like so many who stood upon this cursed ground, is on his back in a pool of his own blood, dead.

No, no, no, it can’t end like this.

Runnels of blood and rainwater cover the chessboard, and the pieces are painted with tiny crimson droplets. With a sweep of my arm, it crashes to the ground, where the board breaks with a sharp crack and the pieces scatter.

He was supposed to stand trial, the world was supposed to know the truth, he was supposed to rot in prison, he wasn’t supposed to die—

“Maria—oh God, what the hell have you done?”

“Put the gun down, Maria, please!”

Voices, familiar ones, though I hardly hear them. He was supposed to stand trial. Instead I pulled my trigger.

“Dammit, Maria, put down the fucking gun!”

“Listen to us, shikse. Please put it down.”