Gentle but firm hands lift me up and pull me away from Fritzsch’s body, while two pairs of comforting arms encircle me. My own carelessness provoked his final move, and now he’s dead.

When my tears and the pain in my head lessen, I’m vaguely aware of Irena and Hania leading me through the gate; then I hear Franz’s voice. “What the hell?”

“Exactly!” Irena shouts, rushing ahead until she’s pounding her fists into his chest. “What the hell, Franz? How could you leave Maria here?” She doesn’t wait for a response before grabbing my shoulders now that Hania and I have joined them. “Explain yourself, you fucking idiot.”

Whatever Franz attempts to say is lost in the uproar while Hania curses in Yiddish and pushes Irena away. She stands between us, yelling in various languages, but Irena is undeterred, and the more everyone yells the more I want it to stop.

“Go on, explain yourself! I know you had a plan, you always have a fucking plan—”

“Irena!” My shout comes out in a surge of fury, and the moment she hears it her tirade ends. She pulls me close, holds tight.

“Dammit, Maria,” she whispers, barely able to formulate the words before she breaks down into sudden, fierce sobs.

Franz folds Irena into his arms while I walk a few meters away and face the sign above the gate. Three German words, one simple sentence. Somehow the phrase looks even darker and more ominous than usual. The tears return, leaving hot, angry rivers that tingle against my cheeks, but gentle hands turn me away from the sign.

“It’s over, shikse.” The comforting murmur breaks through the echoes of Fritzsch’s taunts and the screams of frustration that fill my head. Hania’s thumb brushes a tear mixed with blood from my cheek, then she holds me against her chest and presses her lips to the top of my head.

Over. It’s not over. Not like this. The barbed wire still surrounds me, and the current still races through it.

When we leave, we drive in silence. My tears have ceased, and my pain has dissipated. I’m hollow again, as hollow as I was during those first months of captivity, when I chose to feel nothing. As I stare at the blood splatters on my clothing and skin—Fritzsch’s blood—I return to that place. I choose to feel nothing again.

Chapter 36

Pszczyna, 6 May 1945

THE NEWSPAPER HEADLINE is almost one week old, and I’ve memorized it by now. I read it every day, reassuring myself that I didn’t imagine it. Adolf Hitler killed himself. The Führer is dead. Another criminal took his own life so he wouldn’t have to face the consequences of his deplorable actions.