I’m still furious with Fritzsch for what he did. I spent an entire week in bed dwelling on it, even though there was no sense in doing so. Sometimes I can’t help thinking about it. No one talks to me about him, but the day after Fritzsch’s suicide I overheard Hania and Irena discussing what they’d done. Franz returned to Auschwitz and burned everything—the table, chairs, chess set, and Fritzsch’s body. He disposed of the ashes in a location he wouldn’t disclose, not even to Irena. All he said was it wasn’t among the Auschwitz victims. Because Fritzsch was supposed to be on the front lines, his disappearance will be classified as a battle casualty. No one will miss him, and no one will find him.

He’s gone from this world, but not from me. I see his face, hear his voice. Your move, Prisoner 16671—

I stand abruptly from the bed to banish his jeers from my mind. It was as Hania had said when I refused to leave the bed, when she’d shared her own recurring memories with me: All the cigarettes and vodka in the world aren’t enough to make the past go away.

Maybe we aren’t meant to leave the past behind. Maybe we’re meant to bring it with us so we can join others weighed down by the same burdens, and we can carry them together. Maybe that’s how we find peace.

After placing the article in the open valise on the floor, I stare at the clothes piled on my bed. Everyone else has gone into town, but I stayed behind to finish packing. I pick up my folded prisoner uniform. Another object I look at every day. It’s stayed at the foot of my bed since I changed out of it. Irena has told me numerous times to get that damn thing out of our room, but I haven’t.

When I pick it up, it comes unfolded. My uniform is even thinner than it was when I received it, so thin it’s virtually transparent. The gray and blue stripes are dingy and worn, the hems and cuffs frayed, the garment tattered and stained. The white strip bearing my black prisoner number is faded and dirty, as are the red triangle and capital P. A seam travels halfway up the back where I repaired the rip after my flogging. In the interior, I find the various pockets I added throughout the years for organized goods, but my favorite is the one with the button flap. The one for Father Kolbe’s rosary.

I pull up the sleeve of my robe to trace my scars and the dark ink that stands out so prominently against my pale skin.

My given name was Maria. My resistance name was Helena. My new name is Prisoner 16671.