He waits, probably expecting me to admit or deny it, but I don’t. There’s no need to confirm a truth he already knows. Maybe he’s hoping for some sign of remorse.

When I don’t react, he steps closer, rigid with tension. “You said you were worried. You never said you were going to confront Fritzsch. I helped you find him, I gave you his letter because I thought it would give you peace of mind, but instead it could’ve gotten you killed. Don’t you realize that?”

“I had to do it.”

“Why? What lie are you going to tell me this time?”

The sharpness in his tone inflames my fury more. “You can’t understand.”

Mateusz shakes his head and backs toward the door, as if he sees no purpose in disputing me. “Well, Maria, you found Fritzsch. You got what you wanted.”

That’s all it takes to prompt the memories. I see my family’s bodies, Father Kolbe’s arm humbly extended and awaiting injection, the whip dripping my blood, the chessboard in the roll-call square, Fritzsch’s vicious smile, and I hear his jeers, feel every bit of terror and fury and agony he’s inflicted upon me, then I hear the shriek, the one that always takes me aback when I realize it’s my own.

“What I wanted? Do you think this is what I wanted? Everyone I loved was murdered because of him! This was because of him.”

I turn and allow my robe to fall and display my back, from shoulders to hips. The crack of the whip rings in my ears while my gasping cries mark the sting of each laceration, eins, zwei, drei—

Mateusz’s sharp intake of breath lifts me from the scorching, dusty ground in the roll-call square and brings me back to standing half-naked in this cold bedroom. I cover myself and face him again. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“I won’t make excuses because I don’t have any, but don’t ask me to explain myself. I can’t. Not even to Irena or Hania.”

My voice quivers; the twinge creeps into my head. Rage and pain have become as much a part of me as these scars.

I retreat to the window and wait for Mateusz to say that my words aren’t good enough, to demand an explanation because I owe him that much, given the extent of my deception. I crave his fury, crave something to push me into hating him as much as he surely hates me. But, when he speaks, his voice holds no fury, no hatred.

“Maybe you can’t explain yourself today, maybe not tomorrow. But someday, the words will come, and when they do, we’ll listen.”