I place Tata’s cane on the bed while Irena reaches under it once more. This time she pulls out my chess set.

I trace my finger over the checkered board before lifting the lid to reveal the green felt–lined interior, where the wooden pieces are nestled into individual compartments. Each one is there, even more beautiful than I remember, and I turn the delicate carvings over in my hands. The last game I played with these pieces was against my parents the evening before our arrest. I pick up a white pawn. The lacquer is chipped, probably from when the piece crashed to the floor during the Gestapo invasion. Somehow that makes me tighten my hold.

“Dammit, I should’ve said something first.” Irena sighs and pushes a loose strand of hair away from her face, perhaps taking my silence as discomfort. “If you don’t want it anymore after . . .” She lets her voice fade, likely recalling the blood-splattered chessboard from the roll-call square, then starts over. “If chess—”

I shake my head to stop her. Despite everything, chess is still my game. It always will be. This chess set reminds me of a father who gave his daughter this board and taught her this game, and of a girl fortified by a tiny handmade pawn.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Irena?” I ask, smiling through my tears. “Now you have to let me teach you how to play.”

“Shit,” she mutters, but I’d like to think I hear a certain fondness in her tone, and she doesn’t complain when I wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her cheek.

A gentle rap sounds against the door before Hania steps across the threshold. “Wiktoria is wondering why you two disappeared, so if I’m interrupting, let me be clear that she’s the yenta and not me.”

“Good Lord, she’s never going to let any of us out of her sight again,” Irena says with a sigh.

Hania chuckles and starts to turn away, but pauses when she notices the items on the bed. She comes closer and cradles the portrait in both hands, then brushes her finger over each face, ending with Mama’s. “Could I show this to the boys?” she asks. “I don’t want them to ever forget her. Or any of you,” she adds, glancing between us, eyes bright.

Another reality of war: those who survived together may be forced apart at its conclusion. This war has already taken my family; I refuse to accept any more losses, no matter what the future holds. If anything comes between us, we will find our way back to one another.

Irena looks to the door. “We should join everyone before Mama thinks I’ve run off to become a fake Nazi again,” she says, but I place a hand on her forearm to prevent her departure.