I pull Father Kolbe’s rosary from my pocket and pass my fingers over the pale blue beads. It’s worn from decades of use, but it’s one of my most treasured possessions. I close my hand around the silver crucifix, recalling the night Father Kolbe—now Saint Maksymilian Kolbe—pressed it gently into my palm. Those first weeks in Auschwitz were the darkest days of my life, but this rosary is from a man who gave a tortured girl the courage to live, fight, and survive.

After tucking the rosary away, I draw a breath until the chilly air fills my lungs, warding off the reminders encroaching upon my mind. The memories will come. And when they do, I’ll face them.

Visitors from all over the world file past, murmuring in their native tongues, taking photographs, asking questions, and listening to tour guides. Instead of continuing through the gate, I begin the journey three kilometers west, one I’ve made so many times before. A guide attempts to convince me to wait for the shuttle that travels between camps, but I shake my head. If I could walk this distance as a starved and battered child, I can walk it as a healthy, middle-aged woman.

I reach the women’s sector in Birkenau and don’t stop until I’ve returned to my block. Unlike some of the other barracks, mine hasn’t been destroyed. A few tourists file out as I enter. I cross the uneven floor until I reach the top bunk where Hania and I spent so many nights, shivering and huddled together against the relentless cold. A rose and a stone rest on the wooden planks, both in remembrance of the dead.

Taking a deep breath, I kneel before the loose brick and pull it free. The hand holding it is pale, yet flushed pink, slightly wrinkled and peppered with a few age spots, lined with remnants of old scars. This hand has clutched this brick so many times before; in those days, my hand was gray and cracked, covered in calluses, scrapes, and bruises, unrecognizable beneath layers of filth. How things have changed.

Now that I’ve revealed the depression in the dirt, I look inside. There it is, exactly as I left it. The jewelry pouch I organized for my chess pieces.

With shaking hands, I pour the pebbles and twigs into my palm. Each one is here. A wistful smile plays around my lips while I set up the game on my old bunk; then I return the pouch to its hiding place and re-cover it with the brick.