They don’t know why Aunt Hania struggled for so long to break her smoking habit or why Aunt Irena never removes the gold crucifix around her neck. Why Uncle Izaak occasionally sits alone, uttering faint whispers about how it could have been any of us. Why Uncle Franz insists that food should never be wasted, because they were skeletons, every one of them. Why Uncle Mateusz carries a faded scrap of paper in his wallet. Why Aunt Maria experiences debilitating headaches and sometimes wakes in the middle of the night, gasping Jawohl, Herr Lagerführer . . .

Our children know so little when they long to know so much.

Leaving me with a kiss on my cheek, Mateusz rejoins our group. When I look at the gate again, the twinge slips into my head, threatening to overtake me. The burdens are simultaneously too horrific to speak of and yet necessary to divulge. History is the grand master, and only by studying his game can the pupil learn and improve.

I allow the twinge to pass before glancing between Irena and Hania. “You’ll stay with me?”

Hania intertwines her arm with mine. “Have we ever left you, shikse?”

Years ago, I confronted my past alone. Today I will face my past alongside those who helped me through it. Together, Irena, Hania, and I walk through the gate, and our family follows.

We go slowly, relaying our experiences along the way. When we turn right toward the roll-call square, images of countless chess games and Fritzsch’s dead body flit through my mind, but they don’t torment me further. My feet know where to go as I traverse the rocky, uneven road and file past the familiar redbrick buildings.

Inside Block 11, we descend the stairs to Cell 18. My family has heard many stories of Father Kolbe, but none from the time I spent visiting him in this cell. Conjuring the words is difficult at first; then they come, passing over my lips like rosary beads passing between my fingers. When I’m finished, everyone waits for me outside while I stay at the cell, holding Father Kolbe’s rosary, hearing his prayers and hymns that brought light and comfort into this place of darkness and despair. I reach into my handbag and pull out my childhood rosary, the one Irena recovered from my family’s apartment. I slip it through the bars. Father Kolbe gave me his, so it’s only fair that I return the favor.

Once outside, we stand before Blocks 10 and 11, facing the courtyard’s open iron gate, where I stood on my first day here. The day I spoke to the prisoner filling the truck with bodies.

The wall is there. It’s a new wall, because the original was taken down, and this one is covered with flowers, stones, prayer cards, and memorials. The gray structure stands out so prominently against the red bricks. As we enter the courtyard, their names echo with every step.