And he does. Queen’s pawn to D4. The solitary white pawn stands two squares ahead of its row, already seeking control of the center of the board. When my black queen’s pawn meets his in the center, he responds with a second pawn to the left of his first, finishing the opening.

Fritzsch rests his forearms on the table. “Your move, 16671.”

I swallow the Jawohl, Herr Lagerführer rising to my throat. He’s not my camp deputy anymore. I won’t address him as such.

When I stay silent, the corner of his mouth tightens, and the heat of satisfaction courses through my body, mingling with the chill of this dreary morning. As I examine the board, I keep both hands in his view—the pistol remains tucked inside my skirt pocket, heavy as it rests against my lap.

Fritzsch watches while I reach for my next pawn, eyes alight as if he expects me to speak. Something inside urges me to comply, if only to get away from him, from this place, but I can’t, not yet. Not until the time is right. Then I will demand the answers I seek, but if I let the questions consume me now, if I lose focus—

After I make my play, I smooth my damp skirt, giving myself a reason to hide my hands under the table. The trembles can’t start. This game is too important. My hands are steady for now, but the slightest change is all it takes.

Finish the game, Maria.

Chess is my game. It’s always been my game.

And after all this time, this game will end my way.

Chapter 2

Warsaw, 27 May 1941

EVER SINCE MY family and I were confined to Pawiak Prison, one phrase had reverberated in my mind: The Gestapo will come for me.

Huddled in the corner of our cell, I hugged my knees against my chest and brushed my thumb over my split bottom lip. At first I thought maybe the German secret police would decide I wasn’t worth their time. One look at my blond braid and wide eyes, and they’d deem me harmless.

But it was too late for that. They already had proof of what I’d done.

On the single metal bed with its thin mattress, Zofia hugged Mama’s arm. A prisoner had just stumbled past our cell, but my little sister hadn’t released Mama or stopped staring at the bars on the door. The man’s pleas for mercy echoed in my ears, pleas that had earned him kicks and shoves as the guards ushered him away. At last Mama coaxed Zofia into loosening her grip, then wrestled with her golden curls, likely hoping to distract her.

Karol, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the scene we’d witnessed. He got up from the filthy floor and hurried to my father at the opposite edge of the cot.