The words sound almost accusatory, as if he’s prompting me to say more, to reveal why I’ve returned to this place when I was desperate for so long to escape from it. I keep my mouth shut. He’s not going to force me into a play I’m not ready to make. Once I confess why I’ve come—if I lose control—he will have no more need for this game. For me. The past will seize me no matter how I combat it; I’ve spent three months fighting it, and not once have I won.

He will not rush me, will not bring those memories to the surface before I’m ready to battle them. I will cling to control as tightly as a lost little girl once clung to a chess piece from her father.

But he’s right. Returning to Auschwitz makes me feel as if I never left. This is where it all took place, the reality that became the memories. Sometimes it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Being here is like the first day I arrived, and every day that followed.

It’s hell. Absolute hell.

Chapter 5

Auschwitz, 29 May 1941

SCHNELL!” THE SS guard shouted as I marched with the group of men away from the railway platform. He raised his whip, but I moved faster and concealed myself within the throng.

Cold settled over me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the rain that had started to fall or my lingering unease after my interaction with Fritzsch, but I wrapped my arms around myself to ward it off. Keeping my eyes open for my family’s group, I clutched my tiny pawn as we approached what appeared to be a gate flanked by a barbed-wire fence. Once we drew closer, I made out the words on the metal sign over the entrance.

ARBEIT MACHT FREI. Work sets you free.

Irena had never mentioned the Gestapo sending resistance members to a place like this. Maybe she had no idea a place like this existed.

* * *

Six Weeks Earlier

Warsaw, 12 April 1941

A tiny bell over the door jingled in greeting when Irena and I entered the small haberdashery, our final resistance errand for the day. Various patrons were in the midst of browsing, so we did the same. Dark wooden shelves brimming with men’s shirts lined the walls, and we wandered past racks of colorful neckties, leather belts, and hats before lingering at an assortment of sewing accessories.

Behind the counter, the clerk, Mr. Niemczyk, accepted payment from an elderly man, but a young couple examining neckties drew my attention. A swastika pin gleamed on the man’s lapel, and the woman bore the same symbol pinned to her breast. Volksdeutsche.