A new sound, deep and callous. Laughter. Why was he laughing at my query? It wasn’t meant to be amusing.

When I still hadn’t complied, he cast humor aside and took a threatening step toward me. “Take off your damn clothes, or I’ll take them off for you.”

After a few agonizing seconds, I swallowed hard, fought hot tears, and loosened my grip on my sweater. Anything to keep his hands off me. I fumbled with buttons and clasps, every movement a betrayal. Once the deed was done, I stood, naked, milky white skin splotched with harsh blues and purples, in front of a strange man old enough to be my father. Cheeks hot, eyes downcast, I crossed my arms over my bruised breasts to retain some modesty. It did no good.

The man snatched my clothes and tossed them onto a pile, but I kept the pawn from Tata hidden in my fist.

He wouldn’t take that from me.

Someone handed me a card with a number written on it—my new name, so I was told—but one-six-six-seven-one didn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as Maria.

Some men attempted to cover themselves, others didn’t bother, and we funneled past three young SS men watching us walk by. Nothing alleviated the most horrid vulnerability I’d ever known, this nakedness among strangers. The men were united in their exposure, but I bore it alone, the single female suffering this misery, the single body that didn’t match those surrounding her. As I walked, warmed only by the heat of shame, all I wanted was to be inconspicuous, to be small and invisible.

I watched the ankles in front of me, arms across my chest, until a firm hand closed around my wrist. The hand pulled me toward its owner, bringing me face-to-face with one of the young SS men.

“No need for modesty, sweetheart.”

He captured my other wrist and, despite my resistance, easily pulled my arms away from my body. I froze, unable to escape, unable to shield myself.

He assessed me with a sweeping glance. “There, isn’t that much more comfortable?”

All I could do was stare at the Totenkopf emblems on his cap and collar. Two more pairs of eyes, two more eerie grins.

His companions took my arms, and one laughed. “This one’s young even for you, Protz. What’s a girl doing here?”

I hated Fritzsch for sending me with the men.

This wasn’t happening; it wasn’t. His hands weren’t on my chest, they weren’t sliding down my waist to my hips, he wasn’t smiling as I flinched or pulling me closer. But I couldn’t deny the guttural order that accompanied the finger tracing down my cheek.

“Come with me, little one.”

Struggle, scream, beg. For God’s sake, do something, anything.

But I didn’t.