Once, Karol found a dead beetle on the kitchen floor. He dissected it and studied its legs, exoskeleton, and insides, leaving no part of the unfortunate creature unscrutinized. Now, as strange men shaved and probed me, I felt like Karol’s beetle. When the humiliation was over, I touched the fuzz remaining on my head. It was all I had left to call hair. If I didn’t touch it and ignored the chill on my neck, I could almost pretend I still had my long blond locks. But there was no point in fooling myself.

Zofia would hate this. If there was one thing she loved about herself, it was her curls.

Disinfectant stung terribly against the cuts covering my body, but after all the places strange hands, eyes, and instruments had violated me, not even the fiery purge of the cleanser made me feel clean again. Someone shoved a gray-and-blue-striped garment into my hands. The hideous, coarse uniform was a welcome sight, and I tugged it on as quickly as possible. I would never take clothing for granted again.

My uniform was too big, but no one seemed to care. A red triangle with a P inside was emblazoned on the left breast, and below the letter was a white strip of fabric with my number, 16671, in black. My new name. I pretended the headscarf hid the baldness, but it probably accentuated it; then I stepped into a pair of cumbersome wooden clogs.

In the next room, I attempted to fill out a registration form, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking, the scribbles barely legible. Another man in stripes took a few photographs of each new prisoner, then the guards ushered us outside.

Surely the worst was over now. I fell to the back of the throng as we marched across the expansive grounds. This place looked more like a camp than a prison. The rain fell steadily, and I narrowed my eyes against it to look for my family. With our shaved heads and matching uniforms, it was impossible to tell anyone apart, but my hope was to see a man, woman, and two children together.

A lone prisoner walked down the street, one with a headscarf instead of a cap. A woman. Thank God, finally another woman. As she drew closer, I slowed my pace, then touched her arm to catch her attention. She drew back, staring at me with dark eyes set in hollow sockets and framed by a gaunt face. She was thin, far too thin.

“You’re a girl.” The incredulous murmur carried a slight accent, one I used to hear all the time before the war.