A shout ordered us into Block 18. When the door slammed behind us, I didn’t bother taking in my surroundings. I was trembling and suffocating, and I had to get away. I rushed to the farthest corner of the room, away from my fellow prisoners, and I collapsed.

Fierce, painful sobs strangled me, and the tears burned as they streaked down my cheeks. The flames of guilt and desolation were more agonizing than any pain I’d ever experienced. My entire family was dead.

Now I knew what hell was. Prison wasn’t hell; torture wasn’t hell. Auschwitz was hell.

“I knew I saw a girl.”

The man’s voice was beside me. No one had weapons, but my mind issued a warning—there were countless men in this room and one of me; every single man could be like Protz.

At once, I sat up and swung a closed fist in the voice’s direction, and something crunched and gave way beneath the impact. With a yelp, the man brought both hands to his face before looking at me through wide eyes, which narrowed into a glare. When he lifted his head, blood streamed from his crooked nose.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I tightened my fist in anticipation, but he got up and walked away, muttering something about me being out of my mind. I curled into myself again. The uncontrollable sobs didn’t stop, and my hand throbbed, but the pain was negligible compared to the agony within.

“Things may look bleak, but keep your chin up. You’re not alone.”

Such words were a common sentiment, vain platitudes used in a useless attempt to provide comfort, but something was different. The new voice was so soothing, I didn’t even consider throwing a punch, and the words weren’t empty, but filled with simple confidence.

“What’s your name?”

Although I didn’t lift my head, I calmed myself enough to answer in a whisper. “One-six-six-seven-one.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is 16671.” I spit the number out as my tears welled up afresh. It was the only name fit for me anymore. Bearing the name my parents bestowed upon me was an honor I no longer deserved.

Despite my hostility, the man chuckled. “Well, then, by your logic, my name is 16670. Pleased to meet you.”

I peeked at his uniform. His prisoner number was the one right before mine, and he wore a red triangle with a P on the breast. He dropped to one knee, closer to my eye level, but kept a respectful distance, as if assuring me he meant no harm.

“I’m a Franciscan friar. My monastery printed anti-Nazi publications, so I and some of my brothers were arrested. Why are you here?”