Such a simple question, yet such a complex answer. Because I got my family arrested, because I got lost, because my family was dead. I swallowed the tears and wiped the moisture from my cheeks. “I worked for the resistance in Warsaw.” He didn’t need the entire truth.

“You must be a very brave girl,” he murmured, but, of all the words I’d have used to describe myself, brave wasn’t one. “My name is Father Maksymilian Kolbe.”

The priest had a slight cleft chin and a handful of distinct lines and razor cuts on his face. He must have had a beard before being shaved—which would have made sense, considering he was a friar—and he seemed a few years older than my father. He regarded me with such kindness, kindness I could have wiped away if I told him the truth. A sincerity swelled behind his eyes, but, no matter how much I trusted him, I couldn’t reveal what I’d done.

Still, he waited for my reply. For me to tell him my name. But I’d already told him what to call me.

Maria Florkowska was a stupid child who’d thought she could transform a meager pawn into a mighty queen. She was a fool, a pawn in a game she’d never win, outwitted, outplayed, and outmaneuvered by opponents far more intelligent and powerful. Her family had paid with their lives while she became a häftling, Prisoner 16671.

And Prisoner 16671 was nothing. I was nothing.

“My given name was Maria. My resistance name was Helena. My new name is Prisoner 16671.” My voice was gruff and sharp and angry, so angry.

Father Kolbe dipped his head into a small nod. “I see.”

He turned to comfort a man who was cursing and lamenting his fate. I looked around long enough to confirm that I was the youngest in our block, and the sole female prisoner. I drew my knees up, pressed myself into the corner, and stared at the stripes on my uniform. When the distraught man fell quiet, Father Kolbe spoke with a few others, then sat next to me. I didn’t look up.

“My given name is Raymund, but when I professed my vows, I received two new names. The first is Maksymilian. The second is Maria, after the Immaculata, the immaculate Virgin Mother of God. The name holds a dear place in my heart, and even small joys make a difference in times like these. If you wouldn’t mind, may I call you Maria?”

The name wasn’t mine anymore, so I should have refused, but he looked so hopeful. I could make an exception, simply because it comforted him. I nodded my assent.

“How old are you, Maria?” Father Kolbe asked, then he chuckled. “Forgive me, but they took my spectacles.”

“Fourteen.”

“Is anyone here with you? A friend, perhaps, or your family?”