Gasping, I scrubbed my hand on my plaid skirt, except it wasn’t my plaid skirt; it was a striped uniform. I grabbed a black pawn, but it was sticky and covered my fingers in dark, coagulated blood, and I looked across the board to find not one opponent but hundreds—naked bodies, piled on a truck. At once, I found them. Or maybe they found me. Mama, Tata, Zofia, Karol. Their eyes, which once shone with vivacity and love, now vacant and lifeless, staring at me, accusing me, reminding me this was my fault, all my fault.

Sobbing screams woke me, and it took a moment to realize they were my own. I’d fallen asleep even though I thought I’d never sleep again.

“Shut up!” an angry, groggy voice shouted.

The reprimand must have been directed at me, and some inmates complained about the disruption, but I couldn’t control the sobs.

“Shhh, you’re all right, Maria.”

“My family—”

The gasping cry emerged before I stopped myself from saying more. Don’t. Don’t tell him what happened.

Father Kolbe helped me up and guided me toward the wall, and we sat with our backs against it in the midst of the sleeping forms. He wrapped an arm around my shaking shoulders and allowed me to cry.

“Would it make you feel better if you told me about your family?” he whispered once my sobs faded into hiccups, but I shook my head in refusal. “Very well, we’ll sit here until you’re ready to go back to sleep.”

“I’m not going back to sleep.”

“In that case, we’ll sit for as long as you’d like.” Despite my panic, Father Kolbe’s voice remained calm. “Have faith, child. Even though your family isn’t here, they’re always with you spiritually. And you’re always with them.”

His words dispelled a bit of the anxiety coursing through my body. I didn’t reply, and Father Kolbe was silent before he started murmuring familiar words. He was praying the rosary. My family and I would gather in the living room to recite this same prayer every night before bed. The rosary’s large and small beads were a tangible reminder of each Our Father and Hail Mary passing over my lips while I contemplated Jesus Christ’s life. Now, I could almost imagine that Father Kolbe’s voice was my father’s, could almost feel the beads between my fingers.

Thoughts of my family would make me start crying again. Instead I concentrated on staying awake and listening to Father Kolbe’s prayer, but nothing alleviated the weight in my chest.

I ached, inside and out, heart and mind, body and soul. It was an ache that would never subside. In this game, my opponent surrounded me on all sides, allowing no foreseeable escape.

Listen to the prayers, think of the prayers. Don’t sleep. Stay awake, just stay awake.