Despite my resolution, Father Kolbe’s gentle recitation lulled me into slumber. This time, my dreams were peaceful.

* * *

Impatient shouts roused me. When I lifted my head from Father Kolbe’s shoulder, he stood, offered me his hand, and helped me to my feet. Through the darkness, I could see his bloodshot eyes beneath drooping eyelids, though he offered me a soft smile. I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep after I woke everyone.

Outside, on a large parade ground stretching between Blocks 16 and 17, soldiers instructed us to line up in rows of ten for appell, as they said in German. Some Poles didn’t seem to understand the order, but the guards’ clubs spoke a universal language. My uniform did little to ward off the morning chill, but anyone who moved or complained was struck, so I tried not to succumb to shivers. I stood near the front, next to Father Kolbe, still and silent, while the guards counted the prisoners.

“All here, Herr Lagerführer,” one man reported after we’d been standing for ages.

The lagerführer stepped into view, a man in a field-gray uniform.

Fritzsch.

I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I turned my attention to the stoic officer beside him. Thanks to the dark circles under his hooded eyes and the lines around his wide nose, pursed mouth, and broad forehead, he looked old, older than his age would likely predict. A Luger P08 sat on his hip, similar to the one Tata kept in the closet with his army uniform from the Great War. When he’d taught me how to clean and load the weapon, he’d told me how he saved his comrade-in-arms from a German bullet, so he’d kept the German’s pistol. Tata had shown me how to fire it, too, and he’d promised to let me shoot it someday. That day never came.

This wasn’t the time for tears. I couldn’t think of my family.

Determined to keep my thoughts guarded, I refocused on the man next to Fritzsch. He ordered one prisoner to move a few centimeters left to straighten the line. The häftling obliged, but I didn’t notice much difference.

“My name is Rudolf Höss, kommandant of Auschwitz,” he said, once satisfied with our formation. “Every morning, you will line up in the square for roll call, like you are now. Once each prisoner is accounted for, you will report to your work detail. You will obey commands promptly and labor with precision and efficiency. From this day forward, I turn you over to my camp deputy, Karl Fritzsch. I trust he will adequately maintain the standards I have regarding how my camp is to be run.”

As Höss concluded, his voice didn’t carry the same confidence in Fritzsch that his words did. He started to walk away and scanned the crowd one final time; then he stopped.

“Is that a girl?”