Suddenly Fritzsch drew his pistol in a swift, fluid motion and shot my opponent in the forehead.

People gasped, some screamed—maybe I screamed—while the man collapsed, but, when Fritzsch turned to me, everyone fell silent. My only consolation was knowing that the prisoner’s death had been instantaneous, so surely mine would be the same.

Instead of firing a second time, Fritzsch returned his gun to its holster and gave me an approving nod. “Well done.”

My ears rang from the gunshot. The dead man had fallen from his chair onto the ground. The hole in his forehead was small, an expert shot, and blood trickled from the wound and surrounded his head. Eyes blank, face slack. One moment alive, the next dead.

Fritzsch took a few steps toward the onlookers. His words floated on the frigid breeze, something about if anyone else would like to play against me, but I couldn’t focus, not on his challenge, not on anything. Another noise broke the silence—laughter, except it couldn’t be. No one would be laughing at death.

As the guards’ laughter faded, my own shuddering breaths filled my ears. Near me, Father Kolbe murmured a prayer for the repose of the dead man’s soul. I thought he told me to avert my eyes, but I was transfixed by shock and morbid curiosity. I’d never witnessed a murder before.

When I was learning how to play chess with my father, sometimes I’d choose a move, then realize I should have selected another. Discouraged and frustrated, I’d ask Tata if I could change my play, start the game over, or quit altogether. He’d never let me. Finish the game, Maria. That was his response every time, no matter my persistence.

All I could do was obey. Sometimes I’d emerge victorious, despite my errors. Other times the mistakes cost me the game. Those losses were the most bitter.

“Prisoner 16671.”

My name sounded harsh and grating on Fritzsch’s tongue, and I closed my eyes as he drew closer. God, please change his mind and let him shoot me, let it be quick, take me away from this place.

“Remove the body.”

Surely I’d misheard him. When I opened my eyes, Fritzsch jerked his head toward a nearby block. The rising sun washed the bricks in crimson light and illuminated a dark heap propped against the building, a tangle of arms and legs and torsos. Corpses.

Let me quit, Tata, please let me quit.

Before I could do more than blanch, Father Kolbe stepped forward, removed his striped cap, and spoke in clear, precise German. “Herr Lagerführer, would you permit me to assist?”

Fritzsch’s gloved fist collided with Father Kolbe’s jaw, and I gasped, but the priest made no sound. Fritzsch turned to me. “Do you need this pathetic bastard’s assistance?”