Despite the question, something told me I had no choice in my answer unless I wanted more bodies added to the death count. I shook my head.

Father Kolbe dipped his head in concession. As he returned to his place, I swore his lips moved, could almost hear a faint prayer.

Something inside propelled me toward the dead man, though I wished I could trade places with him. Never did I imagine I’d envy a corpse. I got out of my chair, lifted his ankles in trembling hands, and, with awkward, labored efforts, trudged toward the pile of bodies while everyone watched. As I crossed the square, my attempts transitioned from staccato tugs into a slow, continuous drag across the dirt and gravel, but I kept moving. I had to keep moving.

When I reached the corpses, I stopped.

Pawiak had smelled like suffering, but Auschwitz smelled like death. A repugnant stench permeated the air around the naked bodies. I left the man beside the pile of rotting, maggot-infested corpses and buried my nose in the crook of my arm to stifle a gag. Although I didn’t have the strength to run, I stumbled away. When I was far enough to breathe again, I gathered my uniform in my hands, hands that had touched a dead body.

Once I returned to Father Kolbe’s side, I bit the inside of my cheek, praying pain would distract me, but pain wasn’t strong enough to keep me from noticing the blood-splattered chessboard or Fritzsch’s eyes on me.

I fell to my hands and knees, unable and unwilling to fight my heaving stomach this time. Vomit spewed onto the gravel and splashed my uniform and skin. My body purged itself of everything it once held vital until nothing remained. I was hollow, useless. Nothing but a number.

Chapter 7

Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

DESPITE HAVING TO play with the black pieces, I’m satisfied with my development so far. Fritzsch and I remain evenly matched, both with secure defenses around our kings, both setting up strong attacks.

As I contemplate my next play, a sudden clatter breaks both the steady thrum of rainfall and my concentration. I gasp and snap my head up. On Fritzsch’s side of the board, a few pieces lie on their sides.

“My fault,” he says as he rights them.

I release a slow breath to calm the fluttering in my chest, then I return my attention to the board and evaluate my pieces. Silence settles over us until I reach for a pawn. The clatter comes again, and I draw back with another sharp breath.

“Damn this rain. It makes everything more slippery, doesn’t it?” Fritzsch picks up the pieces once more. “Why so skittish? A few falling chess pieces shouldn’t—”

“Let me focus.”