Before I could demand an admission of guilt, she raised her shoulders in a flippant shrug. “I didn’t see the harm in letting you believe you’d see them again. In a place like this, even false hope is better than no hope at all.”

At those words, I couldn’t find my voice to respond. Any ray of hope was extinguished the moment I found my family at the death wall. Hope could have sustained me, but reality crushed me. Suddenly I found myself wishing I’d been able to cling to it a moment longer. But it was too late now that I’d become nothing. A dull, useless pawn, powerless, easily captured. Existence was meaningless for a thing identified by a number.

The day my family died, everything within me died alongside them. Death had already claimed my heart, mind, and soul, and my body was next. All I had to do was wait. And I grew more impatient each day.

“Why did they let you live?”

I took a breath to settle the sudden tightness in my chest. “Bad luck. And you?”

“I speak five languages—Yiddish, Polish, German, Czech, and French—and convinced them to let me work as a translator so a man with the same skills could be used for physical labor instead. If you’re going to survive here, you need to learn some things.” She stared pointedly at the wooden clogs on my swollen, blistered feet. “Shoes can be the difference between dying and living. Organize a new pair.”

“Organize?”

“Steal, plunder, whatever you want to call it. The SS men have stockrooms where they keep items confiscated from transports. I can get some for you, but most people on the black market will require something in exchange.”

So this place had a black market for additional resources, just like Warsaw. She paused long enough to ensure that the guards still hadn’t noticed her before continuing.

“Inmates, kapos, and even some guards are willing to exchange goods or services if you make the right offer. Food. Money. Skills. Yourself.” At this, I dropped my gaze, suppressing a shudder. She wore worn leather boots that looked as if they’d been nice at one time. Stolen from an innocent person who was dead now. The rules that governed this place—or lack thereof—astounded me. Her shoes reminded me there were people here who wanted to survive, people who still had something to live for. Given her offer, she must have been under the impression I was one of those people.

“I don’t want new shoes, and I don’t need your help.”

“The second thing you need is an indoor labor assignment. Give me a few days—”

“I said I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do. Or did you find someone else who knows what it’s like to be a woman in a men’s camp?”