One by one, the guards summoned prisoners from the cell. In a vain attempt to stay calm, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. In and out, slow and controlled. All it did was fill my nostrils with the tang of the blood and urine on the sticky floor and the stench of filthy, unwashed bodies. Every time another guard came to fetch a prisoner, my heart raced with renewed terror as I expected them to call my name.

But when I heard it, my racing heart came to an abrupt halt.

“Maria Florkowska.”

A rush of lightheadedness crashed over me. My body felt rooted to the tram, facing forward, always forward, and suddenly I would’ve given anything to stay seated for the rest of my life rather than go into an interrogation room. But I had to protect my family and the resistance. I sent up a quick prayer for strength and rose.

Upstairs, I sat at a rectangular table with my back to Hitler’s portrait. Two guards stood nearby while I assessed my surroundings. Stationed behind a desk in the corner, an impassive woman rested her fingers on a typewriter keyboard. Otherwise the room was sparse—except the far wall, lined with whips, rubber truncheons, and other instruments of torture.

Under the table, I clasped my hands together in an effort to stop them from shaking.

The door opened to announce my interrogator’s arrival. Sturmbannführer Ebner, the same man who had arrested us.

After the German invasion of 1939, when it had been safe to emerge from our apartment building’s basement, I’d seen a dead horse splayed outside. Birds had torn into its carcass, stripping flesh, muscle, and sinew from bone, staining the ground red, leaving the mangled form to rot. As Ebner sat across from me, I took in his features, from his premature baldness to his aquiline nose, and I couldn’t shake the image of those birds and that carcass.

“My name is Wolfgang Ebner.” His voice was light, as if we were old friends getting reacquainted. “Yours is Maria Florkowska, isn’t it?”

I hated the sound of my name coming out of his mouth, but I didn’t confirm or deny it. When the typewriter dinged, I jumped and hoped Ebner didn’t notice.

“Should I call you Helena Pilarczyk instead?”

The words held a faint trace of sarcasm, and a green identification card landed on the table. My false Kennkarte. He opened it to reveal the fabricated information and forged government stamps surrounding my photograph and signature. When I didn’t speak, Ebner moved the Kennkarte aside.

“As I recall, you speak excellent German, but I can bring in an interpreter if you’d prefer to resolve this matter in your native tongue.”

An interpreter would have lengthened the process, when all I wanted was for it to end. “I’ve been fluent my whole life,” I replied. Somehow I managed to keep my voice level.