I banished the horrible thoughts when Mateusz withdrew his hand and backed away, his face pale. He looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut. He cast a final, guilty glance at me, his startling blue eyes moving over my scraped knees digging into the gritty road, the swell forming around my eye, the gun against my head. Then he retreated. Once he was about ten meters away, he turned his back.

The moment Mateusz turned, the guard pointed his pistol at the sky, fired, and kicked me to the ground. At the sound, Mateusz whirled in time to see me collapse, and he stared, mouth agape, paler than ever. Laughing at his own cruel prank, the guard allowed me to get up, then shoved me along. We caught up to the group. Though I didn’t dare look behind me, I knew Mateusz’s gaze never left me.

At last the guards ordered us to halt. We’d reached Kommandant Höss’s home, a beautiful villa where he lived with his wife and four young children. Once, while working in his garden, I’d caught a glimpse of the kommandant. He’d invited Fritzsch to the villa for dinner. I’d watched as he kissed his wife and scooped the delighted children into his arms; Fritzsch had offered a bottle of wine to the adults and candies to the children. It was my most baffling day since I’d arrived in the camp. I couldn’t understand how a man running such a twisted operation could assume the role of father and husband while his vicious subordinate played the polite dinner guest, yet there it was, right before me.

The prisoners and I spent hours under the hot sun. We shifted soil, laid flowerbeds, watered plants, and pulled weeds, making sure the kommandant’s garden was in pristine condition. Before Auschwitz, I hadn’t known much about plants or gardening, even though my mother loved flowers, but I was learning as quickly as I could. Work continued uninterrupted until the day was almost over, when I uprooted a crocus stem instead of a weed. The kapo’s club was quick to point out the error of my ways.

After marching back to the camp, tired and dirty and sore, I received my evening meal, one that made me long for the bundle of questionable meat wrapped in butcher paper that Mama used to bring home after picking up rations. I took my food back to Block 18, where Father Kolbe greeted me with his usual smile and led me past the men toward our pallets.

Most men in my block hardly glanced at me anymore, unless it was a look of frustration or annoyance, as if my presence somehow inconvenienced them. Still, I kept close to Father Kolbe as we passed. Although I remained vigilant and never felt completely safe, Father Kolbe made me feel safer.