Before consuming his meager portion of dark, heavy bread and gray, watery soup, Father Kolbe crossed himself, bowed his head, and clasped his hands, blistered and calloused from his day on the construction site. He didn’t complain, though they must have hurt terribly if they felt as bad as they looked.

I poked his arm. “Stop, you’ll get punished.” It was probably a sin to interrupt someone in prayer, especially when that someone was a priest.

Father Kolbe opened one eye and brought a finger to his lips. “Shhh, I’m not finished.” He smiled and closed it again.

By the time he lifted his head, I’d gulped down my soup. He slipped half his bread to me. With considerable effort, I refrained from shoving the additional portion into my mouth. Instead I nudged him and tried to return it, but he pretended he didn’t notice. I nudged him again, harder this time.

“You might as well eat it, Maria, because I’m not taking it back,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

I couldn’t resist a small smile. “Fine, but you need to eat, too, Father Kolbe.”

“I’ll eat my soup.”

“Right, of course. Be sure you don’t overindulge.”

With a chuckle, Father Kolbe gathered his food and joined a forlorn young man a few meters away. He’d share words of encouragement with the prisoner and likely give him the rest of his bread. That’s what he usually did. I could attempt to dissuade him all I wanted, but he’d never stop.

As I lifted the bread to my lips, a shadow fell over me. A young prisoner stood above me, large and strong, and his greedy gaze was set on my remaining food. A whole ration and a half of bread.

“You won’t last long here. Hand it over.”

We’re a waste of space, a waste of clothes, a waste of rations.

I clung to the bread with a viselike grip and opened my mouth to consume it all at once, but, before I could, the man caught my wrist. As he wrested the rations from my clutches, all I knew was the hunger that clawed my insides. Without bread, I had nothing left to sustain me until morning. I lunged for it, but when he raised a hand I recoiled and shielded my head and face. One eye was blackening, and I didn’t need another. The blow didn’t come. I lifted my head while the inmate walked toward his next victim: Father Kolbe.

As I suspected, Father Kolbe had passed his bread to the man beside him and was preparing to consume his soup. Before the first spoonful reached his mouth, the thief reached him.

“Rations shouldn’t be wasted on the likes of you, old man.” He extended his hand toward the bowl, but Father Kolbe was already offering it to him.