And I did play well, but, the deeper we got into the game, the more agonizing each passing moment became. Father Kolbe had helped me so much this past month, and now he’d done this, for no reason other than to provide me with joy. All I’d done was keep secrets from him.

The realization was all-consuming, so much so that when the second gong sounded and sent us into evening silence, I muttered a quick thanks for the game, gathered the pieces, and turned away. As we settled down for the night, I begged sleep to come immediately so the nagging thought would leave me alone, but it didn’t work. There was only one way to escape the weight pressing upon me.

Father Kolbe had treated me with compassion. I could at least give him honesty in return.

After allowing a few minutes for people to fall asleep, I got up. If I waited longer, I’d lose my nerve. I reached across to Father Kolbe and tapped him on the shoulder, trying not to disturb the clusters of slumbering people.

We moved to the far corner of the room, where we sat while I gathered my courage. Even though he couldn’t see my expression in the darkness, I imagined that Father Kolbe knew I had something important to say. He waited for me to speak. If I told him the truth, there would be no going back, but I couldn’t bear the deceit any longer.

So I told him what I’d never told anyone else—the story of how my family and I were sent to Auschwitz, beginning with our arrest.

Chapter 9

Warsaw, 25 May 1941

LET’S PLAY MONOPOLY, Maria,” Zofia said, twirling her finger around a loose curl. She rolled a ball to Karol, but he missed it, so it continued past him toward Tata’s chair. Tata sipped ersatz coffee and used his cane to guide the ball back to my siblings.

“Sorry, Zofia, I can’t.” I refrained from mentioning why, but she wouldn’t need an explanation. If I refused her on a Sunday, the reason was always the same.

“Are you leaving for the convent? May I go, Mama?”

“No,” Mama said too quickly. She grabbed the nearest dishrag and gathered crumbs from the table with meticulous care.

Ignoring Zofia’s complaints, I went into my bedroom and pulled on a thin pale pink sweater over my white shirtwaist. I watched my reflection in the mirror as my fingers moved through the familiar pattern to secure my hair in a braid. Once finished, a few tiny strands refused to be tamed; otherwise, it was suitable. I straightened my green plaid skirt and made sure my Kennkarte was in my handbag, then fetched my basket from the kitchen, checked the false bottom to ensure the documents were inside, and arranged a couple of potatoes over the compartment. When I returned to the living room, Zofia was still prattling.