A large truck and two cars drove through the intersection. The sight brought me to a startled halt, and I lingered by the door while they parked. SS officers and men dressed like civilians swarmed onto the street like ants upon carrion. As one of the men got out of his car, he tucked something into an interior coat pocket. The sunlight glinted off a chain and silver disk.

A warrant badge.

I’d never seen one, but Irena and my parents had described them to me countless times. It was the only way to identify the people we feared most. Someone had betrayed my family, I was sure of it, otherwise the Gestapo wouldn’t have come.

When the Gestapo agents didn’t charge into my building, I loosened my grip on the doorknob. They stood by their vehicles while one consulted a piece of paper and said something about needing to go down one more block, but one of the SS officers scanned Bałuckiego Street until his sights locked on a new target—me.

“Come here.”

Resistance members and Gestapo agents played a similar game. We hid our identities and completed our missions in secret while no one around us knew the truth of who we were. I’d probably passed countless Gestapo agents on the street without knowing it, perhaps had even been stopped by SS men who were also secret members, but this time I was fully aware of who had beckoned me.

Swallowing hard, I obliged and took small steps to buy time to think. The street was bare and quiet, magnifying the shuddering breaths that announced my panic like the loudspeakers in the square announced every German victory. They couldn’t have suspected me of anything when all I’d done was leave the building . . .

I clutched my basket tighter to focus my thoughts. Stay calm. Study them.

There were six and, judging by the insignia that determined his rank and the number of medals on his uniform, the man who had spoken was in charge. As I drew closer, his unyielding gaze remained fixed on me.

“Identification,” he said.

That particular order never got any easier to hear. I searched for my Kennkarte, delaying as long as possible. This officer wasn’t a boy who prided himself on shiny jackboots, massive weapons, and titles. This was an officer whose mission was to crush the resistance. I needed to ensure that he didn’t consider me a threat. After handing over my Kennkarte, I took a moment to gather myself, then inserted a level of lightness into my voice.

“If you’ll forgive me, Herr Sturmbannführer, I’m on my way to—” Both my voice and my courage fled when he looked at me. I’d never had so much difficulty attempting to be calm before an officer. “To meet a friend.”

“The basket.”

Everything in me screamed in refusal. “Of course, but my—”