I could have spat in his face or begged for mercy, and neither would have made a difference. I was in no condition to be defiant, but I chose defiance anyway. It was all I had left.

“I don’t know, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’m just a stupid girl.”

The slap was almost worth it. Almost.

The stinging blow split my lip, and I was too busy spitting blood to hear what he said next; then the Gestapo agent spun me to face someone.

It was Mrs. Kruczek, our neighbor. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to leave the apartment building, but it was too late. She stood frozen in the doorway, petrified, and clutched her baby, Jan, to her chest. I stared at her, pleading through silence.

Some of the guns pointed at me turned on Mrs. Kruczek. She gasped and held Jan tighter, as if her arms could have somehow fended off bullets.

“Identify this girl and where she lives, or all three of you will die.”

Another man repeated Ebner’s order in Polish. She had no choice. I knew she had no choice. But I kept praying anyway.

Please. Please don’t. My family.

Mrs. Kruczek’s glassy eyes met mine, as if issuing a silent apology, before she lowered them. Her voice shook so much she hardly got the words out. “Maria Florkowska. Second floor.”

Think, think, for God’s sake, think.

They dragged me past a sobbing Mrs. Kruczek, inside, and upstairs. Thank God Mama and Tata’s false identifications had been stolen. My parents wouldn’t be implicated, and Zofia and Karol were children. Surely the Gestapo didn’t care about children, so they’d tell my family about my arrest, nothing more.

A heavy fist pounded on the door bearing my family name, but no one had the opportunity to respond before a booted foot delivered a swift, forceful kick. It caved with a splintering crack. They threw me inside, and I stumbled into my father’s arms.

When I lifted my head, I noticed my own blood had stained his shirt. I had only a moment to meet Tata’s horrified gaze before the men invaded and tore me from the security of his grasp. Their bellows mingled with Mama’s scream.

The Gestapo agents turned over furniture, emptied cabinets and drawers, broke dishes, pulled up rugs, and demolished everything in their path. I thanked God Tata’s resistance newspaper, the one piece of evidence they could have found, had already disappeared from its usual hiding place—beneath the seat cushion of his chair. One of the Gestapo agents flipped the coffee table over, and my chessboard crashed to the ground. The beautiful pieces scattered.