I didn’t know how to respond. I wished he’d yell at me, curse me, tell me I was damned for all eternity. For some reason, that would have made it easier to remain firm in my decision. Instead all I sensed was quiet empathy. Of course he wasn’t trying to dissuade me through a fit of righteous anger. That wasn’t Father Kolbe’s way, but somehow his gentleness was harder to resist.

“Your life is a gift, even during terrible suffering. It’s been a gift to me. Your family wouldn’t want you to give it up.”

It was strange to hear him speak of my family’s wishes after I’d spent all this time suppressing my memories of them. Keeping them hidden was supposed to protect me from pain, but it had left me with nothing but emptiness. Now I allowed myself to picture my family, to let them fill my emptiness. During my time in Auschwitz, I’d detached myself from such recollections, watching from the outside. Remembering, but not remembering. This time, I was on the inside. Mama. Tata. Zofia. Karol.

Father Kolbe pressed something into my palm. I couldn’t see it through the darkness, but I recognized the feeling of the smooth, round beads. A rosary.

“When I arrived, I asked a soldier if I could keep my rosary. Now I want you to have it. You’re named after the Blessed Mother, and the rosary glorifies her Son’s life—even His suffering and death. Within Christ’s life, you’ll find the strength to make peace within yourself and survive this place.”

In the silence, my bony fingers moved along the beads and found the crucifix. I closed my hand around it, and the simple gesture broke every barrier within me. Everything I’d kept behind those barriers came tumbling out, and I sobbed as hard as I had when my family died. Father Kolbe’s rosary pressed into my palm while recollections filled my head, memories of nights spent praying these familiar prayers with my family. Somehow the acute pain was more bearable. And somehow I felt less despicable than I had in weeks.

When my tears subsided, Father Kolbe’s emaciated hand closed over mine. My grip on his rosary didn’t loosen, and his gentle murmur filled every corner of the room.

“Live, Maria. Live for your family. Fight for your family. And survive for them.”

* * *

I was under no illusions that death was guaranteed to leave me be. No one was safe from it. The chess pieces were set up on the board, and I faced an opponent more ruthless and unpredictable than any I’d ever confronted. We’d made our first moves, and the game was underway.