I wanted to live. Every part of me wanted to live. Auschwitz had taken so much from me, but I wouldn’t let it have me, too. Not if I could help it. This was a game I’d vowed to win. And the conversation between the guards had inspired the next phase of my strategy.

Once the rest of the prisoners joined us for roll call, I took my place next to Father Kolbe. Though I’d bought myself time with chess tournaments, those wouldn’t be enough to wrest control away from Fritzsch—but with this next phase I’d just conceived, perhaps I’d found the solution. All I had to do was make it work before he decided I was no longer useful.

To my left, Father Kolbe hummed a piece by Schubert, one that accompanied a familiar Marian prayer. The Ave Maria.

The melody transported me home, and I closed my eyes. Mama was there, seated at her dressing table, armed with hairpins. While her fingers twisted and shaped her blond tresses, she watched her reflection and softly sang, as she often did when focused. Her tone was graceful, reverent, and her lips enunciated each Latin word while her meticulous fingers inserted hairpins into the elegant creation atop her head. Tata paused outside the doorway, listening, loath to disturb her. She smiled when she caught his eye in the mirror, but she didn’t stop.

Father Kolbe’s tune ended, carrying Mama’s voice away and bringing me back to the roll-call square. I waited until Fritzsch’s heavy footfalls reached my ears as he strolled through our ranks. Time to test my plan.

I took a breath to gather my courage and dropped my voice to a whisper. “My mother used to sing that hymn all the time.”

Fritzsch came closer. I suspected he’d heard me. Though I didn’t look at him, I felt him scrutinizing me. This had to happen if my plan was going to work, but that didn’t make it any easier to draw a steady breath while the threat of his wrath loomed over me.

Fritzsch watched me, taking his time. “Prisoner 16671, were you speaking?”

“Yes, Herr Lagerführer.” Answer as simply as possible. Never offer details unless asked.

“Which of these sorry bastards were you addressing?”

I tried to speak, swallowed hard, and tried again. “None of them, I . . . I was talking to myself.”

It was the most pathetic lie I’d ever told, but that didn’t matter. My plan didn’t involve incriminating Father Kolbe. I’d just needed a reason to say something. From the corner of my eye, I saw Father Kolbe opening his mouth, but he didn’t have a chance to intervene before Fritzsch’s club met my stomach and sent me to the ground. I gritted my teeth against the familiar, pulsating pain, trying not to give him the satisfaction of my agonized cry, but of course I failed.