Chapter 11

Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

THE ALLIES ARE hunting people like you.”

I don’t know why I blurt out the words. Maybe I hope to catch Fritzsch off guard, unnerve him. The alliance of nations on the cusp of defeating Germany and its Axis partners will surely inflict consequences on them. They must intend to hold men like Fritzsch accountable. Perhaps he fears the fate awaiting him, so my threat should pique his interest. He looks up, turning one of the captured black knights over in his hand.

“Is that so?”

His tone is level, unconcerned, untouched by the fears I hoped to provoke—or perhaps simply refusing to reveal them to me. Still I nod, though I’m not certain there’s any truth to my claim. But Fritzsch doesn’t need to know that.

“Yes, and I doubt I’m the only former prisoner looking for you, either. Someone else will find you, just like I did.”

I manage to sound far more confident than I feel. Even if he believes me, I’m certain Fritzsch won’t admit it, but for a moment I could swear something changes in his face. It doesn’t linger long enough for me to decipher it, but it gives me a small boost of encouragement.

Fritzsch scoffs. “The Allies are hunting men who served their country? Men who sought to rid the world of its vermin and make it a better place? And those same vermin think they have any power over those of us loyal to the Reich?”

This time I’m the one who scoffs while I move a bishop. “If those so-called vermin have no power over you, why did you bother meeting one here?”

Although Fritzsch doesn’t respond, his fingers curl around the knight. Success is cool and calming, cleansing me of the turmoil rumbling inside me like the thunder rumbling in the distance. I’m in control. Not Fritzsch.

As he prepares to take his turn, he sighs and wipes rainwater from his face. “I’d hoped the rain would stop, but it hasn’t, so we should move indoors. What do you think? Block 11, perhaps?”

A distant peal of thunder shakes the sky while the memories flare up again, attempting to wrest control from my clutches. I knew better than to provoke him, but I did it. I did it because I’m stupid and reckless.

“You can remember where your pieces were, can’t you?” he asks, gesturing to the board. “Go on, take yours, and I’ll take mine. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”

I rub my hand along the back of my neck and across my back, feeling the thick, raised skin that betrays the web of scars. Suddenly they throb as if they were fresh. “I’m not moving.”

“Don’t be difficult. I’d much prefer Block 11, wouldn’t you?” Fritzsch gathers a few pieces; then he smiles. “We can set up in Cell 18.”