Of course he’d suggest that. I knew he would, but when I hear the words something inside me feels like it’s on the verge of collapse. I dig my fingernails into my palm, desperate to keep it contained. “You’re not going anywhere near Cell 18.”

“Aren’t you going to get your pieces?”

“No, I’m not moving. I said I’m not moving—”

“No need to get excited,” Fritzsch says, silencing the hysteria rising in my voice. “I thought you’d welcome the idea of taking shelter from the rain, but it was only a suggestion. A simple ‘No, thank you, Herr Lagerführer’ would suffice.” He puts the pieces back, moves a pawn, and nods at me. “Your move.”

My move. The scars across my back throb so much, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.

Chapter 12

Auschwitz, 29 July 1941

THE EARLY MORNING sun peeked over the blocks on what was proving to be a sweltering day. But the suffocating heat wasn’t what made it difficult for me to breathe—it was the guards’ panicked shouts and recounts.

An inmate had escaped. An inmate from my block. Those who failed in their escape attempts were penalized, often killed; those who somehow managed to succeed left the rest of us behind to accept the consequences for them.

I did my best to remain inconspicuous, disregarding the sound of Fritzsch’s curses. Once the guards finished roll call, he announced the punishment.

“The following ten prisoners from Block 14 are sentenced to immurement.”

Confinement and starvation. What a horrible way to die. Fritzsch strolled up and down our ranks, assessing each petrified prisoner, selecting his victims one by one. As he called out numbers, guards pulled the poor, innocent inmates out of line and gathered them together to be escorted to their fate. I pitied them, but my mind was too clouded by a single plea to focus on pity.

Please don’t call my number or Father Kolbe’s.

The phrase banished all thought, and I repeated it over and over in my mind, as if my desperation could somehow control Fritzsch’s decision. Surely he wouldn’t select me. He had plans for future chess tournaments—unless he’d changed his mind and decided he was tired of me after all. No strategy had prepared me for this. I was bound by his camp, his rules, his timing; no matter how determined I was to have him transferred, to honor my family with my survival, his next move could destroy everything.

When Fritzsch reached my row, he had one person left to choose. With each step he took toward me, my silent plea grew in volume until it reached a full-fledged scream. Please don’t call my number or Father Kolbe’s please don’t—

Fritzsch stopped when he reached me, and the screaming in my mind fell silent.