To meet his gaze would have been defiant, and defiance would have been the worst move to make. All I could do was stare at his jackboots, praying, willing him away, cursing my plea for doing no good even though I’d known it wouldn’t. Fritzsch stood before me, motionless, and I felt his eyes scraping across my number while he took a breath.

With a chuckle, he moved past Father Kolbe beside me. I’d barely wrapped my head around our fortune before he announced the tenth and final prisoner sentenced to immurement.

“Prisoner 5659.”

The last victim was a man near me, and when he heard his number his face turned white. He collapsed with a piercing wail. “My wife, my children . . . I’ll never see them again.”

When the cry left the devastated man’s lips, Father Kolbe stepped forward without hesitation. He said something no one heard over the inmate’s pleas for mercy, but Fritzsch noticed that Father Kolbe had moved out of line. He held up a hand, and the guard paused before collecting Prisoner 5659. Fritzsch told the weeping man to shut up, then regarded Father Kolbe with a sneer.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, so Father Kolbe repeated himself in his calm, gentle manner.

“I’m a Catholic priest. I’d like to take this man’s place, because he has a wife and children.”

At this, everyone fell into stunned silence—the prisoners, the guards, and especially the young man. Even Fritzsch was rendered speechless. He took a moment to recover; once he had, he looked at Father Kolbe with renewed interest. “You’re a Catholic priest?”

“I am, Herr Lagerführer.”

Fritzsch exchanged a pleased glance with the other guards, kicked the dumbfounded young man, and ordered him back into line. “Replace 5659 with 16670. Take the prisoners to Block 11.”

The trade happened so fast, I hadn’t processed it before the guards led Father Kolbe away. He looked back at me. My dear, selfless friend. I could almost hear his soothing voice bidding me farewell, imploring me to understand. And I did. But, as he disappeared from view, the loud voice in my head screamed at him to take his choice back, kept screaming until the quiet voice pierced the devastation.

I would fight for every moment I had left with him.

My plan would work, I was sure of it. I knew Fritzsch, and I knew exactly how he would react to what I was about to do.

With a shriek, I fell on my knees before him. “Please, Herr Lagerführer, don’t kill Father Kolbe, please!”

As I screamed and begged, Fritzsch kicked me away with a disgusted grunt, but nothing would deter me. More hysterical than ever, I crawled back, pleading in German and Polish, and clung to his ankles before he pulled out of my grasp.