As I counted the lashes, my mind traveled to when Sturmbannführer Ebner found the baptismal certificates in my basket, and when he threatened to torture my family to make me confess. He’d known he had bested me; now, as he inflicted my punishment with total disregard for protocol, Fritzsch thought he had, too. Once again, I was facing a man who believed he’d won. The difference was that Ebner had outwitted me, but Fritzsch had played right into my hands.

Fritzsch paused after my fifteenth lash. “Would you like to speak out of turn again, 16671?”

When I’d antagonized Sturmbannführer Ebner after he called me a stupid girl, it had been a small but satisfying act of rebellion. Once again, I was in no position to provoke my captor. It hadn’t been a wise choice then, and it wasn’t a wise choice now. But my plans were always reckless.

It took considerable effort to lift my head and look at Fritzsch. With each step he took away from me, blood dripped from the whip clutched in his fist. My blood. As I stirred, one of the SS guards alerted Fritzsch, who paused and faced me. When I spoke, my voice was gruff, but it didn’t waver.

“My name is Maria Florkowska.”

I was ready for what would come next. Defiance was invigorating.

He descended upon me, delivering lashes so quickly I couldn’t have counted them aloud even if I’d wanted to. As I screamed beneath the agonizing blows, newfound energy surged through me. I was living, and I was fighting.

“Fritzsch, what the hell are you doing?”

By the time the cry reached my ears, Fritzsch had fallen back. I thought the voice belonged to Kommandant Höss, but I wasn’t certain. The pain made it impossible to focus.

“The Polack bitch has a mouth on her, Herr Kommandant.” His voice held no remorse—not that I’d expected any.

“Then follow protocol to discipline her. I don’t see a whipping block. Was she medically examined before the punishment was administered?”

“No, Herr Kommandant.”

“For God’s sake, I won’t have incompetent officers in my camp. The next time you penalize a prisoner, follow protocol, do you understand?”

The world swam around me, a sea of searing anguish, but, as he spoke to someone else, the kommandant’s voice began to fade. I assumed he was leaving. The guards ordered the prisoners to their labor assignments, and their footsteps grew fainter as they shuffled away—but a different set of footsteps grew louder.

A firm grip closed around my scrawny, torn shoulders and lifted me up, igniting the fire anew, and I screamed.

“Block 11 awaits, 16671.” As the sneer brushed against my ear, a chill mingled with the scorching heat consuming my back. He threw me down, and everything continued to spin.