A slick warmth spread across my mangled back while remnants of sweat and salty tears streaked down my face. The pain was excruciating. But I would go to my new assignment.

I didn’t even make it to my hands and knees before I collapsed. I had to get up, I had to get to Father Kolbe, I had to live and fight. But I was so tired and in so much pain, even though I didn’t regret what I’d done. My plan had succeeded, and defying Fritzsch had armed me with renewed vigor. That same vigor told me to get up, and I would, I had to, but the sun beat me as eagerly as Fritzsch had, robbing me of what little energy I had left, and my mouth, lips, and throat were as parched as the hot, dusty ground beneath my cheek. Maybe I’d rest for a moment . . .

A shadow crossed over me, bringing me back to the present, reminding me to go to Father Kolbe. I dragged myself a few centimeters across the ground while the rough, blood-soaked gravel dug into my chest and palms and the painful effort made me retch. At the same time, I tensed, waiting for more blows to force me to my feet, but they never came. Instead the hands that touched me were gentle. They must have been Father Kolbe’s—no, that was impossible, he was in Block 11. Maybe my mother’s . . .

“Shhh, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t close your eyes, do you understand? Stay with me.” A female voice. Not Mama’s. This one was a bit deeper and accented. Familiar.

Somehow I ended up off the ground. Maybe I was walking, maybe I was being dragged or carried, but I was changing locations one way or another. Amid the woman’s comforting murmurs, one phrase stood out. Don’t worry. Such an odd saying. In my experience, such a phrase meant that you should, in fact, worry. The realization should have been concerning, but I was too tired for concern. Instead I closed my eyes, even though the woman had told me not to.

Chapter 13

Auschwitz, 30 July 1941

WHEN I CAME to my senses, a sharp throb traveled across my back and shoulders. Something covered the pulsating sensation, something tight. Bandages. I opened my eyes and blinked as the world came into focus. I was on my stomach, lying on what must have been a thin mattress, in a large space crowded with other people. Some wore bandages; others were frail and sickly; others moved from bunk to bunk to examine the inhabitants. When had I been admitted to one of the hospital blocks?

Father Kolbe.

The thought sprang to the forefront of my mind, and I started to get up, but I paused with an agonized cry when the pain made my stomach turn.

“Don’t move. You were flogged yesterday, remember?”