Slowly, I turned my head to locate the voice’s owner. Standing at my bedside was Hania Ofenchajm, the young Jewish woman.

“I’ve been here for almost four months, and I’ve never seen a prisoner provoke the guards into giving additional lashes,” she said. “That took a lot of chutzpah.”

I had no idea what chutzpah meant, but I had a feeling she wasn’t paying me a compliment. My suspicions were confirmed by her disapproving frown.

“Out of every SS man you could have aggravated, you chose Fritzsch? The entire camp heard you carrying on about that priest. And if a flogging wasn’t enough, you chose to be brazen, too? Did you expect that to win you anything other than harsher punishment?” Hania allowed me to mull over the queries, then she took a deep breath and softened her tone. “You can’t take risks like that. Not if you want to survive.”

She was right, of course. As intentional as my actions had been, I knew they were stupid. But I didn’t regret them.

“What are you doing here?” The raspy, raw sound that came from my mouth took me aback. I cleared my throat, even though it wouldn’t make an improvement.

“Translating and interpreting is a good job compared to others. It gives me additional privileges, such as the ability to move freely around the camp if I have responsibilities here rather than at the SS administrative offices. Today, I’m needed in the camp, so I slipped into the hospital to check on you.”

Must have been nice, having the freedom to wander. I didn’t dwell on it. “My name is Maria.”

“So I heard in the roll-call square. Where are you from?”

“Warsaw.”

She arched an eyebrow and flashed a pleased smile. “So am I. Did you work for the resistance? What kind of work did you do?”

“Different things, but mainly I helped a group of religious sisters who smuggled Jewish children from the ghetto.”

“How long were you involved before you were caught?”

“A few months. From March until May.” I paused, wincing as I shifted positions. “You brought me to the hospital, didn’t you? Why?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you bleeding to death in the roll-call square.”

I looked at Hania, studying her features. Sharp cheekbones jutting above hollow cheeks. Probably in her early twenties, though she looked older. Thin, but not as thin as I was, which made sense because indoor labor assignments meant less strenuous conditions. Large, deep-set eyes as dark and rich as the stain on my father’s wooden cane. The shorn hair peeking from under her headscarf was the same shade. Despite her thin form and aging beyond her years, she was beautiful. The guarded look in her eyes wasn’t uncommon, so it didn’t surprise or concern me. We shielded ourselves however we could.

“I told you to hold still,” Hania said when I shifted again.