My breath came in shallow gasps, though I tried to steady it while Ebner skirted the table and fallen chair on his way toward me. He absorbed every centimeter of my small, exposed frame. As he approached, a tremor seized my body—whether from cold, terror, shame, or all three, I didn’t know. Gone was his pretense of camaraderie. I was his enemy, not a child; just a resistance member who hadn’t fallen for his wiles. Someone he would break.

He grasped my jaw and raised my head, yelling and spitting while his tobacco-laden breath filled my nostrils. He demanded to know whom I served, insisting that he’d uncover the truth if he had to pry every damn word out of my Polack mouth. Even if I’d been willing to answer, the tirade left my throat too dry for words, and when he released me he crossed to the far wall. The one with the torture instruments.

I twitched against my captors and prayed that the pathetic gesture would break their holds so I could flee from the hell I was about to endure.

It didn’t, of course.

Ebner caressed the metal rod, the chains, the whip, and I dug my fingernails into my palms. At last he made his choice. A club. More merciful than the whip, I supposed, though I couldn’t swallow the bile in my throat. When he reached me, I turned aside, but he caught my chin and made me face him. My unsteady breaths were the only sound until he touched the club to my temple, and worse than the solid weapon against my skin were the words that followed.

“Every prisoner pleads for death, but until I have answers, I don’t grant it. Remember that when you beg me to shoot you.”

Though Ebner’s voice reached my ears, it was Irena’s I heard.

By the time they’re finished with you, you’ll be begging them to put a bullet in your skull.

* * *

Two and a Half Months Earlier

Warsaw, 14 March 1941

The steady thump of Tata’s cane against the cobblestone sidewalk broke the quiet hovering over the Mokotów district. The morning sun was reflected in the silver handle, worn smooth from daily use following Tata’s service in the Great War. I drew a strange comfort from the shuffle of his limping gait and the rhythmic tap of his cane. His physical strength had been compromised, but his strength of character was the part of him that no injury could steal.