As difficult as outdoor labor had been, Block 11 was worse. The prisoners crammed into the cells were condemned to terrible punishments and slow, torturous deaths. Moans, curses, and lamentations echoed down the dingy halls as I entered each cell. My progress was slow—even with pain medicine, every movement hurt. Some men glared at me, as if they resented my relative freedom; others begged for help, food, or water; others were too weak to acknowledge me. I evaluated the unfortunate faces long enough to look for Father Kolbe, then stared at the floor as I completed my tasks. Their tormented, hopeless gazes reflected my inability to alleviate their suffering.

It was the end of the day before I found him. Cell 18.

His gentle voice led prayers, accompanied by the other prisoners’ murmurs, and I paused outside the door. They were reciting the final decade of the rosary. I closed my eyes, reached for the small pocket in my uniform, and grasped my rosary beads, listening as his familiar murmur rose above the rest and filled me with its usual peace. When the prayer was over, a reverent silence descended upon the cell.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I ensured the kapo wasn’t nearby and pulled open the heavy door. The effort reopened a wound, making me gasp as it sent flames of agony across my back. The men turned toward the sound. Father Kolbe was kneeling in their midst, and he looked at me, eyes wide. He stood and opened his mouth to speak, but I went first.

“What you did for that prisoner, offering to take his place . . .” My voice caught, and it took me a moment to find it again. “You’re an incredible man.”

He shook his head. “That young man has a family. God willing, he’ll return to them.” Father Kolbe allowed the prayer to linger between us, then he took my hand and covered it with his own. “As for you, my friend . . .” The words trembled, and he swallowed hard.

I offered him a sad smile through eyes filled with tears. “How will I go on without you, Father Kolbe?” The answer was clear, but I had to hear it from him.

“You will live and fight, Maria.” He gave my hand a small squeeze while he stepped closer and focused on my injuries. “Child, what have they done?”

I glanced at my lacerated shoulder, which had bled through the bandage hours ago. “A small price to pay for the reassignment I wanted.”

As my words sank in and brought realization with them, I watched the shock register on Father Kolbe’s face. I dipped my head in a single nod, confirming the unspoken question, and his eyes filled with grateful tears.

“Dear, clever girl, what a sacrifice you’ve made for me,” he whispered.