Hania stared across the room, face blank, fingernails digging into her palms. “Eliasz died from a construction injury two months ago. I was in the process of striking a deal to have him transferred, but I didn’t work quickly enough. My sons are all Izaak and I have left. We promised each other we’d survive so we can find them again.” She ran a hand over her finger where her wedding band should have been. As I watched the simple gesture, a heavy ache settled in my chest.

“Hania, there’s a guard looking for you,” Janina said as she rushed by on her way to her next patient.

I knew she’d get in trouble.

The young SS man came into view, and the sight of Hania brought an easy smirk to his lips. My throat ran dry. It was Protz, the guard who had assaulted me when I first arrived. Before I realized what I’d done, I’d crossed my arms over my chest.

If Protz hadn’t been so repulsive, his sharp, chiseled features could have been handsome. He ran a hand over dark blond hair styled in the typical SS undercut and took Hania in with pale blue eyes. Hitler’s perfect Aryan specimen. His tall, muscular frame crossed the floor in long strides while arrogance radiated from him, both stifling and nauseating.

“You owe me for those cigarettes, 15177,” he said.

“Let’s discuss this outside, please, Herr Scharführer,” Hania replied, an odd tightness behind her lilt.

As she led the way past him, Protz grabbed her arm and brought her to a sudden stop. She didn’t look at him, but she closed her eyes for an instant and clenched her jaw. When she opened them, her expression was as controlled and emotionless as the words that followed.

“When shall I repay you, Herr Scharführer?”

Neither Hania nor Protz seemed to remember my presence, or that they were in the middle of the hospital block, for that matter. I searched my frantic mind for a way to intervene if necessary, but, for now, I watched and held my breath.

“Tonight.” He stepped closer and tightened his grip enough to make Hania stiffen. “Scheisse-Jude.” Although she didn’t react, he allowed the insult to sink in, then shoved her away.

Once Protz was gone, a flicker of revulsion cut across Hania’s face before she replaced it with stony indifference. Clearing her throat, she pulled cigarettes and matches from a hidden pocket, placed a cigarette in her mouth, and took a few short draws as she lit it.

In the silence, I reviewed the exchange in my mind, not daring to believe I’d understood it correctly. But I had never forgotten the day Hania had counseled me on how to survive here, on one particular resource that could be exchanged for goods or services: yourself.

“You said you translate for them.”