Hania contemplated for a moment. “Pater noster, qui es in cælis, sanctificétur nomen tuum. Fiat volúntas tua, advéniat regnum tuum—” She feigned offense when I failed to mask my chuckle, then seemed to realize she’d switched the order of the last two phrases. She waved a dismissive hand and moved her rook. “I was close enough.”

As our chess game continued, we snacked on a small cup of mare’s milk and some potato skins—payment Hania had received from a stable worker and kitchen worker in exchange for favors. She’d insisted on sharing, though I tried to refuse, because she was the one who’d earned them.

When the milk was gone, I chewed two potato skins slowly, making them last as long as I could, and closed my eyes. These were no longer potato skins—they were pierogi stuffed with meat and cabbage, potatoes and onions, mushrooms, and, best of all, strawberries and blueberries.

Once the game was over, we gathered the pieces into a jewelry pouch, and I tucked it into the corner of my bunk. Hania brushed herself off.

“I’ll practice the Our Father, and you study the mathematics we discussed today, then practice your Yiddish and my surname. You need all the help you can get,” she said with a teasing grin. “We’ll save the Hebrew for after your Yiddish improves.”

“My Yiddish is coming along well, if I say so myself. I heard it all the time before the war.”

“Your pronunciation says otherwise.” This time it was my turn to feign offense, and she chuckled. “Get some sleep tonight and keep your wounds as clean as possible. They’re healing nicely, but you need to rest and—”

“And make sure they don’t get infected.” It was what she told me every time. “You know, Hania, I think you fuss over me as much as Mama did.”

“It’s a mother’s responsibility to fuss, Gentile or Jew.”

Years ago, from frequent visits to the local Jewish deli, I had picked up the Yiddish word for grandmother, so I stole a mischievous glance at her while I tightened my headscarf. “Thank you for looking out for me, Bubbe.”

Hania’s eyes lit up with pride, even though she was quick to protest. “I’m twenty-three!”

As she departed, I pulled Mateusz’s latest letter from my pocket and left it on my bunk. In it, he’d described a recent confrontation with a cantankerous old man on his paper route and mentioned that the bakery was doing well, but his parents hated that it had been overrun by SS officers. As I composed my response, I updated him on Hania’s chess skills and her complaints about my Yiddish. The lighthearted parts of my day had become even more important to me now, as they were the only things I wrote to him about.