Her eyes remained fastened to mine as she finally spoke. “I just finished speaking with your father.” She unwound her left arm from the bag and held it out so that the numbers were on display. “I assume you know what this is now, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Miss Wise tsked, placing her arm back around the bag. The contents inside rattled together. “Transported in cattle cars and tagged with identification numbers, we were treated worse than animals off to the slaughter. At least the animals were fed properly before being killed.”

Stooped on the tiny stool, Miss Wise told me her story. A teenage girl taken from her home in Poland to work at Auschwitz with her younger sister, Irene, who died of typhus only weeks before the camp was liberated. She was never reunited with her parents or other siblings, learning years later that they all perished at the hands of the Nazis.

“First they stole our jobs. Then our homes. Our possessions. Our families. Our humanity. They didn’t stop until stealing everything. Even my soul.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, thinking about what she’d shared for a long time before I spoke. “So you don’t believe in God? Why go to church then?”

Miss Wise sucked her teeth. “I believe in God.”

“But you go spittin’ on the church steps every Sunday.”

“Because I am mad at him.”

“Oh . . .” I didn’t know what to say to that, even though I understood to some degree. After losing Mama, it would be a lie to say I hadn’t been mad at God too. I apologized later and the Bible says he forgives if asked, so there’s that. “Aren’t you tired of holding on to that anger for so long?”

She sniffed, lips tugged down into a fine grimace. “I know no other way.”

My stomach let out a rumble, sounding as if a monster was working on clawing its way out of me. I pressed my palm against the pain and slowly drew in a breath.

“You stupid girl.”

My head popped up. “Huh?”

“You live in a land of plenty. Yet you make yourself sick for no good reason.” She rummaged in the bag. “No grieving, no cursing, no crying, no fasting . . . nothing can amend what happened in that awful time and place. I will not put up with you starving when there is no need. You eat.” She pulled out a foil-covered plate and thrust it into my hands. “Now.”

My hand shook as I peeled off the foil, feeble and apprehensive that I wouldn’t be able to stomach the contents until seeing what was on the plate. “You brought me candy?”

“No. Petit fours.”

“Petty what?”

“Squares of sponge cake layered with strawberry jam. Covered in dark chocolate.”