‘Attaboy!’ Rolf patted Max on the back and returned his smile. The camaraderie melted Max’s thoughts and he felt his body relax. He was one of them again.

Rolf shouted to Karl. ‘You all right to hang on here for a bit longer before Max takes over?’ he asked.

‘My wife’s cooking my favourite dinner!’ Karl complained.

‘Ah, come on. We won’t be too long. It’s a treat for Max’s birthday.’

‘Okay. But I need to be gone in the next fifteen minutes.’

Rolf waved a hand. ‘That’ll be plenty of time,’ he said.

Max and Rolf walked together to Block 11 at the far end of the camp where another guard, Thomas, was waiting to join them in the courtyard.

Max had never been to Block 11 before, but he knew what happened here.

He forced his legs to march and not betray him by shaking noticeably. He forced his heart rate to slow and his palms to stay dry. And he forced his mind to draw a veil across the thought of what they were about to do.

Instead, he reminded himself how lucky he was to be here at all. This was his chance to take another step closer to the heart of the regime; another opportunity to serve Hitler.

And Max knew one thing for sure: there was no greater honour than that.

ELSA

It’s late in the day when they come. It isn’t even a surprise. I know how it works here. I have known all day that I would be under suspicion. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t part of the plan, that I didn’t even know of it till this morning.

All that matters is association; retribution; punishment.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have believed any of this could be possible. A week ago, I would have fought it. Even a day ago, when I still had Greta, a tiny beating pulse in a hidden corner of my heart would have urged me to resist.

But now? Now I have nothing. I am an empty vessel. They will gain nothing from me, and they cannot take anything from me. There is nothing to take.

So I let them drag me out of the barracks. I walk between them along the wide path in between these hated buildings.

I know this is my death march.

The thought brings relief.

I will never again stand here to call out my number.

I will never hold a dirty bowl in my hands, bracing myself to swallow the thin gruel it contains because it is all I will get to eat that day.

I will never crouch over a dirty puddle, slopping its contents into my mouth because the instinct to avoid the horrors of dehydration pulls at me harder than the fear of disease.