“We’re going to make it home, Erika. We’re going to see Papa again. I heard someone talking about him at the villa. Papa’s alive! He has a job fixing watches.”

Erika smiled weakly. I pulled a cabbage leaf from my pocket and pressed it into her palm. It wasn’t the most elegant dining room, but the latrine block at Birkenau was the safest place to share my spoils, so we sat on the ground and swatted flies and ate cold diced carrots and potato peels. I passed Erika a beet peel. “Keep it for the next selection,” I whispered. “Rub it on your cheeks to redden them.” Erika nodded. We’d seen women pinch their cheeks before presenting themselves for inspection, but the healthy flush soon drained from their faces. Beet juice would work better.

“I’ve never stolen before,” I told my sister, feeling ashamed and proud at the same time.

“I know.” Erika squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”

I looked at my sister’s narrow shoulders and bony kneecaps. She was the size of a ten-year-old.

“Remember what you said to me, Erika, back at the brickyard? You said that you’d do whatever it takes to get us back to Debrecen.”

I wondered whether my sister had even heard me.

“I know,” she said finally, her voice bleak. “I’ve let you down. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” I grabbed her hand. “What I was trying to say was that it’s time I grew up and took care of myself.” The last thing I wanted to do was make Erika feel guilty. She hated not being able to play the protective big sister. I’d seen it on her face when I’d pulled the cabbage leaf from my pocket. I saw it every time I helped her out of bed. I looked into her big, sad eyes. “I’m almost sixteen, Erika. I’m not a kid anymore.” I pressed the last scraps into her palm and stood to leave. “There’s something I have to do. You stay here and finish eating.”

Since I’d arrived at Birkenau, I’d been careful to avoid the block leader, so she was surprised, and a little suspicious, when I approached her in the barrack.

“What do you want?” She narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t want anything,” I said. “I’m here to give you something.”

“And what might that be?” She grabbed my arm and walked me to the front door, away from prying eyes.

“A little token of my appreciation,” I whispered, passing her a cabbage leaf.

“You’re not as dumb as you look.” She plunged the vegetable into her pocket. “I hope you don’t think this will buy you any favors.”

“Favors?” I acted offended. “No, of course not. It’s only that, now that my mother is gone, I guess you’re the only one who’s looking out for me, looking out for all of us. Anyway, I just wanted to say there’s more where that came from, and thank you.”

The block leader nodded. She didn’t want me to think that she could be bought, but we both knew how it worked. If I gave her an apple, she’d make sure I made it back to the commandant’s villa the next day so I could steal another. And if Erika gave her a turnip or a beet, she’d look out for my sister, too.

Erika was frail, and over the next weeks, she only grew frailer. I wished I could take better care of her. I fed her scraps from the commandant’s table, but she still had to march to work and haul stones and dig up earth. She had to stand bare-legged at roll call in a thin cotton dress while I waited beside her, warm in my long winter coat. She had to stand naked at selection, while I sat inside and waited. If it was raining, she stayed wet all day. I spent my days sitting on a leather stool in stockinged feet in front of a fire. Erika knew all this, and still she waited for me at the barrack door at the end of each day and pulled me close at bedtime so that we might keep each other warm.

It had been months since we’d seen our father and weeks since I’d returned from the commandant’s house to find my mother gone. I still caught myself watching for my mother’s shape as the women returned from the quarry at night. I missed her voice, and I missed my father’s smile. I thought I saw him once — a stooped figure slowly walking up a hill — but it wasn’t Papa, just a farmer with the same slight frame and curly brown hair.

Erika shared my mother’s high cheekbones; I had my father’s long lashes and his nose. We liked to fall asleep looking at each other. It was the only way to keep them close. There were nights I missed my parents so badly that I wanted to grab the block leader by the throat. I was sure she knew what had become of them. Instead I gave her whatever food I could scrounge. There were dozens of starving girls who needed the food more, and who were more deserving of it, but none of those skinny, hollow-eyed girls could tell me where my parents were or put in a good word for my sister if a job became available in Canada.

I’d been to the warehouse twice since learning about it from Vera. The first time was to trade my silk scarf for margarine, the second time to trade a stolen carving knife for a pair of boots for Erika. The storeroom was what I imagined heaven would look like — heaven for a prisoner: tables laden with bread, jam, sugar, and chocolate, and shelves lined with shampoo, soap, perfume, and combs. Slippers and brassieres lay in neat piles on the floor, and girls with colored kerchiefs and gray smocks wandered the aisles. Hundreds of workers kept the storeroom shelves stocked, and still the women couldn’t keep up with the stream of goods flowing through the doors.

Autumn made way for winter, and the cold Polish sun disappeared behind clouds. Outside the music-room window, only a few leaves of deep red clung to the plum tree. Everything was tinted gray: the fog, the thick mud that clung to our shoes, our faces. Birkenau’s barbed-wire fences and watchtowers tipped me toward hopelessness. There was no escaping, and no end to the war. We heard fighter planes scream overhead, and one night saw the sky red and raining down with bombs. But when dawn came, the barracks stood unharmed, and the band still played a death march. I still had to trudge to the villa, Erika still had to dig trenches, and the guards still had guns.

The Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, passed without fanfare. I couldn’t sing the praises of a God I no longer believed in, or wish Erika Happy New Year. When the holiest of religious days, Yom Kippur, arrived, at the end of September, I didn’t fast. I swallowed my coffee defiantly and refused to ask God to forgive my sins. And when we fell into bed and a woman in the next bunk sang Avinu Malkeinu, I didn’t join in. “Hear our prayer,” she whispered. “Sh’ma kolenu. Inscribe us for blessing in the Book of Life.”

It was easy to die in Birkenau: You looked a guard in the eye or stumbled from the line on the way to the washroom. I saw a girl refuse to get out of bed and another spit at a guard. They were both dragged outside and shot. I wasn’t going to help death along. I stole, but I wasn’t stupid. I took risks, but they were calculated. I wanted to make it out alive, so I did things I wasn’t proud of. I stayed silent when other girls were beaten, and I stole from an inmate. I woke up one morning to find the girl who’d been sleeping beside me was dead, so I did what I’d seen dozens of girls do before me: I searched her pockets for a crust of bread. I couldn’t eat the handful of crumbs I found; I gave them to Erika.

In Debrecen I’d left behind a beautiful wall calendar. Each page had a scene from a famous opera and a portrait of a composer whose birthday fell on that month. I shared my December birthday with Beethoven. Clara Schumann’s was in September. I’d wanted to pack the calendar, but there hadn’t been room for it. In Birkenau, there was no need for it. Calendared time didn’t matter in the camp. It only mattered that I made it to the commandant’s home every morning, sat down at his piano, and played the right chords. Every day was the same as the day before: the commandant and his guests would have morning tea and talk over Bach, and Karl would sit sullenly in the corner. Every day was a repeat of the day before. Every day was tedious and gray until one day in November, when everything changed.

The commandant, Karl, and I were in the music room. Vera had been sent to the kitchen to make tea.

“What’s taking her so long?” the commandant grumbled. “For heaven’s sake, go see what the hold up is.”

I ran to the kitchen, turned into the doorway, and slumped to my knees. Vera was lying on the kitchen floor on a bed of shattered porcelain.

“Vera, what happened?” She looked like a broken doll. Limp tea leaves clung to her dress, and her scarf was slick with blood. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. I lifted her head from the floor.

“Vera, who did this to you?” Her eyes flickered toward the window. A guard was pacing the driveway, SS standard issue — cropped blond hair, hard blue eyes, crisp gray uniform — one of a dozen faceless guards who patrolled the grounds. I turned back to Vera.

“What happened?”

“He hit me, I fell backward . . .”

“But why?”

“I couldn’t . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Hanna, I need you to do something.”

“Of course, Vera. Anything.” I reached up, pulled a rag from the bench, folded it, and slipped it under her head.

“I need you to . . .” Vera closed her eyes.

“What Vera? What do you need me to do?” I leaned down. I was so close, I could feel her lips brush the tip of my ear.

“I need you to take over the laundry shift. Tell Karl I said it was okay.” She let out a thin cry. “It hurts.”

“You’re going to be okay,” I said. What I wanted to say was, Please don’t die. And then Karl walked in. “She needs help. Please. Get some help.”

“What happened?” Karl asked without looking at me.

“Yes. What happened?” the commandant echoed, stepping into the room. I looked through the window at the guard, who was now seated on a bench, his head in his hands. It was safer not to accuse anyone and let the commandant work it out.

“Klaus!” the commandant hollered, stepping outside.

“Please. She needs a doctor.” I turned to Karl. He was watching his father guiding the guard back into the house.

“I’ll put a phone call through to Lagerführerin Holzman.” The commandant stepped over Vera as he spoke to Klaus. “She’ll arrange a replacement. Let’s hope she’s better at making tea.” He looked down at Vera, sprawled on the floor.

“Father, shouldn’t she be seen to? Your physician isn’t far. . . .”

The commandant looked at his son. “Dr. Huber has better things to do,” he began, “but perhaps you’re right.” He stopped to consider his son’s suggestion. “She mustn’t die here. Too messy. Klaus, take her back to Birkenau.” And then he stalked out.

The soldier pulled Vera to her feet and dragged her outside.

“Wait!” I called after Karl as he turned to leave. “I have a message from Vera.” I held my breath. Karl swung around to face me. “She asked me to do the laundry shift. She said to tell you it was okay.”

He looked past me to the window. I felt my cheeks flush. Of course it was okay. What difference did it make to Karl who did the laundry?

“Okay,” he said. “Meet me here at three o’clock.”

I’d been waiting for ten minutes, trying not to look at the spot where Vera had lain, when Karl walked into the kitchen lugging a wicker basket. He carried it to the back door and motioned for me to follow him. He set the basket down and looked out the window into the garden, his gaze suddenly intent. In the basket were sheets, towels, and tablecloths. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three.

“Any minute there’ll be a knock at the door. Take this,” he said, lifting the basket from the floor and handing it to me. It was heavy.

“It’s the laundry,” he explained. “Ivanka collects the dirty linen every day after lunch. She used to leave it for Vera.” He lowered his voice. “From now on she’ll leave it for you.” He looked at me, but I couldn’t read his expression. I only knew that his eyes were even bluer close-up. Blue flecked with green.

“Tibor will knock on the door at three. Give him the basket.”

There was a knock at the back door, and Karl rushed from the room. I reached for the door handle. A scrawny man in a striped jacket poked his head through the door.

“Where’s Vera?”

“Vera’s been hurt. She’s been taken back to camp. I’m Hanna. Are you Tibor?”

He nodded.

“She told me to take over her shift,” I continued, holding up the basket. He opened his drawstring bag, and I tipped the laundry into it.

“She trained you well,” he whispered, pulling an apple from the bag. I looked at the apple. Then I looked into the bag. Lying among the sheets and towels and pillowcases were a loaf of bread, a scattering of potatoes, and a jumble of apples.

“I didn’t p-put them there,” I stammered, shaking my head.

“Of course you didn’t.” He winked. “Take the apple.” He held out his hand. “I have to go. They’re waiting for me at the laundry.”

“Who’s waiting?”

“Andor, Vera’s brother. I give him the food, and he distributes it. There are a lot of hungry people in Birkenau.” He threw the bag over his shoulder and walked to the truck idling in the driveway. I scooped up the empty wicker basket and closed the kitchen door. Tibor. Karl had told me to give the laundry to Tibor. The basket slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. Karl knew the name of the man who collected his laundry. He knew what time it would be collected and the name of the girl who changed the sheets. He’d called Vera by her name, too. He could have used their numbers. He could have called Ivanka “the maid.” He could have called Tibor “the Jew who did the laundry.”

He’d used their names.