Three months ago, I escaped the prison that held my body, but I haven’t found freedom from the one that holds my soul. It’s as if I never shed the blue-and-gray-striped uniform or set foot beyond the electrified barbed-wire fences. The liberation I seek requires escape of a different sort, one I can achieve only now that I’ve returned.
A drizzle falls around me, adding an eerie haze to the gray, foggy morning. Not unlike the first day I stood in this exact spot, staring at the dark metal sign beckoning me from the distance.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
I remove the letter from my small handbag and read over the words I’ve memorized, then pull the gun out and examine it. A Luger P08, just like the one my father kept as a trophy following the Great War. The one he’d taught me how to use.




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