He told Miriam and her mother to pack one suitcase each. They would have to carry it themselves, and they might have to walk part of the way. Miriam would take her violin, too, of course. She packed and repacked her suitcase countless times in the next hurried days, unable to decide what to bring and what to leave behind. At the very last minute, she tossed out some clothes and added her photograph album and her grandmother’s silver candlesticks. Her former life might be ending, but that didn’t mean it had never happened. Miriam wanted to remember the laughter and the holidays by Lake Constance so the hope for happier days in the future wouldn’t fade.

The night before they were to leave, Abba loaded their bags, Miriam’s violin, and an extra suitcase with some of his books and research papers into his car, gathering dust in the carriage house all these months. One of his former physics students, Rolf, came to fetch it and drove it to his apartment in a different part of town.

Saying goodbye to her family and her home the next morning was one of the hardest things Miriam had ever done. Knowing her parents would be right beside her was the only thing that made it bearable. But when the final moment came and they stood in the foyer with their coats on, Mother sank down on one of Grandmother’s antique chairs and said, “I can’t leave. I’m sorry, but I can’t.” It was as if her home and her way of life exerted a pull as strong as gravity, and she couldn’t free herself from its grip. “You go first and get settled. Miriam and I will join you later. That way you can let us know what furniture and other household goods we should bring with us.”

“My dear, don’t you understand? The Nazis won’t let us bring anything with us.” He spoke gently as if explaining it to a child. “The moment they see us moving our things, they will arrest us. Remember how they took everything in Nathan’s store? The Nazis are already moving into Jewish homes and taking whatever they wish. It won’t be long until they take this house, too.”

Mother looked away as if unable to face him or the incomprehensible truth. It was the same way Miriam had looked away when she first saw her cousin’s beaten body. “I can’t leave my home,” she said softly. “I can’t.”

“And what about you, dear one?” Abba reached for Miriam’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

“I . . . I . . .” She looked from one parent to the other, her stomach as tight as a fist.

She heard a soft sound, like a groan. Her cousin Saul was trying to speak. He looked at Miriam through swollen eyes. “Go . . . ,” he rasped. “Miriam, go!”

She looked at her mother.