She emerged into an icy rain and was led past rows of darkened buildings. They crossed the assembly square in the center of camp to a row of barracks on the other side. Rain dripped from Miriam’s hair and down her back, making her shiver. She feared the coming punishment for daring to play her violin after lights-out —perhaps a beating or solitary confinement. The guard led her inside another barracks much like the one she’d just left. Women murmured their complaints as he shone his light all around. He pointed to an empty bunk with his light.

“That’s yours. Stay here until someone comes for you tomorrow.”

She climbed up, clutching her suitcase.

“Why did they bring you here?” a voice from the bed below hers asked.

“I-I was playing my violin . . .”

“That was you?” another voice asked. “It was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Miriam had never imagined that the sound would carry so far. She pulled the thin blanket around her to warm up, but her shivering stemmed as much from fear as the cold. She would have the long night to worry about what would happen to her in the morning.

A sense of doom and foreboding filled the entire barracks the next day, and Miriam quickly remembered why. The deportation train arrived today. A hush fell over the women as the head of the barracks stood in the doorway to read the list of names. Miriam sagged with relief when her name wasn’t on it. But she still didn’t know what punishment she faced.

“Get ready for the journey,” the matron told the people on the list. The same scene was playing out in the other barracks, with children crying and people weeping as they bid each other goodbye. Those whose names hadn’t been called were ordered to remain inside until the train departed. The women on the bunks surrounding Miriam’s sat with heads bowed. She sensed their relief. Miriam stood by the window to get a better glimpse of the fate she would one day face, watching the turmoil outside as hundreds of deportees assembled in the square with their suitcases. She tried to see if Klara and Tina were among them, but there were too many people. They formed lines after roll call, and the camp police marched them to the waiting train. Miriam was stunned to see that it wasn’t a passenger train.

“Those are boxcars!” she said aloud. The wide doors on the windowless cars stood open, and she watched in horror as people of all ages were herded inside. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until a woman watching alongside her spoke.

“One of the men I work with saw inside those boxcars. There’s no place to sit down except the bare floor. There’s one barrel for a toilet and another for water. No food, no heat, and no air in the summer.”