“They’ll ride like that all the way to Poland?”

“Yes, and who knows what they’ll find there.” The woman looked at her. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“I arrived two days ago.”

“Well, let me tell you about this place. Every week that your name isn’t called gives you one more week to hope that you won’t end up in those cars. But the hope doesn’t last very long. As soon as this train leaves, the agony over who will be next begins all over again.” How could people endure this unrelenting suspense, their fate hanging in the balance week after week? It might drive sane people mad.

“Perhaps it would be better to have your name called and get it over with,” Miriam said.

“I’ve been here for two months,” the woman said. “I’ve watched this horror show eight times now. It never gets any easier.”

Miriam had to turn away as parents with small children and babies climbed into the railcars. She shuddered, thanking God that she hadn’t kept Elisheva with her. Letting her go had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but enduring this with her now-three-year-old daughter would have broken Miriam’s heart.

By eleven o’clock, the doors to the boxcars had been slammed shut and locked. The train departed into the unknown, and prisoners were allowed to go to their work assignments. Miriam sat alone in the barracks, her stomach churning as she waited to see what would happen to her. She hadn’t eaten breakfast, fearing it wouldn’t stay down.

An hour later, a man in his fifties knocked on the barracks door, then let himself inside. He wasn’t wearing a guard’s uniform but appeared to be a fellow prisoner. “Are you the one who was playing the violin last night?” he asked. He spoke Dutch with a German accent.

“Yes.” Miriam’s heart raced wildly.

“My name is Ernst Lubbers,” he said, offering his hand. “And you are . . . ?”

She hesitated, unsure whether to give her real name or her false one. But Herr Lubbers had a kind face and was clearly Jewish with his dark, curly hair and beard. “I’m Miriam Leopold.” It felt good to say her real name.

“You’ve had professional training, I could tell,” he said, switching to German. “You performed with sensitivity and skill. Where are you from?”

“Cologne. My mother and uncle and some of my other family members are musicians.”

“We need you for our orchestra.”

Miriam blinked. “Your orchestra?” She couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said they needed her for the zoo.