She often thought about the women from the Mulders’ farm —Lies and her daughters, Julie and Betsie, and the rabbi’s daughter, Alie —wondering if they were still safe in their dark, cramped chicken coop. She grieved over the unknown fate of Miss Hannie, Miss Willy, and Frits. So many good Dutch people like the sisters and the Ver Beeks and the Mulders and Dr. Elzinga and Eloise and Ans had risked their lives for her and her fellow Jews.

Miriam didn’t recognize anyone among the one thousand people standing out in the square this morning, most with their heads bowed and shoulders hunched against the icy rain. She moved away from the door as the guards herded the deportees to the train so she wouldn’t hear the wooden doors slam shut or the iron bar lock into place to seal them inside. The ground rumbled as the train steamed away.

Later, Miriam thought of Mrs. Spielman again as she peeled potatoes in the kitchen, remembering how the kind woman had taught her to cook and bake. Miriam was grateful for the simple skills she’d learned from her, but it pained her to imagine her landlady and Abba hearing their names called, climbing into the boxcars.

The potatoes were small and soft and shriveled, making them difficult to peel. Miriam didn’t want to waste any bits of potato by paring off peels that were too thick, yet she’d learned that all the peels and scraps would be boiled for broth. Her workday at Westerbork lasted from seven in the morning until noon, and then from two until seven, with evenings and Sundays free. Except on Tuesdays, of course. On that day, all the prisoners remained in their barracks until after the train departed. Working in the camp kitchen was tedious and meant standing for much of the day, but the other prisoners had assured Miriam that the assignment was easy compared to working in the shoe factory or scrapyard.

That evening, Miriam rehearsed with the camp musicians for the concert on Sunday, her first. Performing with them was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Many orchestra members were seasoned professionals, and it was a privilege and a challenge to work with them. She thought it a terrible waste of talent to ban musicians from the great concert halls of Europe because they were Jewish.

The sheet music was another challenge, copied by hand and cobbled together, often arranged by the musicians themselves from memory. Some pieces were new works, composed in the camp. Many people shared the same part, with extra sections written on scraps of paper. In places where the notation thinned or parts were missing, the conductor told the players what he wanted and relied on them to fill it in. Miriam felt lost at first and afraid to play by ear without music. The other violinists encouraged her to try, “for our audience’s sake.”