On the day of the performance, Miriam vibrated with nerves and excitement as she took her place on stage to warm up. The audience was enormous, as if every prisoner in camp had come. Minutes before the concert began, the front row filled with Nazi soldiers, including an official in the uniform of the dreaded SS. “Who is that man?” Miriam whispered to the violinist beside her.

“That’s Obersturmführer Gemmeker, the camp Kommandant.” Miriam’s lungs squeezed like a fist. “Are you all right?” the violinist asked.

“No . . . I can’t . . .” Miriam rose and staggered off the stage, nearly bowling into the conductor. He grabbed her to steady her, halting her flight.

“Miriam, what’s wrong? Is it stage fright? Listen, you don’t need to —”

“It isn’t that,” she said, her lungs wheezing. “The Kommandant . . . and the Nazis . . . I didn’t know they would be here! I can’t play for them!”

He led her to a chair and made her sit. She was afraid he would be angry with her, but he seemed more worried than angry. “If you don’t perform, they’ll call your name on Tuesday.”

Her stomach rolled. She drew a few breaths, still struggling for air. “My music comes from my soul. I can’t . . . I can’t bare my soul to them. They’ve already taken every other part of me. This is all I have left!”

He looked at her for a long moment, pity and sorrow in his dark eyes. “You’re not performing for them. You’re offering your talent as a gift to your fellow prisoners. This camp is such a dark, despairing place. Our music helps restore memories of happier times and brings an hour or two of joy, a smile, hope.”

“But it’s false hope. The Nazis’ presence reminds us that we’re prisoners and that there is no hope!”

He crouched in front of her. “You’re wrong, Miriam. You’ve seen the propaganda that the Nazis spew out about us, saying that we’re an inferior race, portraying us as less than human. When faced with their cruel treatment here day after day, we begin to believe those lies and lose our dignity as human beings. But each time our orchestra performs, each time beautiful, glorious music flows from our instruments and from our God-given abilities, we’re slapping the Nazis in the face, proving that they’re wrong about us. They may treat us like animals, but animals don’t work together the way an orchestra does to create sound and beauty. The beaten-down souls in our audience sit up a little straighter when they hear us perform, because they are reminded of the beauty that’s inside each of them. You’re baring your soul, Miriam, to help restore their dignity.”