“Marta Naganowska is here to see Mother Matylda,” she said.

The door opened to reveal a young sister clad in a black habit with a deep purple rope around her waist and a rosary at her hip. She led us into a cobblestone courtyard, flanked on three sides by the convent. A few trees were scattered amid the white stucco and rust-colored brick buildings, and in a large, circular flowerbed a white statue of Saint Joseph holding the Child Jesus surveyed the lush space. It was quiet and tranquil, a retreat nestled within the city. We went into a small room. There, seated at a square wooden table and engaged in a fervent telephone call, was Mother Matylda.

The elderly mother provincial didn’t look up when we entered. “You’re certain you’ll accept God’s blessing?” She adjusted the large black crucifix around her neck, then ran a finger over the three round buds that adorned each arm. After a moment she closed her eyes, and her shoulders heaved with a small sigh. “I’m so glad, my friend.”

While Irena toyed with her own crucifix, I noticed a small notebook on the table. It covered a cluster of documents, but one was askew. I moved toward the bookshelf beside her, as if examining titles by various saints and theologians. I flipped through a worn copy of Augustine’s Confessions and peeked at the paper. A baptismal certificate, partially completed with personal information. Intrigued, I stepped closer, but a sharp cough almost made me drop the book. I hugged it to my chest and whirled to find Irena pointing to the vacant space beside her. I narrowed my eyes, but returned the book and joined her.

At last Mother Matylda hung up the telephone, scribbled in her notebook, and gave Irena a bright smile. “Marta, how wonderful to see you. And you’ve brought a friend.”

Irena didn’t seem fond of Mother Matylda’s use of the word friend, but she didn’t dispute it. Instead she waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Helena.” She reached into her blouse, produced a slip of paper from her brassiere, and handed it over. “I have a prayer request, Reverend Mother. My mother is sick.”

Mother Matylda accepted the small paper. “May God grant her health and a long life,” she murmured as she unfolded the paper and placed it on the table. I strained my eyes to glimpse its contents. In Mrs. Sienkiewicz’s elegant script was a list of names, and one stood out to me. Stanisława Pilarczyk, my mother’s alias.

The paper stayed on my mind as we returned to the Sienkiewiczes’ apartment. Irena tossed her coat over the back of an armchair and dropped into it, paying me no heed. My feet felt three sizes too big for my shoes, so I curled my toes to alleviate the throbbing. We must have walked eight kilometers. I wasn’t sure why she was opposed to streetcars.

“You keep messages in your bra?” I asked at last.