Despite the hopeless state of the city, Hoża Street is still beautiful. As Hania and I stand on the corner, it reminds me of the times I traveled up and down this street to the convent. Each fond memory is a small comfort, though tinged by the ache in my chest, so familiar to me now, one I no longer expect to ever fully leave me.

“Four years,” Hania murmurs, more to herself than to me. “It’s been four years since I’ve seen my sons. And I never imagined I’d face this day without my husband.”

I place my hand on her forearm, but I’m not sure she notices. “You’re certain you’d like me to stay?”

She nods without pulling her eyes away from the convent.

Our heels clack against the cobblestones as I lead her down the street. When we ring the doorbell, a sister takes us into the courtyard, where birds chirp and a breeze rustles through the trees. The tranquil atmosphere is a sharp contrast to the nerves raging within me. We wait near the Saint Joseph statue while she fetches her superior.

Hania stands beside me, face lined with worry, hands clasped, as pale and motionless as the Saint Joseph statue. She looks far older than she should. Old, tired, hopeful, petrified. Four years of unspeakable suffering have brought her to this moment. I extend a hand; she latches on to my arm and doesn’t loosen her grip.

When Mother Matylda appears, alone, Hania’s grip tightens.

She clutches me for an instant, then releases me, rushes to meet Mother Matylda, and grabs her hand. Her grasp looks so strong that I’m afraid she’s hurting the elderly mother provincial, but Mother Matylda clings to her just as tightly.

“Tell me they’re safe,” Hania says, the words sharp and urgent despite the break in her voice. “Please, they can’t be—”

“Oh, my dear child, forgive me. I didn’t intend to frighten you,” Mother Matylda replies, placing a soothing hand on Hania’s cheek. “I wanted to share what my sisters and I have learned since Maria contacted us. Maria’s mother, Natalia, brought your sons to us. Adam and Jakub were transferred to our orphanage in Ostrówek.” She offers her a small smile. “And they are alive.”

For a moment Hania looks too stunned to react, then with a sob, her knees buckle. Her head droops under the weight of the news, and she presses her lips to the mother provincial’s wrinkled hand. With surprising agility, Mother Matylda kneels with her, head bowed, eyes closed, cradling Hania as if she’s one of the children the sisters have saved.