Holding a stick in case a pack of hungry dogs might chase her, Batya circled the outskirts of the village and eyed the edge of the forest for fallen trees. Her father could saw them into boards to fix the hut, and she’d help him split smaller pieces to burn in the stove. They could bury some wood in a covered pit, where a low-burning flame would produce charcoal. Before the earth froze, perhaps they could dig potatoes from deserted fields. At least this coming winter they would be warm and have some food.

If only the threat of another pogrom didn’t hang over them.

Stepping into the forest, she let her eyes search for ripened berries that might still cling to the shrubs, mushrooms peeking from under rocks and tree roots—and for a spot to dig out a shelter where she could hide with Surale. She spotted a small mound that wouldn’t be flooded. A memory from just a few weeks ago resurfaced, of giggling with Miriam about their possible future matches. Miriam had her eye on the handsome son of the rich man from Bobruevo, who had sent his spoiled boy to Koppel to instill good values in him. Batya had envied her friend for having met someone she could dream about. Now Miriam was dead.

Batya forced herself to push away the memories. She picked a handful of berries and sucked their sweet-sour juice. Tomorrow, after Shabbat, she would bring a basket to collect the succulent mushrooms.

She walked on, circling the village, imprinting in her memory its dirt-packed alleys and the paved streets with two-story houses where merchants lived above their now-closed stores. In the coming weeks she would meet the baker and the fishmonger, the butcher and the roaming peddlers. Maybe she’d meet a girl her age and she’d have a friend in this new home.

At the end of her second round, outside the cemetery fence behind the synagogue, she came across her father and Reb Moskowitz speaking again. She turned away, but her father spotted her. “Come here, my Batyale.” He crooked his finger for emphasis.

Batya froze, staring at her own clogs. Somewhere, frogs broke into a concert of croaking. She had wanted to thank Reb Moskowitz for his kindness in giving them a ride here, but now the idea of speaking directly to this important stranger overwhelmed her with the same sense of insignificance she had felt in the carriage.

“Come here, Batyale,” her father repeated.

Her mother would be furious if her husband had embarrassed them again with his misinterpretation of Reb Moskowitz’s intentions. Batya approached with small, hesitant steps; she’d have to mitigate her father’s big-dream talk.

“Batyale, Reb Moskowitz here is intent on having you as his bride—when you grow up, of course.” Her father stroked his beard, a glint in his eyes. “What do you say?”