“Wait,” her father said, as the four of them sat down around the bowl set on the ground. He dipped his fingers into a bucket of water and mumbled the blessing for the food so fast that his words jumbled.

The soup smelled delicious, and Batya had already torn a piece of bread and dipped it, when her mother, her hungry eyes on the food, said, “It’s not kosher.”

Not kosher. Batya’s hand hung in midair, the aroma filling her mouth with saliva.

Her father winked at her. “It is said in the Good Book, ‘All that are hungry should come and feast.’”

“It’s in the Passover Haggadah’s tradition about inviting strangers into our home for the meal,” Batya replied. It had nothing to do with breaking the kashrut prohibition that required adherence to strict Jewish ritual in the slaughtering of animals and food preparation. Still, smiling at her father’s permission, she put the bread in her mouth, then dipped a spoon in the bowl. Surale followed.

Straightening, Batya noticed that her parents still sat back on their haunches. She took in her mother’s pale face, and a wave of protectiveness washed over her. “Pikuach nefesh,” she said, referring to the principle that the preservation of human life overrode any other commandments, even the laws of kashrut.

“Another Talmudic maven in the family,” her mother replied. Nevertheless, to Batya’s satisfaction, she dipped her spoon in the bowl.

As the flavor filled Batya’s mouth, her relief was instantly dampened by the vision of Miriam lying spread-eagle, covered in blood. The screams Batya had heard coming from her friend’s house while hiding with Surale in a nearby tree resounded in her ears. She shook her head to make them disappear. She mustn’t weaken her spirit with the horrific sights and sounds of the past.

Her father was unloading the bundle of beddings. Batya rose to help, and as soon as she stretched their one featherbed on the hay, her mother lowered herself to lie down. A cry of pain escaped her lips.

Surale dropped down next to her. “Mama! Mama, what’s the matter?”

“She needs to rest,” Batya said. The fear and worry that had accompanied her for days returned to fill her lungs. Make Mama healthy and strong, she prayed. She found a pail inside the barn door and rushed to the well by the trough. Hanging with all her weight on the handle of the pump, she managed to bring up water, then carried the heavy pail to the barn. She ladled water with their tin cup and, propping her mother’s shoulders, brought it to her mother’s lips.

“Sleep now,” Batya told her after a few sips, gently lowering her mother’s head.