Batya lit a candle and fixed it on a tin plate so she could see when ladling out some of yesterday’s milk, its freshness preserved by the cold weather. She scooped the cream that had formed on top, placed it on a piece of leftover bread, peeled off a layer of onion, and gobbled it all down.

As she hurried back to the kitchen in the dark, she prayed, “Thank you, God, for watching after my family—” She stopped. God wasn’t here, where His Jews were being tortured and exiled, if not murdered. Maybe He was in the Holy Land—but more likely He was in America, where everyone prospered and ate chicken every day.

Only after the midday meal did the innkeeper’s wife let Batya rest. She gave her a bowl of potatoes and sauerkraut with tiny pieces of sausage peeking out to take to her family, and then draped a dress set over Batya’s arm.

“Here. Tidy up so you can help serve dinner in the tavern.”

Batya’s heart sang as she rushed back to the barn. Serving dinner would be cleaner and less exhausting than hauling coal. She was being elevated! She halted outside the barn and fished out with her fingers the pieces of sausage, surely made of pork and horsemeat, and hurled them toward the dogs tied near the shed. In her head, she asked God for forgiveness. The unkosher meat, tref, had contaminated the entire dish, but even He would have agreed that it was more important that her parents ate.

With a moan, her mother rose on one elbow from the hay. She reported that Koppel was out, trying to sell whatever milk and dairy products he could carry on his back. Earlier he had split wood for the innkeeper and tended to the guests’ horses.

“I’m sorry to be a burden when we need all our strength,” her mother added, then whispered, her voice breaking, “If only Hedi had married the postman instead of her goy, she’d be alive and we would all be riding to America in his fancy coach with bells.”

“Just rest, Mama.”

“Why did Keyla have to run off to Siberia? When will I ever see her again?”

You have me. I’ll make up for all the disappointments.

Batya fell into a deep sleep, but a dream of Komarinoe and Miriam’s murder woke her up with a start, horror contracting her heart. She missed her dark-eyed, laughing, inventive friend. Just last month, the two families had shared the festive Rosh Hashanah dinner, after which their fathers sang joyous wordless nigunim, “bim-bim-bam,” and “ai-ai-ai.”

She must forget Miriam and Komarinoe. She mustn’t think of her two willful sisters. It fell upon her to be the rock for her parents, work hard, and hope that the innkeeper would allow them to stay until she somehow found a way to help her father get them to America.