When the Brown Sisters arrive, there are only two of them: a meek, moonfaced girl who can’t be much older than eighteen and says almost nothing, and her superior, who introduces herself as Sister Margarete. She is a short woman with a clipped manner, unmarried and childless, but full of exact information about how to deal with babies. Which is: harshly. She makes no remarks about the sweet dimple on this one’s chin, or the way another puts his hand to his head. To her, they are clearly cargo to be transported. The cold in Ania’s gut turns into panic.

Margarete observes the babies and takes notes. She measures their height and weight, the length of their foreheads, the circumferences of their skulls. And she does not allow Ania to help her handle them, preferring the assistance of the SS men, who seem as dismayed by this as Ania is.

“Where will you take them?” Ania asks.

“Different places,” Margarete answers.

“To foster parents?”

“If they are suitable.”

“And if they aren’t?” Ania tries to ask it casually. She can feel Rainer’s eyes telling her to shut up.

“That is confidential,” Sister Margarete snaps.

“We can keep them,” Ania says. The words come out in a rush. “We can care for them here with the boys until the war ends.”

Sister Margarete fixes her with an intent look. “That is impossible,” she says. “And the idea is inappropriate for a person in your place.”

Ania looks down and bites her lip. Let them all be suitable, Ania prays. Please God, let them all be delivered to kind homes. She is afraid for the little dark-haired girl—so pretty with her big brown eyes, but not very German looking. Sister Margarete spends extra time on her measurements.

Ania picks up the chubby one and holds him close. He reaches immediately for her ear.

When Margarete has finished her measuring, she announces that she and her assistant will not spend the night. They would like to reach Posen before dark.

“So will you take them all?” Ania manages, despite the hard ball in her throat.

“These four,” Margarete says and gestures as if she is speaking about a few cuts of meat. Already she and her assistant have taken the first of the babies out to their car, the back of which is filled with metal washtubs lined with blankets, improvised bassinets. In her arms, one of the babies starts to shriek. “Scharführer Meister and Unterscharführer Haberman will take the others.”

“The others” are the roly-poly boy in Ania’s arms and the little dark-haired girl.

“Where?” Ania asks, above the babies’ crying. “Where will you take them?” Her voice is loud and growing hysterical.

“Ania.” Rainer puts a hand on her arm. The boy in her arms begins to cry.

The younger of the two SS men shrugs. “Chelmno. Unless we take them to the forest and shoot them first.”

“No!” Ania nearly chokes. “You can’t.”

“Don’t frighten the woman,” the older soldier says to his compatriot. “We’ll take them to a camp.”