“Where are we going?” Zosia had been in her private musical world, chaotic compositions of raw yearning, unlike the orderly music of the church, filling her ears, her head. Only now does she register what’s happening around her: people running in the street, sirens wailing closer than ever. The smell of burning.

“We have to get out of the city. They are bombing everything.”

“No. I can’t!” Her yellow bird was to bring her mother here. If Zosia leaves, her mother won’t be able to find her.

Sister Nadzieja wrestles to get Zosia into her coat, but Zosia twists away, her arms flapping.

“You must, we all must. I’ll keep you safe, I promise—no one will spot you in the carriage.”

“But this is where she’ll come for me!”

“Zosia, I’ll carry you if I have to. I have your blanket and your violin packed. And your outdoor shoes are here. Quick, put them on.”

“You don’t understand, my mama—”

Zosia cries bitterly as she is lifted into the carriage, its benches near filled with girls from the younger children’s room. Please, I don’t want to go! As the carriage jerks around the corner and Siostry Felicjanki disappears, she feels an imaginary chain snap inside her.

The streets overflow with people fleeing the city. Zosia stares at the children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, cradled in their mothers’ arms, propped on backs, dragged along sideways. All around, terrified people rush past, layered in extra clothes, bowed under the weight of suitcases, bags, and bundles. One lady, her arms stretched to their full length to convey a painting, trips over the broken sidewalk. Zosia sputters and coughs, then goes silent.

The air is clotted with smoke and dust. On bombed-out city blocks, the overpowering smell of sulfur joins the scents of yeast sours and rye as they pass the remnants of a bakery; singed flesh and rot as they pass a gutted butcher shop; burnt hide and cedar oil as they pass a tannery in ruins. Zosia limits her closemouthed breaths until, as they begin to head into the countryside, the scents of unburnt moss and pine signal fresher air.

It takes hours to reach the new convent—a strange compound of buildings, dark and cold, connected by a confounding maze of corridors, far away from ul. Poniatowskiego 33. Zosia isn’t cheered by the grand pipe organ in the chapel or by the spacious girls’ room, a common room transformed. She grows frantic for Kasia. Every few minutes, she erupts into sobs.

“Where is Kasia? Why isn’t she here yet?” she demands.

Sister Nadzieja assures Zosia that she is on the way.

“And Sister Alicja and Mother Agnieszka?”

“They will also be arriving shortly.”