They come in the next carriage—Sister Alicja embraces her in a warm hug and Kasia hitches to her, not letting go—yet Zosia remains distraught. By nightfall, she is joined in her sobbing as word arrives that six boys and the two sisters charged to evacuate them were caught in the bombings. One of those sisters, the resident baker, Halina, was beloved by the children because she was always willing to play chasing games in the late afternoons. But Zosia liked her for different reasons: because one of the cats resembled her and because she smelled of bread, like Zosia’s grandmother.

Amid the keening and chaos, some of the children wander the halls, exploring, but Zosia does not want to see any more of this place. It smells musty, and the stone statues, everywhere, have scary, vacant eyes.

Sister Nadzieja checks on Zosia as she squats in a dark corner, squeezing her eyes shut, rocking forward and back.

“Zosia—”

“When will Pan Skrzypczak come?”

“I don’t know.”

Zosia hears despondency in Sister Nadzieja’s voice.

“He was going to teach me new music—”

Zosia develops a fever. She lies, red cheeked and shivering, in a bed that’s been jammed in a narrow hallway, away from the other girls. Her hair is slick; her eyelids flutter open and closed. The unfamiliar surroundings disorient her further.

Sometimes she recognizes the people who tend to her: Sister Alicja laying a cool compress on her forehead; Mother Agnieszka carrying a fresh blanket to her bed. Other times, she doesn’t know who these robed people are. They keep calling her Zosia, but she is not: she is Shira! She lives in the barn with her mother, and before that she was in her grandparents’ house. Her tata was there, too, with his watery voice and tickly beard.

She wants her snuggle blanket, the one with the bumpy edging. She tries to yank off her covers, but they are heavy and taut. She kicks and flails, she throws her pillow. She dreams.

She is with her mother in the barn, but her bird is missing; she can’t find him anywhere. She searches the hay, frantic. “Mama, please, will you look for him?” and she watches, satisfied, as her mother leaves for the farmhouse. But her bird is there, perched in the rafters. He is cloaked entirely in black like a nun. His wet-black eyes, usually so bright against his yellow face, now look muted and flat. In his beak are crushed white flower petals.

“Mama!” Zosia yells, and flings her arms out to her sides to steady herself. She has to clutch the rails of her bed to keep from tipping out.

“Easy now, we’re just moving your bed again. Your fever has you yelling out names.”

“Names? Where am I?”

Zosia’s bed is now in the nuns’ corridor. Sister Alicja is beside her, prayer beads in her lap, a hand on Zosia’s forehead.