Aron and Róża stand outside Celestyn’s Carmelite church at noon. It is Aron’s idea, since the central committee has no records on Shira and the town officials seem not to know anything. As churchgoers leave mass, Aron approaches and asks what they know about the bombed convent. Some walk past without answering. But a nun brightens at the mention of the Felicjanki.

“I believe they are staying with the Siostry Nazaretanki,” she says.

Róża’s “Really?” comes out at the same time as Aron’s “Where?”

“Last I heard, they’ll be hosted there until their convent can be rebuilt, or—”

“Do you know if any children moved with them?” Róża asks.

“I imagine so; there was a recent communion.”

“Communion?”

“Can you tell us where?”

“The Nazareth’s nunnery is on ul. Swiętokrzyska at the far limit of Celestyn.”

They begin walking right away. Curled leaves rustle about their feet, blanketing the char and rubble. It is dusk by the time they reach the gate. Róża clasps the iron bars, cold on her fingers. Aron rings the bell. After a few minutes, a young nun habited with an all-white headdress and high boots comes over.

“May I help you?”

“We are searching for my daughter, Shira Chodorów,” Róża blurts.

“Who?”

Róża’s shame catches in her throat. “She … had a different name, I don’t—”

“I think I’d better get Mother Agnieszka.”

While they wait, Róża stares at a garden patch, tightly pruned and browning. When an older nun shuffles toward them, her heavy robes rustling, it distresses Róża to see a tremor in her face. As if, already, she is saying No.

“I’m Mother Agnieszka.”

“My daughter…” Róża swallows. “I didn’t realize she could have survived in the woods.…” She begins again. “In the barn, she was always humming and tapping. And when we were made to leave … I was given this card. I’ve come now…”

Róża stops. She sees a flicker of understanding, perhaps the recognition of their resemblance; then a downcast look in Mother Agnieszka’s eyes.

“I am terribly sorry. A rabbi and his wife offered to secure her a more appropriate placement. They were leaving, too. I thought it was best for Zosia to be among her people.”

Róża utters the name: “Zosia.” Aron is silent.

A different nun, who had drawn near, then rushed away, comes to them now with a garden spade in one hand, something disinterred in the other. “There was a particular spot near the hedges she visited often—when I saw the rock, I had a hunch she buried this there. I regret that I didn’t dig it up for her.”