Along their journey here, on the far outskirts of villages, Róża could permit Shira’s humming and tapping. Her tunes—startlingly complex and layered, notes merging and colliding—reminded Róża of the symphonies her father had listened to.

“What music is that?” Róża had asked Shira.

“Hmm?”

“What you’re humming—”

“Oh. Just what I hear in my head.”

How Róża wishes Shira could continue, recognizing her talent and knowing what solace it brings her—but not now. “It’s lovely, but you must keep it inside you.”

Róża wishes Shira would keep her constant, whispered questions—“Mama, why are we here? Where is Tata? Can we go home soon?”—inside her too.

Henryk and Krystyna would not denounce them—their fates were by now entwined—but a neighbor might hear. With a tip-off, German soldiers would come searching.

The one time Henryk pronounced a leave date, conferencing with Krystyna in low tones by the chicken coop, out of earshot from neighbors and the children, it met with Krystyna’s unexpected petition, “Where will they go, Henryk? The girl can’t be much older than Maryla’s little Łucja.” At that time—the thirty-second day in the barn by the count of nicks in the rafter, and all her barter goods given, gone—Róża could feel only the luck of Krystyna’s plea. Yet she has cause to doubt Krystyna now, as she steps up the loft ladder and reaches a hand toward Shira.

Róża scans the loft, fearful that Shira’s sleep pad, shoved all the way to the side, will give away what Henryk does here at night. But Krystyna doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why don’t I take her out for a bit? She needs fresh air.”

Róża grips Shira, tight. What? No! “Thank you, but it’s far too dangerous.”

“Just a little walk. A few steps to see the chickens. The sun is hardly up yet.”

Róża flushes hot despite the crisp air. The way the farm is set, on a long, narrow swath of land, the chicken coop sits close by the barn, fields running behind. Even with the hay still piled up outside, someone might see to the coop from the curved point in the road. She doesn’t want to anger Krystyna, but she can’t possibly let Shira go. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Mama, I want to see the chickens!”

“Shh!”

Róża searches Krystyna’s face.

“Henryk has taken the boys to his parents’. As for our neighbors, Ludwika is at her sister’s and Borys is sleeping off his night at the tavern.”

“What if soldiers pass by? Or other neighbors…” The one who baked sugar cookies.

Krystyna glances in the direction of the road. “The hay blocks the view.” A pause. “I just can’t imagine if one of my boys had to lie still and silent for so long.”