Róża recognizes Shira’s shred of blanket, limp and soil covered. With tears streaming from her eyes, she takes it and holds it close, sniffing in vain for the faded scent of her child. She smells the rooted earth.

“We pray for her every day. We pray that she is safe,” the sister says.

Mother Agnieszka does not stop shaking.

Tzofia is absorbed in her practice session—her legs driven firmly into the ground, rooted, her whole self thickening—when Rifka interrupts her. Rifka is Tzofia’s same age, here with her parents and their goose in tow, after escaping the Lublin ghetto and waiting out the war on a farm that the Germans overlooked. Rifka knows the camp’s routines inside and out: each afternoon at two P.M., Marian brings cookies to the children’s room; Aniela teaches her special art class on Tuesdays; and the fresh milk delivery happens now! She begs Tzofia to come. They can slip in through the kitchen’s back entry and each have a glass.

Tzofia lets herself be led there. Rifka presses open the swing door and they slip into the space, much larger than the convent kitchens, humid but clean, lined with metal racks of dry dishes. While Tzofia watches, Rifka carefully pours two glasses of milk and hands one to Tzofia.

“My parents say that we will soon travel by boat to a better land. You’ll come too, won’t you?”

Tzofia shrugs. With the glass at her lips, she inhales the milk’s rangy smell, tastes the cool froth. It reminds her of the cups of honeyed milk her grandmother gave her before bed; the clink of glasses when she and her mother “toasted” their shared birthdays before devouring large triangular slices of cake; the feel of Krystyna’s arm on her shoulder, patiently showing her how to pat the cows on their long sides. She slurped up the cows’ sweet milk, still warm despite the chilled tin cup, as many times as Krystyna would refill it, marveling all the while at the animals’ freedom to make whatever noise they liked. Then, returning to the loft, she hesitated, her eyes reluctant to adjust to the dimness and dusk, her body resistant to being stifled and stilled. She wanted to be back with her mother—she did—but she did not want to be swallowed up by the barn’s silence.

As she thinks of it, Tzofia’s chest goes tight and she gulps for air. She leaves Rifka and walks back to the practice room, its window still open a crack. She reaches for her violin.