Tzofia’s melody rises, as if in protest, as the piano’s music becomes darker, deeper. Tzofia unfolds her melody in long waves that swell and crest with yearning, while the piano sinks further, further into its depths, until it’s just a quiet rumble, the echo of a distant cry. With the piano far away, Tzofia’s delicate melody plays its own sad arpeggiations, each reaching higher than the last. She tilts her body out again, she brings her violin into the air, her music becomes bolder. As if in response, the piano strains across its keys to reach chords, quiet but ecstatic, that bridge the distance between the instruments, touching the melody one last time. Tzofia holds on to her final note as long as she can, until her bow slides imperceptibly from motion to stillness, from sound to silence.

In the score sitting before her, the piano ends where it began, the same invocatory note ringing like a bell, as if in an endless cycle. But Tzofia plays the piece through only once, holding her bow on her string long after she has stopped playing, her eyes closed.

Outside, the call of birds.

The nuns pray for Zosia every day because, as rumor has it, Jews from across Europe crowd illegally into cargo ships bound for Palestine and meet with detentions, diversions to other ports, even bombs buried within.

Róża grows shaky to think of it. Shira survived the bombings; she was here, safe and sound. Yet the only remaining trace is her blanket, dug up from beneath the privet by a sister who kept closest watch. Róża grips it tight.

She continues searching. At a refugee center, she is given the address of the nearest displaced persons camps. One in particular seems to be the favorite of Bricha workers who “rescue” surviving Jewish children from Christian homes. Maybe this is where the rabbi and his wife have taken Shira?

Upon arriving there, Róża searches the faces of the children huddled around picnic tables. She walks through a yard where other children play tag. She inquires at the office.

“No records with the name Chodorów. No Shiras or Zosias, either. Could it have been changed?”

“It was Zosia when she was in the orphanage.”

“Maybe she’s taken on a different name.”

“Can I please look at all the names you have on your list?”

“You can, but between you and me, our records aren’t great. We do our best, but with all the comings and goings—people arrive here in the middle of the night, and if there’s word of a possible transport from Hamburg, they depart suddenly and without notice. In just the past weeks, I’ve heard of boats heading to Palestine, New York, and Morocco. Waves have come and gone. It’s hard to keep up.”

“Is there a child here who is especially musical?”

“Excuse me?”

“Musical. Always humming and tapping.”