“I wanted to bring an egg for you! I promise to, next time.”

“No talking now.” Róża swallows hard, on nothing.

Later, Róża takes Shira into her lap and parts her thick hair into three even clumps. With the separated hair clasped between her fingers, she begins to braid, weaving the strands over and under, each cross marked with a gentle tug, until just wisps remain. With Shira’s hair pulled back, her resemblance to her grandmother, olive toned and heart shaped, is acute. Except for her eyes, the shape and color of almonds, like Natan’s.

“I’ve made your hair especially fancy today. Just as it will be when I take you to see the Philharmonic.”

Shira turns to look at her, disbelieving.

“That’s right. When we can go home, we’ll splurge for seats and you’ll hear the symphony.”

Shira pats the braid that cascades down the nape of her neck.

Róża thinks back to concerts she attended as a girl with her parents. Dressed in their best, they still looked shabby compared with most of the other concertgoers, but it didn’t matter because her father had made several of the violins that were played there. Afterward, Róża was permitted to join her parents, late, at the kitchen table for tea and linzer torte.

Róża ties off Shira’s braid with a fresh strand of hay as the barn tints with the pale purple light of dusk. She drapes her arms around her girl and drifts into fitful, hungry sleep.

Chapter 7

Shira knows her mama prefers her to stay holed up, but the excitement of walking outside—feeling the fresh air on her face and in her hair, darting among the chickens as they strut and peck, and then getting hard-boiled eggs to eat—builds, so that every time she sees Krystyna approaching the barn, Shira sits up, hopeful. She yearns so badly to go, just the few steps between the barn and the coop, with Krystyna’s firm hand on her back all the while.

Her tata would understand. Last birthday, he set up a whole scavenger hunt for her, up and down the riverbank. If he were here, she knows: he would want to go too.

As her mother sleeps, Shira pats the top of her bird’s fluffy yellow head and feeds him tiny droplets of nectar from her littlest finger, wondering what story adventures await them tonight. His heart beats heavy and quick. With each new sound outside—the stomp of boots, the rise of voices—he burrows deeper into the nest of Shira’s hands.

“Now, now,” she whispers.