Krystyna comes in later that morning, not to take Shira out but to bring distractions. She must be a mind reader, for in a bucket she’s concealed a crochet hook, yarn, pencils and paper, an atlas, and the Polish children’s novel In Desert and Wilderness tucked inside the cover of a different title, Emil und die Detektive.

“They’re meant to be reading only German books now.” Krystyna points to the book cover. “But my boys loved this one.”

Róża wants to thank Krystyna for not evicting them—today marks fifty-six days in the barn—and to tell her that she would never utter a word about Piotr, but she hesitates, fearful of causing offense or sounding as though she’s using it as leverage to remain in the loft. Krystyna already contends with Henryk’s grumblings over rushed chores, as she’s instituted that Piotr go to church each morning.

“We are so grateful for your kindness. Thank you,” Róża says.

The closest thing they’ve had to a book is the cardboard fold of photographs. Now Róża whisper-reads the first pages of In Desert and Wilderness to Shira, pausing to open the atlas to Port Said at the northern end of the Suez Canal, where this story of intrigue and adventure takes place. Shira ahhs with pleasure at the description of flamingos, “red and purple flowers suspended in the sky,” then claps a hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “Please, keep reading?”

“Shira,” Róża whispers, “now that we have paper I want to teach you your letters. You can learn to spell your name.” Róża prints out the letters of the alphabet on a sheet of paper, circling the letters in Shira’s name, but Shira insists on turning the paper over on its blank side and reorienting it sideways.

“I’d like a music page.”

“What?”

“A music page, with the lines across, like you and Tata—” Shira closes her mouth again. Outside, the sky is white. No birds in the branches now.

“Let’s work on your letters.”

Róża knows: music paper will lead to music making, or at the very least to tapping. But sulking—which Shira looks as though she is about to start—may lead to a storminess that will be even more difficult to manage. “How about this: I’ll tell you a real-life story about some famous musicians.”

“Good.”

“Come onto my lap so I can whisper even more quietly. It’s about a violinist, a very talented violinist named Joachim. He was so dedicated to his music, in fact, that he believed that he and his musician friends should never marry.”

“Why?”

“He thought it would distract them. He wanted them to stay faithful to their calling as musicians. He even had a personal motto, Frei aber einsam—Free but lonesome.”

“He wanted them to be lonesome?”