“You are different. I don’t know how, exactly; you just are. Stay down, I said. Shh!”

In the loft late at night, Henryk’s hands tremble and his spooked eyes dart as he describes what he’s heard: The burned-down barn belonged to a farmer who was seen giving food to a family of Jews crossing into the woods. German soldiers strung him to the crossbeam before lighting the fire.

Róża looks away.

For a week, only Henryk enters the barn. Instead of pails containing Krystyna’s soups or stews, he ferries large wooden boxes with stray potatoes and a water canteen rattling beneath farm tools. Róża wonders if Krystyna is lobbying for them to leave; if Henryk is the one now petitioning for them to stay.

Just once in the course of the week Henryk reaches for Róża. She reaches back.

Chapter 18

Summer 1942

When Shira begins coughing, all Róża can focus on is the sound of it, who might hear: The boys? A neighbor on the way to the tavern? A soldier? God help us.

She props Shira up and holds her close, more to muffle than to soothe her, and she nearly smothers her when Henryk or Krystyna comes into the barn.

The coughing persists. Róża tries, gently and not so gently, to shush her. She needs it to stop.

“Hush, Shira. Please.”

By nightfall, the third night, the coughing stops. Róża says a prayer of thanks. But soon she realizes Shira’s condition is worse. Her cheeks glow red; she shudders with chills yet radiates heat. Come morning, her eyes are glassy and she is lethargic.

Why hadn’t she realized how sick Shira was? Róża moves the damp hair off her face, hoists her into her lap. If it’s typhus, they’ll die together.

Henryk places water just inside the barn door and glances up. Róża sees in his expression that he knows Shira has something bad.

“I fear it’s pneumonia.” She doesn’t dare mention her other fear. If Henryk and Krystyna thought Shira had typhus, they’d expel them at once.

“We don’t have any medicine.”

“Could you possibly bring me water to bathe her with and some cups?”

“Cups?”

“Small glass cups. And matches. Also, a bit of alcohol, and cotton.”

“Róża—”

“I can’t think what else to do. She struggles to breathe.”

Róża’s aunt once described the process to her: setting a flame inside a glass cup creates an air vacuum, and the cup suctions to the skin. This loosens things, makes breathing easier.

At nightfall, Henryk comes in with a box of supplies. Several rags drape over one side.

“In case she yells.” He says this in a whisper. Shira doesn’t hear, or else she is too dazed to care. She looks to be staring through the wall.

“Will you stay and help me?” Róża asks.