Jurek’s high-pitched pig calls trail up. “Pigpigpigpig! Where are you hiding?” He seems to be circling beneath the loft.

Within her hay burrow, Róża holds her breath, then swallows, trying to stifle the heaving. Henryk bursts in just then.

“Jurek, come out of there.”

“But Tata, the pig—”

“This instant.” His voice carries a note of fear.

Róża keeps hold of Shira’s wrist long after the barn door closes. She insists they remain buried until dark. Shira grows restless and tries to wriggle her hand away, but Róża doesn’t let go. Their bellies growl. Krystyna does not arrive with soup. Henryk does not visit either.

Eventually Róża unwraps half of an old potato she’s saved and gives it to Shira. Shira eats it and afterward sucks on a small pebble to keep her mouth occupied.

“Mama, tell me again why are we hiding from Jurek?”

“Because he might tell someone we are here.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A past schoolmate. A neighbor. It’s too dangerous.”

“The Wiśniewskis know we’re here.”

“They are helping to keep us safe.”

“But Mama…?”

Róża doesn’t answer immediately. She listens to the gathering night, wonders if there is a chance Henryk will come. “Hmm?”

“What did we do wrong?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong, Shira. It’s very difficult to explain—”

“Did they get the pig back into the pen?”

“Yes.”

“I want to go home.”

Weak with hunger, Róża drifts off to sleep. She wakes to find Shira hunched over the pad of paper, scribbling on a new sheet. Shira has managed to draw staffs, crooked and uneven but legible, with symbols resembling the treble clef on some and the bass clef on others. Except for the last, all the staffs are filled with notes.

“What have you got there?”

“My music.”

“You are writing it, just from what I told you? I need to tell you about key signatures and rests and—” A sideways glance at the paper and Róża can see: two lyrical melodies, intricately entwined. Astonishment catches in her throat. The tunes Shira hums have always been advanced, but this composition is another level entirely. Is her child a prodigy?

“I am writing a violin part and a cello part. You could play it with Ta—” Shira looks up, worried.

Róża turns away but manages to say, “It’s brilliant, Shirke. Maybe you’ll learn the violin one day and we’ll play it together.”

Krystyna comes to the barn before dawn. Róża fears she’ll take stock of the rabbits, but her eyes are focused on Shira. “Is she asleep?”

Róża nods.

“I think you should move her.”

“What?”

“For her safety. I know someone who is part of a network that hides children. Shira will be better off in a convent orphanage than in this barn.”