Krystyna’s motivations continue to confound Róża. Might she like separating Róża from her girl, a way of punishing her for Henryk’s attentions?

Krystyna looks squarely at Róża. “In God’s eyes your child is no different than mine. She deserves every chance to live.”

Róża looks away, chastened.

Chapter 20

Autumn 1942

Before Róża and Krystyna settle on a plan, Germans sweep into the village. Some by horse. Some by car. They teem the area. For three days, neither Krystyna nor Henryk enters the barn. Róża and Shira stay buried deep in hay, foggy from hunger, silent, and unmoving. The tavern emits a raucous din long into the night. Shira falls in and out of sleep, but Róża remains awake, vigilant. Her parched throat itches from hay dust; her skin goes clammy from the sweat that dries cold.

When she hears what sounds like an approach on the farmhouse, Róża shuttles Shira down the ladder. Shira has been terrified to get into the narrow dugout that Henryk made in the barn floor, but now there is no choice. Róża moves the hay bale that covers the opening and hustles them into the hole. Dirt loosens and slips with her every movement. It’s cold and dank and, when Róża pulls the bale back over the top, completely dark.

They shiver and blink, and suddenly it occurs to Róża that there are objects in the loft, unconcealed, that might give them away. The atlas. The novel. If pressed, Henryk can say that his boys like to read up there. But what about the other things? The needle and thread. The alphabet pages—Jurek and Piotr are too old and Łukasz too young for them. And the music pages—no one in Henryk’s family plays an instrument. How can Henryk possibly explain these things? Far worse is the waste pail, which surely smells terrible after so many days. Neither he nor Krystyna could come to remove it, and in her haste Róża didn’t think to cover it. Henryk no longer has the excuse of his livestock animals—they’ve killed them all for meat. The straying pig was the last to go.

There’s nothing to do. Róża strains to listen above the rush of blood in her ears. She hears a German say, “I will tour your sheds and barns.”

Róża inhales, bracing herself, one hand on Shira’s wrist. A clump of moist dirt slides down her neck and into her shirt, settling at the small of her back. Minutes pass. Henryk must have taken him to the far sheds first, allowing them the time they needed to move to the dugout.

When the barn door scrapes the earthen floor and boots pound to the left of their heads, Henryk’s voice comes loudly—perhaps too loudly—but steady.

“It’s a basic barn as you can see.”