In the front hallway, the lady is tucking papers into different pockets of her coat, all the while muttering how Zosia cannot possibly pass, not with her hair; they’ll need cover, darkness above all, as she has no bleach here. Shira doesn’t know what she’s talking about; she is awed by the brightness and warmth of the house. Unlike what she could see of Krystyna and Henryk’s, there are pretty paintings on the walls, books scattered in piles, and, most incredibly, a small stack of sheet music. Shira stares at it, her breath still heaving.

“You like music?”

Shira gives a single scared nod.

It had been through the stir of notes—from her mother’s cello, her father’s violin—that Shira could know her parents’ truest feelings. And her dear grandfather’s, from the symphonies he listened to, hunched at his workbench amid chisels and planers, wood pieces and string.

The lady leads Shira into the kitchen. On the table sits a plate of cookies. Shira eats one cookie and puts another in her pocket for her mother. The lady is explaining that her name is Maryla and that she must teach Shira the Lord’s Prayer, what people call the “Our Father,” right away.

Shira does not dare repeat the words. She makes no sound at all. But as her eyes adjust to the lantern light, Shira recognizes Maryla—she’s the one who circled the barn, arm in arm with Krystyna. Shira feels a wave of relief: Maryla will take Shira back to the barn, back to her mother. Or she will bring her mother here!

There is a bath basin by the stove into which Maryla pours hot kettle water into cold. “This should warm things up. Quick, hop in.” Shira allows Maryla to pull off her dress and shoes and place her into the basin. The soothing warmth causes her to shiver. She wriggles her battered toes, sore despite the larger-sized shoes Henryk gave her. She dunks her head and splashes about like an eel. She stills, letting Maryla delouse her and scrub her clean. The music is jaunty, like a dance; perhaps she will try to write it out later on her music paper.

Afterward, when dried and bundled up, she lets Maryla walk her outside. Shira seeks out the direction of the barn and tugs Maryla with all her strength.

“We have to go get my mother!”

“No, Zosia.” Maryla drags Shira to the carriage. Pressed close, Shira’s nostrils fill with Maryla’s unfamiliar, citrusy scent. She tries once again to wriggle out of Maryla’s grasp.

“I need you to get in this minute. We have to move while it’s still dark.” Maryla hands Shira her blanket.