The morning light is just breaking when a young nun in long brown robes stands over Zosia and makes the sign of the cross above her forehead. Zosia jerks awake with a start, staring first at the nun—her starched headdress like horns—then at the rows of beds, white sheets pulled pin tight. Frantic, Zosia kicks against the bedcovers that trap her, stiff and coarse and smelling of lye. With one hand, she clutches her tattered blanket, and with the other, she cups her fingers into a nest.

A single small window, pitched too high for Zosia to see out of, is trimmed with dark wood, stark against the unadorned white walls. The room’s chill air feels sharp in Zosia’s chest, without the warmth of her mother. Whether from cold or fear, Zosia begins to tremble. The nun gently presses her hand on Zosia’s chest like a weight on a fluttering slip of paper, a steadying force, and after several flaps, a shudder, a flinch, Zosia’s body gradually acquiesces.

“There, there. Don’t be scared. My name is Sister Alicja.” Sister Alicja looks from the slate to the girl. “And you must be Zosia.”

Zosia involuntarily blinks as if to will away the name—not her own, not given by her mother. She pulls her blanket closer.

“Zosia, yes,” Sister Alicja repeats, as if the name is merely something to agree upon. Her round face is shiny and clean. After a few moments, she holds up a small brown dress and a white sleeveless smock. “Come, put these on.”

As Zosia stands, she shoves her hand into her pocket, clinging to the crumbled bits of cookie she’d taken for her mother. She doesn’t want to change dresses, no matter how filthy hers is, but Sister Alicja tugs her out of the old and into the new, quickly, eyes averted all the while.

“Here’s a roll to eat. While the other children are in the refectory, we’ll do something about that hair of yours.”

Zosia puts a hand to her hair. Maryla didn’t rebraid it after her bath and now it is tangled.

Sister Alicja guides her to a nearby bathroom. A single bulb casts a dim yellow circle on two toilet stalls and a large trough sink. Stiff washcloths and towels in neatly folded squares line the rough shelving above. Sister Alicja reaches for a towel.

Zosia struggles as the back of her head is pressed against the sink’s cold porcelain rim and a liquid—so sharp odored and pungent that Zosia’s nostrils burn just to breathe it—is poured into her hair. She wriggles and rears up, but Sister Alicja presses her back down, gently but firmly. “Now, now.” Wrapping a towel around Zosia’s shoulders, she guides her to a sitting position and produces a second roll for her to eat. “We’ll need to wait a bit for it to work.”