Then Róża tells the story of a little girl who, with the help of her bright yellow bird, tends an enchanted garden. The little girl is five years old, the same age as Shira. The garden must be kept silent—only birdsong is safe—yet there is a princess who can’t stop sneezing and giants who must never hear them. There are adventures and threats averted by the little girl’s quick thinking; and each time, the story ends with the girl and her mother curled together in a soft heap of daisy petals for a good night’s sleep.

Afterward, Róża whisper-sings a lullaby about chicks waiting for their mother to return home with glasses of tea to drink. She leaves out the Cucuricoo that starts off the lullaby and prays Shira won’t utter it aloud. Then she folds her large fingers over Shira’s small ones—a hugging of hands, a good-night squeeze—and settles Shira to sleep with her blanket.

Only tonight, addled from hunger, inactivity, and the fading purple light, Róża nods off in the middle of telling the story. She jolts awake, clarity renewed, when she hears the sound of someone entering the barn. Henryk. He carries the night air and the scent of alcohol up the ladder, into the loft.

Róża guesses it is after midnight. The farmhouse is unlit: Krystyna and the boys must be sleeping. Shira sits cross-legged in the very center of the loft, wide-awake, pretending to play with her bird, trying to decipher Henryk’s whisperings of war news he just heard in the tavern.

Henryk’s eyes dart in Shira’s direction. “When does she sleep?”

Róża prods Shira to a place by the wall farthest from the ladder. “I need you to lie here. Yes, with your face toward the wall, no turning—here’s your blanket—and I promise I will finish our story first thing in the morning.” Róża feels Shira bristle at the false brightness in her voice.

“But Mama—”

“No questions now. Shh.”

Róża stays silent and unmoving as Henryk fumbles her pants down and pushes his way inside her. Dry and tight, she feels as if she is ripping. His weight is heavy upon her. His thrusts grow faster, deeper, the pounding harder and harder. Hay cuts into her back as he presses her into the floorboards, his salt and sweat and breath in her nose.