Hastily, Róża stands up, the blustery air whipping at her scalp and hair. She chose to rest here when it was still dark, but now she sees it is an area of forest with swaths of silver birch trees, narrow and exposed. She should move deeper in, to the thick cover of oaks and pines, but she is dizzy from hunger.

Faintness drives the urge to lie down again, to sleep—but no. She’ll die if she doesn’t find more food to eat.

Not far in the distance, a yellow pin of light. There may be a farmhouse she can raid. She may find barley, potatoes, or, if she dares to imagine, turnips.

She drags herself out at dusk, her body drawn into a comma against the wind, weaving through mist-shrouded trees toward the woods’ edge. Her thoughts jump about, disjointed. She wonders if Krystyna and Henryk fought once she was gone. She remembers one of her worst fights with Natan. She’d overheard him disparage her father while talking to a musician friend, referring to him as a “mechanic” rather than a craftsman of instruments—including the very one that Natan played. Natan could be haughty, disdainful of both her parents at times, yet they were always there, supporting him, doting on Shira, and allowing them time for their music. Her parents didn’t have prestigious jobs like his pharmacist parents, but Róża valued the way they took part in her family’s life. When she confronted Natan—perhaps he looked down on her too—he denied it, he became furious, and she became furious back. Even now she grows heated thinking about it. Whereas her agony over losing him has at times halted her in her tracks, the revival of this singular anger propels her forward, allows her to tromp past her hunger and fatigue and desperation.

She moves quickly now along a footpath, the lantern light growing brighter, until the sound of footsteps halts her. She squats low behind a large rock. A figure approaches. She can’t make out features, just a fur hat and long coat.

Perhaps she is delirious again, because Róża imagines that the figure could be Henryk. Or else a suspicious neighbor—Borys, back from dragging Piotr to the village center after all this time, turning him in! As the man gets closer, Róża’s breath grows jagged and uneven. The muscles in her face clench tight; her bowels roil. She is certain he’ll spot her prints and come after her, but he passes her by. A young farmer she’s never seen before. She hurtles back toward the center of the woods, forgetting her mission for food.