“Are we looking for Jesus in the wrong places? Worse, are we hiding our sins from His judgment?

“Jews seek to hide their crimes: the killing of Jesus; the taking of Christian blood to make matzos; the profiting from the miseries of Europe’s poor. And those who aid and abet them? Just as the Jews cannot hide their sins from God, nor can those who help them. Jews are Christ haters. Those who have no limits in their love of Christ must have no limits in their battle with those who hate Him.…”

Zosia struggles to breathe. She has been hiding; is she who the priest is talking about, greedy, dirty, and evil? And are the nuns sinning by keeping her here? Is this why Maryla and then Mother Agnieszka vowed her to silence, why she is alone—Sisters Alicja and Nadzieja are not really her sisters, as she’s daydreamed—and will be alone until her mother comes for her?

Amid the blinding winter light and the rustle of robes, Zosia feels dizzy and faint. She tries to understand whether she loves Christ, or could; whether she ever would.

Heat sears her cheeks; she is certain her face has flushed red. She looks behind her to see Ula and Adela looking at her, looking through her, as if they know the truth of her hiding.

When the homily is over, Zosia bursts out of the chapel. By the time others file out, she is already near the back hedge, slipping into a concealed spot between a row of plants and a stone wall. She closes her eyes, remembering a word smeared in black paint on the bakery window: Jude.

Sister Alicja finds her after the children have gone in for lunch.

“Zosia.”

“Can I be baptized?” Zosia’s voice shakes with urgency.

“What?”

“I want to be baptized.”

“No, Zosia. I don’t think that would be right. But you can participate in a communion ceremony with the other girls come spring.”

“Will that help?”

Sister Alicja rebleaches Zosia’s hair that night and arranges her chore assignment to floor bleaching the following day. As Zosia mops the dormitory landing, Ula hops up the stairs, squinting and sniffing the air.

“Where were you yesterday, Zosia? You missed the fancy Epiphany luncheon.”

“And we didn’t see you at bedtime the night before last.” Adela has come up behind her.

“I have to finish the floor.” Zosia tries to turn, but Ula wrestles the mop away.

Zosia steps back, afraid they will try to hit her with the stick, but now Adela takes a dramatic sniff, her snub nose upturned.

“Oh, that nasty smell makes me have to spit.” She crinkles her nose and spits. A blob of spittle lands in Zosia’s hair.

“Me too, I can’t help it.” Ula’s spit reaches Zosia’s cheek and slides to her neck.

Ula, dangling the mop low, lets it drop to the floor. “Let’s go. Come on.”