However reckless, it feels imperative to Róża to avoid the desolation of sleeping in a makeshift grave. In her burrow, surrounded by dirt and shadowed by branches, doubts creep into her mind: that she may never make it to the convent, may never again see Shira and hold her in her arms.

Miri looks as if she is about to protest, but Chana agrees and Miri stays quiet.

“Good!” Róża exclaims. “Our bed will be under the trees.”

Mother Agnieszka told Zosia always to hide in her closet when the Germans come, but tonight there’s no warning. Soldiers are already in the stairwells, heading toward the children’s room. Zosia sees the terror on Sister Alicja’s face as she steers Zosia into a makeshift line—the second roll call required of the children.

A tall, stern-faced soldier paces before them. Zosia clutches the fabric of her nightgown to stop her hands from shaking. She keeps her eyes down, but then the soldier’s boots snap together, causing her to startle. She adjusts her gaze straight ahead, fearful, breathing in his scent of starch and cedar and sweat, trying not to stare at the tiny hairs that poke out from his nostrils, the faint mark of an iron upon his shirt collar.

Sister Olga paces behind them just as he paces in front. Sister Olga is the one who in winter suggested the musical instruments be burned for firewood and who just yesterday made Janina kneel on beans for giggling during chores. Zosia wishes she could break out of the line, run to her closet, curl up in her solitary space, however dark and lonely.

At some point the soldier stills, distracted by the cross-stitched linens topping the bureaus. His expression softens as he walks over to look at them. After a few minutes he nods to Sister Olga, and she ushers him toward the stair. The girls shuffle toward their beds.

Adela asks, not quietly, “Why weren’t you in the line last time?”

Zosia freezes, fearing the soldier is still in earshot. Are his footsteps on the landing? Was he first heading down the steps, now turning back?

As Zosia stands, unmoving, Adela grabs Zosia’s blanket from the corner of her bed, throws it into the air, and catches it. Zosia rushes forward and retrieves it. She buries it deep beneath her bedcovers, thinking of the letters tucked into the seam, spelling out her name.

In bed, Zosia cups her hands even tighter than usual because her bird’s bright yellow feathers are puffed out in a flamboyant ruffle. No striated feathers as in her dream; he is healthy and poised to protect her, his piercing eyes trained on Adela. Yet his call is still a two-note tremble.