Zosia is in the outside corridor, praying they won’t notice her as she rushes by, but Adela calls out.

“Zosia, why don’t you join us? Oh, but it may not be possible. There would need to be a boy who could love you.”

Zosia’s bird batters in her sleeve, eager to swoop upon Adela and rip the crown off her head. He wants to send the flower petals into the air like feathers, like shreds of handkerchief squares. But Sister Nadzieja appears.

“You girls should concern yourselves with God’s love, not boys’ love. And it’s chore time. Go quickly—before Sister Olga notices that no one is helping in the refectory.”

Zosia reaches a finger into her sleeve to pat her bird, but he nips at her. She swallows a cry. Sister Nadzieja looks over at her, kindly.

Zosia wonders if Sister Nadzieja feels frightened by Sister Olga too.

If she wishes, she could play the girls’ games.

If there is someone else, other than God, whose love she longs for.

Róża and Miri venture out to gather mushrooms, minding how they move through the woods, pulling their feet back with each step as Henryk instructed Róża, weaving through the vegetation in strides that defy patterning. They discover cloudberries and greedily add handfuls to their harvest. They return to the fire to find Chana presiding over a soup. When they present their yield, she looks disappointed at the mushrooms.

“Just the kurki?”

Róża and Miri exchange looks.

“I can make a much better soup with a different variety. Didn’t you see any boletus, near the fallen tree trunk?”

“Chana, the soup you make with these will be fine. It’s too dangerous to go back.”

“It would have a richer flavor.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious as it is.”

“Nothing we eat is delicious.”

“It will be fine. Thank you for making it.”

Chana’s food obsession extends to everything. She reminisces about favorite meals and recipes and ingredients—not just eggs. Even when the conversation has nothing to do with food she manages a reference, as if it’s not painful—let alone annoying—to think about delicacies when they’re starving. In response to a distracted stare she asks, “What, are you thinking of blue almonds?” so that for the next hours, all three dream of almonds—whatever color—longing for their crisp, salty crunch.

On a morning that dawns clear and bright, their walking leads them to a stream. They take long drinks, then splash their faces. They have been sleeping aboveground, enjoying the open air and the restored sense of humanity that comes from not burrowing down like moles.

“Why don’t we wash everything?” Chana asks. “My pants are so stiff I can barely walk in them.”

“And my hair, I’ll do anything to stop itching for a few minutes!” Miri exclaims.