The relief of the cold water on Róża’s sore, blistered feet travels through her whole body as she takes her first tentative steps into the stream. She bends to submerge her arms; she catches water in the cups of her hands to pour on the back of her neck.

They take turns bathing and scrubbing their clothes. They dunk their heads and pick the lice from one another’s scalps. Afterward, they put on the dry things they have: Chana wears the pants she took from the man killed for testing Jewish. Miri and Róża put on the skirts they nabbed from a clothesline during a food raid nearer the perimeter. All three wear damp undershirts, cool against their skin.

Róża hangs her pants on a tree branch and returns to their site. Before she doused them, mud caked and lice infested, into the stream, she unstitched the convent address card and placed it—she’s sure of it—inside her left boot. But now she can’t find it, not inside either of her boots or anywhere nearby. It’s not tucked into the sleeve of her sweater or beneath the cook pot either, and though she knows the address—she made up that story to help her memorize it and she has never forgotten it, not a single detail—the loss of the card feels like the loss of Shira herself, all over again. She rushes, frantic, along the edge of the stream, peering to see if the card is in the water.

Chana watches her, unmoved, mumbling something about how losing an engagement band doesn’t mean the couple is not engaged.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying, you don’t need the card if you know the address. It’s actually safer that you don’t have it.”

Chana intends this to comfort Róża, but instead it alarms her further. If the card is not in her possession, it’s somewhere in the woods. It could be found by soldiers; it could lead them straight to Shira!

Róża looks through the clothes again, then riffles around near the pot. She doesn’t take care with the noise she’s making. Her hair, wet now with tears, sticks stiffly to her cheeks.

“Róża, here!”

Róża looks up to see Miri holding the card, drenched and muddy, in her extended hand. All this time, Miri had been carefully retracing Róża’s steps, searching under branches, among piles of leaves.

“Oh!” Róża runs toward her, reaching for the card. “How can I ever thank you?”