A worry sets in, that her mother won’t recognize his tremulous two-note call. She must pray that he will regain his eighteen-note song along the way. She walks to the chapel and drops into a pew, her throbbing hands cupped in her lap.

Chapter 33

Pan Skrzypczak arrives for Zosia’s next lesson but Zosia refuses to take her hands from her pockets.

“Begin at once with your tuning. I expect you to be prepared and ready when I arrive here.”

She digs her hands deeper, clenching the fabric of her dress.

Pan Skrzypczak pauses in his own tuning and looks at Zosia more closely. “What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you not want to play.”

Zosia blinks back tears. How can he—her beloved teacher—not understand? “I do want to play. I always want to—”

“Well then?”

Slowly she brings out her hands, splotched purple and swollen around the knuckles, for him to see.

“Oh—”

Zosia fears he is going to ask her what happened, but he doesn’t. He just takes a long breath and exhales.

“How about I play for you today? It will be good for you to hear the Baal Shem played in its entirety.”

Zosia nods, flooding with relief.

“You can sit in this chair, I don’t think Mother Agnieszka will mind. But first, have I ever told you about the time, as a boy, I nearly broke a finger playing ball and this just before a recital?”

Chapter 34

Winter 1944

Chana looks to be glazed over, but her legs still move beneath her. The day is colder than any Róża has known, and barren, deserted even of birds. Every bit of exposed skin bites: the tip of her nose, the area around her eyes, the top of her left wrist where her glove and coat sleeve gap. There is no fresh snow. Without cover, their boots leave prints. Róża focuses on varying her steps as she leads Chana toward the center of the forest, hoping to find something to forage.

When a man steps out from behind a tree, rifle in hand, Róża jerks back, nearly slipping. She reaches into her pocket, fingers searching for the cyanide pill, but then she sees that he is not a German. That’s clear from his ragged coat, his ravaged boots.

“Wait,” the man commands, and steps closer, staring at Chana.

Róża pushes Chana behind her in a vain effort at protection.

But Chana stares back, brow furrowed, squinting as if to narrow her vision to a single point.

“Hershel?” she rasps in a near-silent whisper.

Róża whips her head around.

The man stares even more concertedly, still unable to place her.

“It’s me, Chana. From Warsaw.” Chana’s cracked voice comes from a different lifetime. For the first time in weeks, her eyes clear and her body shivers as if only now it feels the cold.

Róża looks back and forth between them.