Something registers in the man’s eyes. “Chana. I can’t believe this,” he is saying.

The unlikelihood of their meeting, but also, Róża thinks, Chana’s radically altered appearance.

“The last I saw you, you were training for a chess tournament,” Chana says.

“And now I am a patrol guard.”

“A patrol guard?” Róża asks. She’s wondering, Is he part of an army unit?

“Our camp is just down there.” He points with his rifle, and now, several log structures come into view.

They stare dumbstruck at the scene around them as Hershel escorts them to a fire to get warm. At one end, there are dugouts built into the ground, their roofs packed with dirt and branches. Inside are wooden bunks topped with straw. Beyond the dugouts, lean-to spaces form a row. In one, there is a working tailor; in another, a shoemaker. Beyond these, there is a leather workshop with saddles, stolen from villagers, stacked in its corners, and a metal shop. Róża gapes. People walk about with guns slung across their backs. The camp is protected and even somewhat informed: A news scout, using a rejiggered radio, hears of Allied bombings in Berlin and spreads the report.

Róża had struggled terribly getting Chana to part from Miri’s burial site, and for the past months, as Chana nearly gave up in grief, she alone bore the major tasks of their survival: gathering wood, clipping roots, digging burrows. Now she looks upon this miniature “village” replete with shelters, a bake house, a medical clinic. This place where, together, many share the burden of survival.

Part partisan camp, part family camp, frail men and women shuffle amid young, able-bodied soldiers. There is a liveliness here Róża hasn’t seen in years, and she inhales, practically gulps it. She squeezes Chana’s hand. Hadn’t Miri heard there was such a place? She had suggested they come, the first day they’d met.

Chana, also enlivened, has explained to Róża that Hershel was in the class ahead of her in school, that he was a chess champion.

Hershel, who had stepped away, returns with two hunks of bread, a shy smile on his face. “I have to get back to my post. I brought this for you to eat. Not too fast, or it won’t stay down.” His eyes fix on Chana. “I will find you when my shift is over.”

A hammering sound draws their attention toward the metal shop. The air reeks of sulfur. Gun parts and bullets lie scattered everywhere: supplies for resistance fighters. Róża turns to see if Chana has noticed the heap of weapons, but another sight—some activity across the square—stops her.