Children. They flock out of the schoolhouse, arms outstretched, and gather in their mothers’ skirts. The mothers, a congregation in wait, kneel down and absorb their small sons and daughters, snuggling them and raising them up, even as they balance other, littler children in their arms.

Róża loses her own balance.

“Róża?”

She feels Chana’s tug on her hand, hears the call of her name. But she can’t turn away.

Here are mothers, in the woods, in winter, who did not part from their children. They kept them with them, and together they survived. It had been possible—

The sun fades quickly and crowds of people cluster around the campfire. Everywhere Róża looks, she notices little girls. Skin the color of apricots, hands sticky with pine sap. One calls out, “Mama!”

Chana is speaking to someone who points out the sleeping bunks and the cook’s quarters. Róża interrupts.

“I don’t want to stay here. Chana, I can’t—”

“Róża. Please.” Life glimmers in Chana’s eyes for the first time since Miri died.

Róża curls into herself and sobs.

Chana learns of a bath basin where there is heated kettle water, real soap, and several combs, even tightly grooved ones to help remove lice. She leads Róża there. Róża yields to the warm water washing over her exhausted, battered body and sits, compliant, as Chana combs through her hair section by section, the tines running over her scalp, close at the nape of her neck, and down her back.

“This comb is probably the camp’s most valuable possession.”

Róża looks at it and floods with regret as she thinks of the lice that infested Shira’s hair despite the constant braiding; the spiking fever that nearly claimed her life. Róża couldn’t keep her safe or near.

“Let’s wrap you dry and get you to bed.”

Róża drops into the underground bunk she is directed to and sleeps. She doesn’t leave the dugout for two days straight. Chana, assigned to be the cook’s assistant, brings her food and tries to coax her outside.

“Please, we don’t have to live in hiding here.”

There is a glow in Chana’s face, visible even in the dim light given off by saturated strips of smoldering pine bark. Róża closes her eyes. She is certain she saw a girl Shira’s age in the camp, running, playing chase. Her longing pierces as it did when she first left the barn.

When Róża wakes next, hours later, she is unsure whether it is day or night. The dank underground space feels close and tight around her now. She gets up and moves through the shadows, her hands feeling for the earthen walls, her feet venturing short, tentative steps until she grips the ladder rail. She shoves aside the branches overhead and pulls herself out from the darkness.