She shivers in the bracing air. It is night, yet the sky is lighter than the underground, and she has to blink several times before her sight adjusts. Camp flames strut. Music, spirited and soulful, floats into the night: the sound of fiddles, flutes, and a dulcimer. It reminds Róża of the music she and Natan played; Shira padding into the parlor, her hair still damp from bath time, settling into a grandparent’s lap to listen.

She picks her way along the path, slick and patchy, to find that the people circling the fire are adults. The children put to bed, thank God.

Men and women cluster, speaking in low tones. Young couples snuggle close, no words at all. Sharing a bottle between them, four Soviet partisans huddle with fighters to discuss an upcoming mission, then break for their camp, west of here.

Róża does not want to camp with these families. She wants to warm up by the fire and find Chana to discuss leaving; her aim hasn’t changed. She still must reach the forest border near Celestyn so that she can be ready, as soon as it’s safe, to reclaim Shira.

Chana isn’t around the fire. Róża thinks to seek her out at Hershel’s post, or else return to her bunk until morning when they can start off fresh. But a man she saw earlier in the metal shop strides toward her. His eyes peek out, amber, from beneath tufts of shaggy, unkempt hair. He is nearly a head taller than her.

“Tell me your name.”

His directness startles her. She pulls her coat tightly around her. “Róża.”

“Różyczka!”

At hearing him say her name in the diminutive—her childhood name—Róża looks up, and a smile crosses her face before any thought can stifle it. “And yours?”

“Aron.”

Aron tells Róża that he studied mechanical engineering. When the war broke out, he came to the forest to fight. He repairs weapons between missions.

“Missions for what?” Despite a desire to retreat, she is drawn by a brightness in him that scruff and grime can’t dim. She thinks of her own appearance. Before the war, she was considered a beauty, with her dark blue eyes set against her curled hair, her fine-boned features and willowy form. Now she is gaunt and pale, dressed in her ragged clothes despite finally being clean. If Aron notices her shirt, rent in mourning, he doesn’t mention it.

“For our survival. Food—and warfare,” he answers.

An organizer within the camp strides over, interrupting. “I need to know what work you will do here.”

“Róża, meet Sonia,” Aron says. “Sonia, Róża.”

“I’m not sure we will stay.”

“Not stay?” This is Aron.

“Everyone works,” Sonia insists.

“Yes, well. I used to help in my mother’s bakery. But—”

“Can you sew?”

“Yes.”