Róża looks around and wonders whether the upcoming mission is for food or warfare. A man named Alter paces the camp’s perimeter, gripping a wooden gun—a carving, not a real weapon to grant him a place among the fighters—and mumbles to himself. She spots Chana seated beside Hershel, talking and eating. Róża occupies a solitary rock. She eats quietly, greedily, turned away from the gathering families.

Later in the day, Aron steps into the sewing shop and stands before Róża.

“I’ve been looking for you! Do you want to take a little walk? Shmuele, can you spare her for a bit?” Before either can answer, he says, “Good, we’ll leave in a few minutes. I’ll come for you.”

Shmuel smiles at Róża and resumes his work. “Clever, that one. Devised a mechanical chair for his father when sores ravaged his feet and legs. Apparently the chair even operated on the cobbles of the Białystok ghetto, until German soldiers made a game of shooting at it.”

Róża thinks that Aron is as pushy as he is clever. She’d prefer to keep busy with a useful job rather than walk with him.

But then Aron returns carrying a pair of well-sized boots with rubber soles. To feel soft padding at the base of her heels and in the cup of her toes, no chafing, no biting soreness along the tops of her feet, Róża could cry.

“Won’t you come?”

Aron leads the way through a stand of birches and down a hill, making no effort to conceal his tracks. Close up, he smells of bullets and jerky. After a few minutes, they arrive at a stream. Aron motions to a thick toppled tree, a bench to sit on while watching the water wend through the snow—a scene of quiet, saving beauty. As Róża settles, Aron reaches into his satchel to reveal a pear.

“Oh! Where did you get it?”

Aron just smiles and hands it to her. She takes a bite—grainy, sweet, and full of light.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

They sit on the tree trunk and pass the pear back and forth, Aron taking smaller and smaller nibbles so as to ensure that Róża has the last bite.

When they get back to the camp, Róża senses excitement in the air.

“What’s going on?”

“Soon it will be Shabbas.”

Shabbas. Róża had long ago lost track of the days of the week. She marked the passing of time first by nicks in the barn rafter, then by knots on a string. The last time Róża observed Shabbas, her parents and Natan were alive. Shira had watched wide-eyed as her grandmother, with closed eyes, summoned the flames.

Róża doesn’t speak of it to Aron. She can’t speak of what came before.

“Thank you for the walk. I enjoyed it.”