She practices Bloch’s “Nigun,” which Pan Skrzypczak taught her was the second of the three-part Baal Shem, composed in memory of Bloch’s mother. She thinks of her own mother, wishing to be hopeful, yet the music’s every note is infused with a haunting melancholy.

Zosia still remembers home, her family: that particular moment on Friday nights before everyone took their seats at the dinner table, lighted candles flickering in their eyes. There would be a hush and then they’d settle, and each would tell stories of their week, at the bakery, at university, in the workshop. As the war drew closer, the stories changed, grew darker; unasked questions sat on their lips and worry lodged in the lines of their faces. Still, they played their music afterward—folk songs, gypsy dances, the insistence of hope—escalating to a fever pitch, ending in meditation.

Zosia thinks she can hear those same songs alive inside the “Nigun”—until it plunges into discordance and darkness. The moan of chords, the bow pressed upon two strings at once, then the sound narrowing to a single note as the music slows and slips into echoes and finally cries out: a solitary wail, repeating, higher and softer, until it trails off, no longer heard.

Zosia lingers, bow on string even after the sound stops. Flecks of white rosin drift and float into the surrounding air. She is expected in the chapel soon. Still, she extends her packing ritual: loosening her bow and re-stowing the sponge and pad; laying the violin in the case; lowering its lid and snapping it shut. For an extra beat, she stands motionless and listens. In the ringing silence, she pulls the window closed and scurries out of the chamber, through the corridor, into the bruised night.

But Zosia doesn’t make it to the chapel. A German soldier roaming the convent grounds has followed the sound of her playing and stops her now along the outside corridor.

“It was you playing the violin. Yes?”

The soldier’s pale eyes glow yellow by the lantern. Zosia nods, too terrified to speak.

“Good. You will play a recital. Fetch your violin.”

“Now?” Zosia wants to ask, but a nearby gunshot startles her into silence. If only she could summon help, but all the sisters are at vespers and the soldier stands blocking the pathway to the chapel.

Her legs quake as she retrieves her violin from Mother Agnieszka’s chamber, the soldier following close behind. They come to stand outside the chapel. Sister Nadzieja spots them through a transom window and whispers to Mother Agnieszka, who comes out.

“Good evening, Herr Mueller. May I ask what is happening?”

“A recital. My Oberleutnant will be arriving any minute—he enjoys music and this will be a special welcome for him.”

Mother Agnieszka holds her eyes steady on Zosia as she speaks. “Very well. We’ll assemble in the calefactory.”