“Where will we go?”

Aron comes in for Róża. “Cross the stream and take the steep pass with the others. The Germans won’t follow there; they don’t know the terrain. Go as quickly as you can, then wait. I’ll come when—”

“Aron, please, come with me now; I can’t—”

“I have to stay and fight. I’ll follow, I promise you.”

Chana runs past with two rifles. Róża catches her by the arm. “Chana, where are you going? We have to run, right away.”

“I’m fighting.”

“No! You can’t!”

But there is no time to argue. They both hear the rumble of gunfire. Chana dives into the metal shop for bullets. Róża runs, as Aron instructed her, toward the stream.

Sonia is at the water’s edge, directing people to cross it. They hesitate before stepping into the icy flow. “Go on!” she yells. Róża wades in, submerging the boots Aron gave her. They soak in seconds. She instinctively jolts back, hardly able to catch her breath, but then she pushes forward, the cold water seeping through her pants, searing her calves, her thighs. It’s a struggle to make headway; the water is deep and the rocks slippery. But eventually she reaches the other side and follows the trail of people, dripping and shivering, down the pass.

Some who crossed ahead carried their saws and other tools. Already they’ve built a fire and are at work on temporary shelters. Others grabbed sacks of potatoes and soup pots. They’ve been run out of camps before. Róża steps close to the fire, desperate to get dry and warm, then sets herself to starting a soup. Every few minutes she scans the top of the pass for Aron, for Chana.

Why don’t they come already? The fire has not fully dried her clothing, and her boots are miserably wet still. With every crack of gunfire, Róża feels more despair.

At dusk Hershel stumbles down the pass.

“There were eight and we routed them,” he says in heaving breaths. Someone helps peel off his soaking coat; someone else hands him a dry one. In the meantime people shout out names with the hope that he will report, “They’re fine; they’re on the way here now.”

Róża stands, silent.

Hershel continues to gasp for air. His head is still in the skirmish. “They won’t follow us down here. They don’t know the deep woods like we do.”

Sonia cuts in, “Nevertheless, we’ll need to set up new patrols immediately.”

A debate ensues about the best lookout spots.

Hershel says that a peasant, from whom they stole food and tools, scouted out their camp and told the Germans. “He led them to us; I saw.”

Róża feels as though she may go crazy. It is near dark and no sign of others coming down.