She went home that evening, and Milos listened to her weep. They sat on their bed, teeth chattering in the December chill. Milos was filthy from a day at the quarry, but Sarah said, “You will not bathe until we resolve this.” He tried to reassure her. Maybe she wanted to be reassured.

“So they closed the school, Sarah. They will go to a different school. It’s humiliating, yes, for the rabbi, but it’s not the end of the world. We just need to wait it out. Soon, the Germans will lose the war, and all of it will return to normal.”

“No. I cannot accept that. I am going to see my family. The ferry still runs. I cannot sit by while they are in danger.”

What Milos did next was squeeze her wrist very tightly. For days after, she could still feel the place where he squeezed it. “I forbid it, Sarah. It’s too dangerous now.”

And so Sarah unraveled. Like one of the textiles over which her father hunched, Milos pulled the string, and she went to shreds. But did she ram her fists against his chest in protest? Did she say You are not the boss of me! I will do what I want to do?

No, she did not. She accepted it like Milos was her master, like she did not have two feet that could have hitchhiked a ride to Igoumenitsa and boarded the ferry to Corfu.

It is far easier to do nothing than it is to do something. So Sarah was quiet. She pretended that reality was not reality. She said stupid, worthless prayers when her own two feet could have taken action.

Days passed as Sarah attempted to shove from her mind what Costas had shared. She continued to write her family letters, with nary a reply. Maybe Milos was right. She could sometimes convince herself of that in the dead of night as she lay awake, counting the panels in their thatched roof. Everyone was saying the war was as good as over. Soon the Allies would beat back the Germans. Then Sarah would be reunited with her family.

But for now, the Germans had infiltrated their lives. People stopped looking at each other as much, just hurrying along on daily tasks, giving off fumes of fear. And the Germans existed in physicality too—waltzing into Sarah’s shop with their brisk commands, commandeering free goods. She always trembled on those encounters and for hours after, terrified those severe, unsmiling men would sniff out her Jewish-ness.

Christmas and New Year’s arrived, and with them strange traditions that had once lived on the periphery of Sarah’s life and now moved into its forefront. The last of the celebrations was the Epiphany, the anniversary of the baptism of Jesus Christ, whom everyone kept blathering on about.

“Who is this Jesus Christ anyway?” Sarah whispered on their way to church.