But the thought was foolish, and Yona knew it. Europe was at war. She couldn’t simply cross through Poland and waltz over the German border, could she? And who knew if twenty-one years after their child had been taken from them, the Jüttners were still there. What if they had moved, or worse, died? But when Yona had asked Jerusza on her deathbed whether she would see them again, Jerusza hadn’t denied it; she had merely delivered another confusing proclamation. The universe delivers opportunities for life and death all the time. But what did that mean? Was finding her parents an opportunity for life? Was that why her feet continued to carry her west? She felt as if she were being swept across the continent by forces greater than herself, and for once, still swimming in grief, she let the current take her.
She was moving toward the Bia?owie?a Forest, the Forest of the White Tower, where she had lived for a time with Jerusza, the forest where she’d met a young man named Marcin almost a decade ago, startling her out of her isolation. It was a place that felt like home to her, and now she longed for its embrace—but that meant she had to cross a land that was far more populated with both villagers and soldiers than it had been when she and Jerusza last traversed it years before. She knew how to disappear in public, though, not by looking down but by walking with her head held high, meeting people’s eyes for fleeting instants instead of shying away from their gaze. It made her look as though she had nothing to fear, nothing to hide, but she also knew to avoid the kind of extended eye contact that made bears, wolves, and men feel as if she was an aggressor.
She washed herself in a brook, scrubbing her face pink, scraping the dirt from her knuckles and nails, lathering her hair with Saponaria flowers and rinsing it until it gleamed. She changed from her familiar shirt and trousers into the dress that lived at the bottom of her pack, the one she used only as an extra layer in the depths of winter. Jerusza had stolen it for her years before, telling her she must always keep it with her, for if she needed to venture into a village, her rugged shirt and torn trousers would immediately mark her as suspicious. Since Yona would have to slip through a few dots of civilization before reaching the safety of the woods to the west, she would need to look as if she belonged.
She was just passing the outskirts of a large village she didn’t know, grateful that she’d almost reached another cluster of trees, when she heard a burst of machine-gun fire, a scream, and then—after a congress of startled crows had lifted off, darting away from the danger overheard—only cold, eerie silence. Yona froze.
Suddenly, there was movement up ahead, near an old church on the edge of the town. It was enough to snap Yona out of it, and at last she scrambled into a thatch of trees up a hill, hiding behind a large oak as a woman hurried into view. It was a nun, wearing a black habit, but the distinctive white yoke and hood were stained with blood. She was carrying a small child, a little girl with long blond ringlets whose bare feet dangled lifelessly from the nun’s arms.
The nun was crying as she approached a small house behind the church. “Father Tomasz! Father Tomasz!” she called. “Please, are you there?” The woman couldn’t knock on the door, for the child hung heavy in her arms, but surely if there had been someone inside, he would have heard her. No one came, and the nun’s moan of despair a moment later shook Yona to her core. She dug her fingernails into the tree, waiting. If the little girl was dead, there was nothing she could do. But if she was still alive…
And then, suddenly the girl stirred, and Yona was halfway down the small hill before she could reconsider. The nun turned at the sound of footsteps and looked startled, but she must have seen something in Yona’s eyes that spoke silent volumes, because she held Yona’s gaze and said simply, in Belorussian, “She has been shot. You are someone who can help? I don’t know how to save her, but if we don’t do something, she will die.”
“I will do what I can,” Yona said, and the nun nodded once, then handed the limp child to Yona and gestured for her to follow her to the church several meters from the house. Together they swept through the back door into a darkened vestibule. The nun lit a candle, and then another as Yona laid the girl gently on the floor and put a hand to her neck. She still had a pulse, a strong one, and Yona exhaled in relief. “Water,” she said, turning to the nun. “I need water, and alcohol for the wound, if you have it. And yarrow to help clot her blood. Does yarrow grow near here?”
“One of the sisters keeps a small basket of medicinal herbs. I will see what she has.” The nun stood, wiping the blood from her hands onto the cloth of her habit, where it seemed to disappear, taken by God. “Please. Do not let her die.”