There was a click of the lid of a cigarette lighter. Someone on the far side of the room said, “I really need to smoke. I’m claustrophobic.” I smelled burning tobacco. The trembling of the woman in my arms became more violent. Her whole body was shivering. Between the silence and the crush and the smells of meats, cheeses, sweat, and tobacco, I felt my own rising tide of panic: beads of sweat trickled down my neck and back. My heart was beating ever faster, my breathing was short, a migraine was building behind my eyes. With all my senses lunging upward and beyond the cellar for a sign of what was happening outside, of what was to be our fate, I lost all notion of time’s passage. I began to imagine that we would never emerge from this cellar, that we would all die in it under a mountain of debris. I thought of Rotterdam: it had taken only four days for the Nazis to reduce Europe’s greatest port to rubble. “I need to get out of here,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. I felt her arms tighten around my waist. Somehow, that modest sensation dislodged something inside me, and the panic that had threatened to drown me began to subside.

As the minutes dragged on, there was only silence from above. Paris, it seemed, had been granted a stay of execution. The sirens started up again, a sign that the raid was over and we were free to go. The warden climbed the ladder and the trapdoor swung open. Fresh air and cool evening light washed over us. More cigarettes were lit and the gathering burst into a dozen simultaneous conversations. People waited their turn to climb the ladder. Some of them remained to talk and drink in the bistro, others lingered outside on the street under a golden sky. They chatted, promised to meet again for a drink, shook hands, and wished each other good luck.

As we neared the stepladder the woman from the cemetery started climbing before me. I was about to follow her, but I ceded my place to an elderly gentleman waiting beside me. By the time I emerged above ground in the bistro, the woman was gone. I rushed out and caught a glimpse of red hibiscus on black silk on the other side of the street. She was already half a block away, running with her shoes in her hands. I set off after her. It felt good to run after our brief and anxious imprisonment. And I didn’t want to let her vanish. She’d helped me somehow, down there in the cellar, without even knowing it.