The younger man whispered to the others, presumably translating her message of comfort, and though his words were almost impossible to discern, they felt familiar. For a moment she thought he had spoken in Spanish, but then the syllables untangled themselves and became clear.

It was Ladino. Her father had spoken it very occasionally with elderly patients, and, more recently, with younger ones who had come from Greece. Centuries ago, before her people had been expelled from Spain, it had been her own family’s language.

Nico had counseled her more than once to say as little as possible to the people they sheltered, not only for her sake but for theirs as well. She knew he was right, and she knew he would be upset with her for disobeying, but she couldn’t stop herself now.

They were fellow Jews. They had to be—and she had to let them know they were not alone. “Shalom,” she whispered. “Me yamo Nina. Te ayudaremos.” Welcome. My name is Nina. We will help you.

They stared, their eyes widening, but then the older man nodded, and a fraction of the fear that bound them seemed to drain away.

Rosa came to stand behind her. “Can you tell them we have some soup? And can you ask if they want any milk for—”

“Komm her! Hier! Sie wohnt hier!”

Nico was at the door before Nina could even blink. “Hide them.”

“Who’s out there?”

“A pair of German soldiers, both of them so drunk they can hardly walk. But that only makes them more dangerous. Get everyone upstairs, Nina—now.”

“Come with me,” she implored, gesturing frantically to the refugees.

They ran with her up the stairs and to the end of the hall, to the bedroom and the promise of safety—but only if she could get them hidden in time. She grabbed the chair and all but threw it across the room, then stood on top and reached high for the trapdoor, but she was too short and her fingertips scrabbled at thin air.

“Come here,” she hissed at the younger of the men, her few words of Ladino forgotten. “You need to push back the door there. Do you see it? Yes? And can you pull yourself up?”

He was shorter and slighter than Nico, but desperation lent him strength, and in seconds he had pulled himself through the open trapdoor. “There is a ladder,” she told him, still whispering although there were no sounds, as yet, coming from downstairs. What was the word . . . ? “Eskalara,” she remembered. “Lower it so the others can climb up. Yes—the eskalara.”

Someone began to hammer on the front door, and not the polite knock of expected visitors, but the ruthless pounding of invaders.

“Open up! Open this door!” The voice was accented. German.

Where was Nico? Surely he would refuse to open the door.

“Who is it?” came Rosa’s voice. “You know there are thieves and bandits about.”