We greeted everybody and found ourselves a folding bed by the entrance. There were about twenty-five people in the shelter. Pensioners, women with children and a few, mostly elderly, men. There were people leaning against the wall with elbows on their knees and their chins propped up on their fists; some lay flat on beds. Others stood, not knowing what to do with themselves, chatting about the news and arguing. I didn’t listen. I was irritated by the children—there were about a dozen of them, I never managed to count, and it was never clear which child belonged to whom—running from one adult to another, hiding under the table, crawling on their hands and knees. “For God’s sake, why are there so many children here?” I wondered.

I looked at Dad. He was silently pointing at the distant corner of the shelter to a woman sitting in an armchair. There was nothing out of the ordinary about her. She was old, dressed in a flowery dressing gown, and she was holding a small, red-haired dog in her arms. I looked at him quizzically and he grinned heartily and pointed to the ground, to a spot next to the table. And then I saw it: Grandma’s carpet, the one we had carried out at the start of winter. And the woman with the dog was sitting in my grandma’s old armchair. The smile would not leave Dad’s face. An explosion outside. The shelter jolted. The light flickered. Everybody suddenly fell silent and listened. The women who had been smoking outside by the entrance hurried down the stairs. One held a two-year-old toddler in one arm and a cigarette in her hand.

Explosion. A dull sound rolled from wall to wall and dust dropped from the ceiling. A hush fell over the shelter and the children stopped running around. The television was turned off.

Explosion. A giant’s stride counted out ten more seconds. Another explosion. A car alarm blared in the street. Something small banged on the metal door at the top of the stairs.

Explosion. A woman against the far wall gasped. People parted to make way for her as she came forward carrying a six-year-old girl in a pink T-shirt and denim skirt. She laid her on a camping bed in the centre of the basement. The girl was pale and unconscious. The mother gabbled and lightly slapped her daughter’s cheeks.

Explosion. I grabbed the bottle of water that we had brought with us, and a towel left hanging on a chair, which I handed to the woman. There was panic in her eyes. I was scared too. She unfurled the towel and I poured water over it. She squeezed water onto the girl’s face and then fanned her with the towel. Explosion. The fresh air and the cold drops of water revived the girl. She looked to her mother.