I stretch upward while walking and look between heads. The station’s stairwell entry awaits on a corner flanked by clusters of trees. As usual, I breathe to loosen the anxiety knotting in my chest. In and out, in and out. Once I’m safely down the stairs, all will be fine. Before then, through the inevitable clustering of bodies, I’ll focus on placing one steady foot after the other.

The conversations around me swirl with leisure. More folks are carrying bundles. Few faces bear concern. Children ride piggyback or cling to hands. Babies are carried in woolen blankets.

A metallic screech turns my head.

It’s the brakes of a bus coming to a stop. Two other buses sit idling nearby. Passengers from each are disembarking, further swelling the crowd.

I breathe deeper, gearing up, summoning Papa’s voice: It is okay, schatje. It is okay.

We slow to a crawl as those up ahead funnel down the stairwell. I stay close to Lenora and use my opposite elbow to buffer against strangers.

A peculiar whistle and whirring pull my attention. I follow the crowd in looking up. “What is that?” people are saying. “What could it be?”

Londoners well know the sounds of their anti-aircraft guns and certainly the enemy’s weapons. Even I sense that what we’re hearing resembles neither of these. Before I can contemplate alternatives, a booming roar that verges on deafening ignites a collision of shouts.

“It’s a bomb!”

“Run!”

“Hurry, go down!”

All at once, the world devolves into a throng of jostling and yelling and shoving. Loud pinging noises suggest metal casings crashing into the ground.

My heart is hammering, my throat cinching. I’m being moved forward, the ground wet and slick. The mob is heaving itself toward the narrow entry.

Then a man’s bellow: “Back up, back up!” The command is gruff, authoritative, seeming to come from the outer right fringe. But the crowd is still advancing. “Turn around!” the voice says. “Someone’s fallen!”

The words latch onto my brain, uncaging a memory, and instantly I’m back in the assembly hall. The flood is again dragging me to the waterfall’s edge to plunge me into a sea of bodies and death and darkness. A grip is on my arm—only this time it’s Lenora, not Arie. I want to shut my eyes and fold into myself, make the scene disappear.

But no…

This can’t happen. Not again.

I scour for my voice and manage to shout, “Go back! Everyone, go back!” Faces jerk toward me, but the crowd’s panic dominates. People are pushing harder, the pressure growing.

I twist toward Lenora, whose willowy form is being swallowed up. I grasp her hand.“We…we’ve got to get out,” I say. A mix of fright and confusion fills her eyes. “Hold on tight,” I tell her, and she nods.