After listening for a response and hearing none, I started back toward the chamber, dejected. As I neared the entrance, I stumbled forward and tripped, falling into the shallow water on my hands and knees. Water soaked into my clothes. “Mama!” I cried like a helpless child, not getting up.

Bubbe appeared at the entrance to the chamber and helped me to my feet. “Your mother’s gone,” she said without emotion.

“Mama,” I said again, as though calling her name over and over would somehow bring her back. But my voice was weaker now.

“You must be quiet,” Bubbe admonished as she steered me back to the chamber. “Someone will hear you and we’ll all be done for.”

Inside the chamber, I slumped against the wall. Mama was lost and on her own with the baby. How could she manage, alone and weakened from giving birth just days earlier? Exposed on the street without a place to hide or even a clean set of clothes, she would surely arouse suspicion and might be quickly caught.

Saul came and wrapped me in a dry blanket, then put his arms around me. As I nestled my head under his chin, I could feel his father’s puzzled stare as he watched the two of us together. It was more than just our physical contact, which normally would have been forbidden. He was also realizing for the first time how close his son and I had become. For Pan Rosenberg and his mother, this had to come as a shock. Despite his fondness for me, he would never understand nor approve his son being with someone like me, who was not an observant Jew.

Heedless of what the others might think, Saul led me to the corner of the chamber Mama and I shared. “Sit,” he said, still holding me. I did not argue, but dropped to the edge of the bed. His embrace, which I usually welcomed, was little comfort. My mother had left me. The entire chamber seemed cavernous and empty.

Bubbe crossed the chamber and handed me a cup of watery tea. I wanted to hate her and her son now. They were the ones who had said the baby could not stay and who had all but forced my mother to flee with her to the street. But in reality, they had just stated the obvious, given voice to the truth we had all known but had not wanted to admit. The decision to leave with my sister—and to leave me behind—had been my mother’s and hers alone.

“Your mother is fair-skinned and doesn’t look like a Jew,” Pan Rosenberg offered, trying to be helpful. “She might be able to fit in on the street.” The idea was so ridiculous I might have laughed. Mama was gaunt and ghost-pale after months in the sewer, with filthy, torn rags as clothes. I should have given her Ella’s dress, I realized. I had been too distraught at her leaving to think of it at the time. That would not have made a difference, though. None of us could pass for normal people anymore.