The second day after Mama was gone stretched long. After breakfast, I retreated to our bed and curled up into a ball. “What are you doing?” Bubbe scolded when several hours had passed and I lay in bed still. “This is not what your mother would have expected of you.” She did not force me to get up, though. Instead, she brought me meals when it was time, potato mash for lunch and again for dinner. I tried to eat a little, but the thick starchy mixture stuck in my throat.

Saul came to comfort me several times throughout the day, bringing me water and a bit of food. He suggested a walk, but did not push when I declined. As the day wore on and I still did not get up, his concern grew. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Turn back time. Bring my mother and sister back. For all of his good intentions, he was powerless to help. I shook my head sadly. “There’s nothing.”

Nighttime fell. Mama should have been back by now. Something had happened. I needed to go after her. But even if I could make it onto the street, I had no idea where to find her. She had surely reached the hospital where she was taking my sister by now, if all had gone well. Where she had gone after, though, and why she had not returned were mysteries.

Three days without Mama became four and then five. I stayed in my corner of the chamber for the most part, venturing away only for food or when it was my turn to fetch water. The days seemed endless. Mama had insisted on a routine in the sewer, at least before the baby was born: get up and fix our hair, brush our teeth after breakfast. She had created lessons and simple games to pass the time. But without her, the order she had established disappeared. I napped often, looking for my family in my dreams. I tried to imagine what the next lesson would have been, if Mama were still here to teach it. I did not dare to write on the little chalkboard Pawel had given us that contained the very last of my mother’s handwriting, wanting to hang on to that bit of her forever.

“Get up!” Bubbe snapped again one morning. Nearly a week had passed and I still spent most of my days sulking in bed. “What would your mother think?” she demanded. She was right. The tiny living area that Mama and I shared, which she had kept so neat, was a mess now, the few belongings I owned strewn about. My hair was unkempt, clothes dirty.

“Does it matter?” I cried. Overcome with sadness, I stood and ran from the chamber into the tunnel to the main pipe where the water ran fast and deep. I looked down at the rushing water, wishing that the river would carry me away to safety far beyond the sewer and the war. I could step into it and be swept away to Papa. I imagined a reunion with him, though I could not picture where. I reached my foot toward the water and dipped it in, the iciness seeping through my shoe. I pictured darkness too thick to see through, felt the water filling my lungs. Could I simply let go or would I fight until the last? Or I might be carried downstream to where the sewer met the outside river and be shot. Any which way would be an escape from this hellish prison.