As I drew near the bridge, the crowd of pedestrians grew thicker, the normal flow of morning foot traffic somehow impeded. Ahead, the police had erected some sort of barricade, forcing the crowd into a queue. I prayed it was not another aktion like the time I had seen the woman jump from the bridge with her children. But the police did not seem as urgent as they had that day, their movements perfunctory and efficient. A checkpoint, I realized as they began checking the papers one by one of the people attempting to cross the bridge. The notion was only slightly less worrying than the aktion. Since the start of the war, the police had set up checkpoints across the city at random, inspecting the papers of ordinary Poles, questioning any irregularities. But it happened with greater frequency now, and the reasons people might be detained for questioning seemed more arbitrary and frequent.

The man in line in front of me shuffled forward and I followed, pulling out my identification card as I neared the checkpoint. “Kennkarte?” the policeman asked me. As I handed the card to him, my heartbeat quickened. My papers were in order and the stamps Ana Lucia had procured from the Germans enabled me to walk freely throughout the city. But that would not stop the police from questioning the purpose of my going to Dębniki.

The policeman looked up from the card, appraising me. I braced for the interrogation that would surely come. Then he handed it back just as quickly. “Move on!” he barked, gesturing for the person behind me to step up and be checked. I hurried on, fighting the urge to run.

A few minutes later, I reached the far riverbank. I looked back uneasily at the checkpoint, afraid that the police might be able to see the sewer grate. But the vantage point was thankfully obscured from view. There were a few children playing by the water’s edge, though, feeding the ducks, and I had to wait several feet away until they moved on. At last I started toward the entrance to the sewer. It was almost eleven thirty now, our scheduled meeting time had passed, and as I neared the grate, I expected to see Sadie, looking up, her brown eyes hopeful and expectant. She wasn’t there. My uneasiness grew. One missed visit was an aberration; there might be any number of reasons that she could not get away. Twice in a row meant something was wrong.

I knew how important our visits were to her. She wouldn’t just stop coming. More to the point, she needed me for food, I thought guiltily, regretful that there had been nothing I could sneak from home that morning without being noticed.

Sadie had not come. Something was wrong. A dozen awful scenarios swept through my brain. She could have been arrested or drowned like her father. Of course, it might not be that bad, I realized. She might be caring for her mother or someone else underground. There was no way to know.