I pulled back quickly, putting my hand over my mouth. Bubbe was dead. She must have passed in her sleep. Was her death somehow related to the dementia, or had it been another illness, or simply old age? I looked over at Pan Rosenberg, who sat just feet away, unaware of what had happened to his mother. I wanted to tell him. But it was not my place. I hurried from the chamber to find Saul.

As I stepped into the tunnel, Saul rounded the corner, walking slowly with the weight of the full water jug. “Sadie...” He smiled warmly, his eyes seeming to dance as they did whenever we met. Then, seeing my devastated expression, he dropped the jug, spilling the water, and raced toward me. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s Bubbe.” Without speaking, he sprinted into the chamber. I followed, but hung close to the door, keeping a respectful distance as he checked her and confirmed what I already knew. He bowed his head for a second, then stood and walked to his father, knelt before him. I could not hear the words he whispered. I thought Pan Rosenberg might wail, as he did the day he learned his oldest son had died. Instead, he pressed his forehead into Saul’s shoulder and wept silently, a man too broken to give voice to his grief.

When they finally separated, I walked over. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to figure out what to say. I would have imagined that after all the losses I had seen and suffered since the start of the war that condolences would come more naturally. “I know how much you both loved her and what a terrible loss this is.”

Pan Rosenberg nodded, then looked to the bed where Bubbe lay. “What are we to do with her?”

Neither Saul nor I answered. Jewish law dictated that Bubbe be buried as soon as possible in a proper grave. But we couldn’t take her to the street and the floor of the sewer was impenetrable for digging. With no other choice, the three of us carried her from the chamber and into the tunnel to the juncture where our sewer pipe met up with the wider body of rushing river. We lowered her to the surface. I looked at her sadly, touched her now-cold hand. Bubbe and I had not had an easy start. But I saw now that everything she had done was to protect her family—and in some ways me. And despite it all, we had grown fond of one another. As the current carried her away, I thanked her for her help, forgave her wrongdoings toward me and my family. She slipped around the corner before sinking unseen beneath the surface. I imagined that my father was waiting for her.

“Should we say kaddish?” I asked. Though I did not know much about our shared faith, I was familiar with the prayer for the dead, which I had heard at funerals and shiva visits growing up in Kazimierz.