We stood on a thin lip of concrete not more than two feet wide that ran along one side of the river and I could just make out a second ledge running parallel on the far side. The current was strong and seemed to pull me in as I clung to the narrow path. I had read a book on Greek mythology once about Hades, lord of the underworld; now I seemed to find myself in just such a place, a kind of strange, underground world I had never thought of or known to exist. I stared dizzily at the water, my fear rising. I could not swim. No matter how many times Papa had tried to teach me, I could not bear to put my head beneath the water, even in the calmest lake in summer. I would never survive if I fell in here.

“Come,” the man who had popped through our bathroom floor said. He was broad-shouldered and stocky, I noted now that I could see all of him. He wore a simple cloth hat and high boots. “We can’t stay here.” His voice echoed too loudly in the rounded chamber.

He started walking along the ledge, holding the lamp aloft in front of him. Despite his boxy frame, he moved easily along the narrow path with the ease of one who worked in the sewer, spent his days here.

“Papa, who is he?” I whispered.

“A sewer worker,” Papa replied. We followed the worker single file, using the rounded slimy wall to balance ourselves. The tunnel stretched endlessly into the darkness ahead. I wondered why he had chosen to help us, where we were going, how he would ever get us out of this wretched place. Except for the rushing of water, the air around us was silent and still. The awful noises of the Germans above were muted, nearly gone.

We reached a place where the wall of the tunnel seemed to bow outward away from the water, forming a small alcove. The sewer worker motioned us inside the wider space. “Rest, before we go on.”

I peered doubtfully at the small black rocks that covered the ground, wondering where we were meant to rest. Something seemed to move on top of them. Closer, I could see that they were thousands of tiny yellow maggots. I stifled a yelp.

My father, seemingly not minding, sank down to the rocks. His back rose with great breaths of exhaustion. He looked up for a moment and I saw something, worry or fear maybe, cross his face in a way it never quite had before. Then noticing me, he held out his arms. “Come.” I lay across his lap, allowing him to shield me from the filthy, maggot-infested ground.

“I will come back for you when it is safe,” the worker said. Safe for what? I wanted to ask. But I knew better than to question the person who was trying to save us. He stepped out of the alcove, taking the lamp with him and casting us into darkness. The others settled onto the ground. No one spoke. We were still beneath the ghetto, I realized, hearing the Germans above once more. The arrests seemed to be complete now, but they were still combing the buildings, looking for anyone who might be hiding and picking through the meager belongings people had left behind like vultures. I imagined them going through our tiny apartment. We had almost nothing by the end; it had all been sold or left behind when we moved to the ghetto. Still, the idea that people could go through our property, that we had no right to anything of our own anymore, made me feel violated, less human.