The religious family went first and I could hear them grunting and straining with the effort of making it through. Then the family with the small child climbed into the tunnel. Only Mama, Papa and I were left. When it was my turn, I knelt in front of the pipe, which reminded me of the dusty attic crawl space where Stefania and I had played in our old apartment before the war. I could make it through on my belly. But what about my mother?

“You next,” Mama said. I hesitated, doubtful she would be able to follow. “I’ll be right behind you,” Mama promised, and I knew I had no choice but to believe her.

Papa nudged me and I started to shimmy through, trying to ignore the trickle of damp water on the bottom that seeped unpleasantly through the front of my clothes. The pipe surrounded me, viselike on all sides, encasing me in a watery tomb. I stopped, suddenly paralyzed by fear, unable to move or breathe. “Come, come,” I heard the stranger call from the far end, and I knew I had to keep going or I would die here. The pipe was about ten meters long, and when I reached the other side and climbed out onto another ledge, I turned and listened. Surely Papa was too big to make it through, and Mama in her present state as well. I was seized with fear at the notion I might be left alone on this side without them.

Five minutes passed and no one else appeared through the opening. The sewer worker took a rope from the ground and fed it through the pipe, crawling partway back in to make it go through. He began tugging on it gently, pausing every few seconds. Through the pipe, I could hear Mama’s soft groans. When she finally appeared through the pipe with the rope tied around her, she was covered in some sort of grease, which the worker must have given to her to help her slide through. Effective to be sure, but humiliating. With her blackened dress and disheveled hair, she looked nothing like her usually elegant self and she kept her eyes low as the stranger helped her out. Papa followed, shoving himself through with sheer will. I had never been so glad to see him in my entire life.

But my relief was short-lived. At the very place where we had come out of the pipe, there was a sewer grate just above our heads. We were still beneath the ghetto, I could tell, hearing German voices like the ones that had woken us from our beds just hours earlier, barking orders once more. A flashlight’s beam licked the edge of the manhole cover and spilled over. “We must keep going,” the worker whispered.

We followed him from the smaller tunnel where we had come out of the pipe back to the main tunnel and the wide rushing waters of the sewer river. The concrete ledge disappeared and we were forced to walk along the stony bank of the sewer, our feet in several inches of water. The rocks were slippery and slanted and I feared falling into the river with every step. Something sharp beneath the water cut through my boot and into my skin. I grabbed my foot, fighting the urge to cry out. I wanted to stop and check my injury, but the sewer worker was moving faster now, and I sensed that if we didn’t keep up, we would be left behind for good.