And then Pawel was gone, leaving us alone in the chamber. “Here,” Mama said, pointing to one of the benches. She pointed to a spot so dirty and wet she would have scolded me a day earlier for sitting there.

My foot throbbed as I sat, reminding me of my earlier wound. “I cut my foot,” I offered, though it seemed silly to mention in light of all that had happened since. Mama knelt beside me, the already filthy hem of her skirt dipping into the vile water. She lifted up my right foot and removed it from the soaked shoe, then patted it with a dry bit of her dress. “We must keep our feet dry.” I didn’t understand how she could think of such things at a time like this.

She reached for the satchel she had packed, the one Papa tossed to me just before he fell in the water. What was in the bag that my father had paid for with his life? Mama opened it. Medicines and bandages, a blue-and-white baby blanket, and a spare pair of socks for me. I crumpled into a little ball, grief crushing me anew. “Socks,” I said slowly, my voice heavy with disbelief. “Papa died for a pair of socks.”

“No,” Mama said. “He died to save you.” She drew me close. “I know it is difficult,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “But we must do what is necessary in order to survive. It’s what he would want. Do you understand?” She wore a steely, determined expression that I had never seen before. She leaned her head against mine and the soft curls of hair around her ear still smelled like the cinnamon water she had sprayed after her bath the previous day. I wondered how long we would be down here before that glorious scent would be gone.

“I understand.” I let her put salve on my foot, then changed into the clean pair of socks she had given me. As I reached down, I glimpsed on my sleeve the armband with the blue star that the Germans had made us wear to identify ourselves as Jews. “At least we don’t need this anymore.” I tugged at the armband and the fabric tore with a satisfying rip.

Mama smiled. “That’s my girl, always seeing the bright side.” She followed suit and tore off her own band, then gave a satisfied chuckle.

As my mother went to close the satchel, something small and metallic fell from it and tumbled to the sewer floor. I hurried to pick it up. It was the gold chain my father had always worn under his shirt, with a pendant bearing the Hebrew word chai, or life. Jewelry was not common among men, but the necklace had been a gift to my father from his parents at his bar mitzvah. I had assumed he was wearing it when he fell, that it was lost to the sewer river as well, but he must have taken it off before we fled. Now it was here with us.