Each Friday evening, the Rosenbergs invited us to join them for Shabbos. Bubbe would light two stubs of candles and pass around a bit of wine in a kiddush cup they’d smuggled with them. At first, I had thought their traditions were stubborn, perhaps even foolish. But then I realized that these rituals gave them structure and purpose, like Mama’s schedules, only more meaningful. I found myself wishing I had a bit more tradition myself to mark the days. They had even fashioned a makeshift mezuzah on the door frame of the chamber to mark it as a Jewish home. At first Pawel had fought it: “If someone sees, they will know that you are here.” But the truth was that if anyone got close enough to find the door to the chamber we were done for anyway—there was nowhere to hide. It was April now and in just a few days it would be Passover. I wondered how the Rosenbergs would comply with the requirements of not eating bread or leavened things when sometimes that was all Pawel could manage to bring us.

I reached for the ledge above the stove, feeling for the extra bit of bread I had saved from the previous day’s rations and stowed to add to our meager breakfast. In the beginning, I had tried keeping food beneath my bed, but when I had tried to retrieve it, something snapped at my hand. I drew back and looked beneath. Two beady eyes appeared. It was a rat, its stare defiant, belly full. I never left food in a low place again.

I held up the bread to my mother. “I’m not hungry,” I lied. Although my stomach rumbled, I knew Mama, paper-thin except for her belly, was supposed to be eating for two and needed the calories. I watched her face, certain that she would never believe me. But she took the bread and ate a bite, then handed the rest back to me. Lately she seemed to have lost interest in eating. “For the baby,” I pressed, holding it up to her lips and coaxing another bite. Now that Papa was gone, I had to take charge and care for my mother. She was the only family I had left.

Mama retched, spitting up the bit of bread she’d managed into her palm. She shook her head. The pregnancy had not been easy on her, even before the sewer.

“Do you regret it?” I blurted out. “I mean, having another baby like this...” The question came out awkwardly and I wondered if Mama would be angry.

But she smiled. “Never. Do I wish he or she were being born under different circumstances? Of course. But this baby will be a piece of your father, like you, more of him that lives on.”

“It won’t last forever,” I offered, meaning to reassure her that the pregnancy and the ways in which it taxed her body would end in a few months’ time. But Mama’s face grew darker at this. I had imagined Mama would want to be done with the oversized bulk, which looked so uncomfortable. “What is it?” I asked.