The next Saturday after Mama told Pawel we had no money, he had not appeared at his usual time. An hour passed, then another, the Rosenbergs finishing their Shabbos prayers. “He’s not going to come,” Bubbe declared. She was not mean, just a grouchy old woman who did not bother to mute her opinions—or suffer others’ when she thought they were foolish. “We will all starve.” The notion was terrifying.

But Pawel had come, albeit late, still bearing food. No one had mentioned money again since. We were his responsibility and he had not abandoned us, but rather somehow kept finding food. He handed the satchel to Mama now and she unpacked it, placing the bread and other items in a canister she’d managed to hang from the ceiling of the chamber to keep it dry and away from the rats. “I’m sorry to be late,” he offered contritely, like a deliveryman who had been expected from the shops. “I had to go to an extra market to get enough.” Feeding all of us with the limited food supply on the streets and not enough ration cards was a constant challenge for Pawel. He had to scramble from market to market across town buying small bits at each so as not to attract attention. “I’m sorry there isn’t more.”

“It’s wonderful,” Mama said quickly. “We’re so grateful.” Before the war, Pawel would have been a street worker, barely noticeable. Here, he was our savior. But as she pulled a loaf of bread and a few potatoes from the bag, I could see her calculating how to stretch it to feed so many mouths in the days before Pawel brought more.

Sometimes Pawel would linger a bit to talk to us and share news of the outside world. But today he left swiftly, saying that he had been away too long shopping and was needed at home. His visits were always a bit of light in our dark, dreary days and I was sorry to see him leave.

“We need water,” Mama said when Pawel had gone again.

“I’ll go,” I said, even though it wasn’t my turn. I was eager to escape the too-close chamber, even for a few minutes. Before the war, I had always been on the move. “Shpilkes,” my grandmother would say in Yiddish, the fondness in her voice making my restlessness sound like a compliment when otherwise it surely was not. When I was a child, I loved to play outdoors with my friends, chasing stray dogs down the street. As I grew older, I channeled my energy into walking the city and finding new corners to explore. Here, I was forced to do nothing but sit. My legs often ached from the lack of motion.

I thought Mama would say no. She forbade me from leaving the chamber unless it was absolutely necessary, fearful that the narrow walkways beyond these walls would spell certain doom for me as they had Papa. “I can do it,” I pressed. I longed for space and privacy, a few minutes away from the watchful stares of others.