Saul had become the closest thing to a friend I had found in the sewer. But now as I found him crouched low against the wall in the tunnel, he did not smile. His face was serious, eyes pained.

“Hello,” I ventured, moving toward him. I was surprised to see him here; he and his family seldom left the chamber on Shabbos. He did not answer. “What’s wrong?”

He held up his leg, and as I moved closer, I could see below the rolled cuff a deep gash on the back of it, oozing blood. “I was walking and something sharp was jutting out from the tunnel wall that cut me,” he explained.

“The same thing happened to me when we first arrived.” Only my wound had not been nearly as bad. “Wait here,” I instructed. I raced back to the chamber and grabbed Mama’s bag of salves, leaving again before she could see me. When I returned to where Saul sat, I uncapped one of the tubes and squeezed out a bit of salve. I knelt and reached for his leg, but he reared back. “You don’t want it to get infected,” I said.

“I can do it myself,” he insisted, but the spot was on the back of his calf and difficult to see. I understood his hesitation. A religious Jew, he was not permitted to touch women outside of his family.

“You can’t see the spot or reach it properly,” I pointed out.

“I can manage,” he insisted.

“At least let me guide you so you dress the right spot.” He reached behind his calf awkwardly with the salve. “A little to the right,” I said. “Rub it in a bit more.” He tried to place the bandage over the wound, but one of the ends slipped. Before he could protest, I moved to press it into place, then pulled my hand back hurriedly.

He stepped away. “Thank you,” he said, clearly flustered. He studied the dressing before rolling his pants leg down. “You did a good job.”

“I want to study medicine,” I blurted, instantly embarrassed. The idea sounded too big, foolish.

But Saul smiled. “You’ll do well at it.” The certainty in his voice reminded me of Papa, who had never expected me to be any less than my dreams. My insides warmed.

“You shouldn’t wear that,” Saul said, gesturing to Papa’s chai necklace around my neck, which dangled as I stood up.

“Hah! You’re one to talk.” How could someone who wore a yarmulke and tzistzis, whose family put a mezuzah on the door to the chamber, tell me it was unsafe to wear a simple necklace that identified me as a Jew? The truth was that if we were caught, we would have worse problems than what we wore.

He shook his head. “Mine is a requirement of the faith. Yours is jewelry.”

“How can you say that?” I replied, stung. “It belonged to my father.” Papa’s necklace was so much more than that, a connection to him and my last bit of hope. I turned away.