As I watched them, my eyes fixed on the cross around her neck, which marked her as a Catholic Pole and magnified the differences between us. I remembered then the exact moment as a child that I realized we were not like everyone else. I had been five and shopping with my mother at Plac Nowy, the open-air market that served both the Jewish and non-Jewish residents of Kazimierz. It was late April and the third day of Passover. We had cleared the hametz, the bread and other leavened foods that were forbidden during the eight days of the holiday, from our kitchen. As we passed the bakery, though, fresh bułeczki sat temptingly in the window. “But it’s Pesach,” I had remarked, confused as I eyed the rolls.

Mama explained to me that only a small percentage of the Polish people were Jewish. “The others, they have their own holidays and customs. It’s a good thing,” she added. “Imagine how boring the world would be if we were all the same.” But I wished I could be like the other children my age and eat pastries whenever I wanted, even during Passover. It was then I understood for the first time how very different we Jews were from the rest of the world, an early preview of the lesson I would learn all too well when the Germans came. Now as I stood in the sewer, staring up at beautiful Ella With The Cross, I felt that otherness more than any other time, even during the persecution and suffering of the war.

Finally, the man walked away. A few minutes later, after glancing around cautiously, Ella looked down once more, searching for me. I stepped closer to the grate and into the light so that she could see me.

She smiled. “There you are. I thought maybe you had gone.” She might have walked away, too, I realized, once she had finished her conversation with the man on the street. It would have been safer for her to leave and pretend she had never seen me. But she had not.

“I’m Sadie,” I offered. Some part of me knew it was better not to give my name, but I couldn’t help it.

“Ella.” Her voice was lyrical, reminding me of a sparrow’s song. Her pronunciation was different than mine, the way she closed the end of each word more refined. But it was more than just speech—her accent spoke of good schooling, a grand house, perhaps holidays abroad and other wonders I could not begin to imagine. This, more so than the fancy dress or the cross, confirmed that she was not like me and set us apart.

“I know. I heard that man say your name. Who was he?” I berated myself for the question, which was too nosy and personal for someone I barely knew.

She swallowed. “Just a boy I used to know.” There was a note of pain in her voice. Clearly, he had been something more to her. “What’s it like down there?” she asked, changing the subject.