Finally, the explosions diminish and the two women look at each other without speaking. Pietre coughs—a strange, raspy, choking sound.

The temperature in the cellar has risen. Someone goes to the door to see what is happening above—an older man, a veteran of the first war. He returns with a look of shock. The streets are on fire, he says, a strong wind is blowing. To the south and east there is nothing but flame. Half the church has collapsed, but the entrance is clear.

Now that he says it, they can feel it, clearly—the rising heat. There is general panic as people gather themselves: Should they stay and hope the shelter will protect them? The doors are heavy reinforced steel, the walls stone, but is there enough oxygen? Who knows how long the fires will burn? Or should they venture out and try to weave their way through the damage to safety in the river or at the outskirts of town? This is the decision. More people lift the steel doors to judge for themselves. There is more panic and jostle. Some elect to leave through the breakout wall at the back of the cellar, which connects to the basement of the next building and, hopefully, to another after this and so on in a direction they think (or hope?) is away from the fire. Neither this nor running through the burning streets is a viable option for the sick and elderly.

In the chaos, Ania doesn’t at first realize that the other Ania has not moved. She remains with Pietre, who is now awake, but still as a mouse, clutching his mother.

You go. The other Ania shakes her head. We will stay here.

No! Ania protests—that is impossible. Her conviction deepens as she speaks. They will suffocate here.

Go, the other Ania insists, urgent now. Leave us—it is better this way.

Anselm and Wolfgang are already pushing toward the exit along with the others—a growing majority. Wait! she calls in their direction but it is impossible to hear and no one is listening anyway.

Go! the other Ania hisses. Don’t make me push you.

Others have chosen to stay, too—mostly the elderly and sick, a woman alone with three small children. The dignified elderly couple, who, like the other Ania, are pushing their daughter and infant grandchild to leave. The three small children, like Pietre, sit against their mother, still as statues, wide-eyed. None of them cry.

Then, somehow, Ania finds herself at the door—she does not even know how she got there, was not aware she had moved—but Wolfgang is there, holding it for her, pulling her arm, screaming at her. We’ll come back for you, she tries to shout over her shoulder in the direction of her friend but she is half outside now and the air is thick with a hot sooty wind that seems to turn the words to ash.

The world up here is bright as day. A building a few blocks down is ablaze, its windows blown out, shards of glass cover the street, reflecting flames. And not just this building but the one beside it, and the one beside that one. Toward the far end of the street, they are all engulfed. Ania can’t even make out their shapes, only fire.