We didn’t always live here. After the first air strike, though, we had no other option. Father said we couldn’t take our chances, that one time was enough of a warning, and he started digging. Digging for years and years, paving for months and tears, asking for help when needed but mostly just doing it all on his own, determined to survive. Luckily, the house was done one day before the second air strike occurred and we were already all set underneath the earth. Mother, father, our cat Percy, and me.

For lighting, we had a series of lamps that father installed along the walls, lit by a large source of matches. The house was a room: four corners, lights lining the wall on strings. One corner was the toilet, with a large hole reaching even further underground; the other two had mattresses, and the last corner had a small counter and some barrels that father had brought down from the kitchen. Flour, canned goods, and sugar. It was tight, and it would take some getting used to, but all in all it felt like home. And when the final air strike occurred, we felt the rumblings even far below and knew we could never emerge again.