No one knows the ruined houses and the back courtyard shortcuts better than me. I’ve lived here all my life. In the last days before my mother died, before they interned my father, he showed me all the secret routes. The tunnels that resistance groups had dug under the streets, which cellars went from property to property and which courtyards connected to each other. It’s the only safe way down to the lake. We ran through shattered stairwells, crawled in through busted window frames and through the tunnel under Blågård’s Street. In one of the yards there stood an old man with one of those old-fashioned shopping carts. It was packed with bags and blankets, and he clenched his fist in anger and threatened us. Osman pulled on my arm, but we were almost there.
And in a little while it will be dark outside, and they won’t be able to see us under the bridge.