Suddenly, Mama gets edgy; she tenses. She appears to be listening to something. She turns around ... and listens some more. Then she yanks us by the arms.
"Gather your things and get off the truck," she orders. "We're not going."
"But why?" Gisela asks in her small, scared voice.
"I heard something. It was like a command. We should obey the voice that came to me."
As we jump off the truck, pulling our belongings behind us, other people follow. They have heard Mama's words, and they take them as a message for them, too.
Sad news reach our village the next day. The ferry, going from the island to the mainland, has been bombarded and sunk. All passengers have been killed. We are not among the dead.
I believe it has been a case of divine intervention. And without this miracle in the early part of 1945, I would never have been able to tell my story.