Music class was held in the bomb shelter down the hall from my senior kindergarten homeroom. The shelter was plain with thick walls, so inside the acoustics were good. We inhabited a musical safe zone where we could play anything and not get hurt. My music teacher had a Russian accent that made her words taste funny in my ears. She sat on the floor between our tapping feet and sang as we tightly held the mallets with our childish hands. I focused on the rubber ball on the other end of my mallet, hitting and bouncing off the metal slate of the xylophone. The room was long, narrow, and cold like the xylophone slate. There was no space to sit in a circle, so we sat on the bench beside each other and faced the bricks in front of us. Hidden and safe.