‘Lightning War’

LONDON, 1940:

Home is suffocatingly silent. My ears ring with the nothingness of it. Mother hurries us down the makeshift stairs, careful not to release my hand. Sixteen steps take us far beneath the oubliette. There are ten more days until I am to leave.

A light press of a hand to my temple is the only sign that we have arrived. A faint glow emanates from the corner of the bunker where Shirley languishes. My mother floats over to Mrs. Christie posted by the rickety table, her eyes crinkling as she gives the woman a tight-lipped smile. I count my steps across the warps and wefts of the floorboards, pointedly ignoring every crack, until I am at the other girl’s side. Despite her youth, Shirley’s bulbous eyes are sunken into her face and her joints show signs of stiffness when she shifts her weight. At the sight of the rations I brought, the corners of her mouth tilt upward. She reaches for the bread and I relinquish the package. With my back to the wall, I can feel the concrete closing in on us, inch by inch. I will not be here to see it consume us. A child of no consequence will not be missed. In the country, I will be much more than fodder or a name on a list.

When the foundations of the building suddenly shriek and moan, relief washes over me. Countless nights of crouching in rotting cellars have taught me that stomach-twisting anticipation is always worse than the jarring rumble of the bombs. This explosion was closer than the last. I wonder if the grocery across the street secured their fruits in time. Images of oranges tumbling across ceramic tiles fill my head.

Shirley’s fingers interlace with my own as a second impact shakes the very bones of our estate. Could father feel it too, alone as he was across London?

The hanging light gives one final wail before it finally gutters out, leaving our mothers’ intermingling sighs and Shirley’s tight grasp my only anchors.

I am a ship on murky waters. My hull creaks and splinters as waves crash against me. I sway dangerously back and forth, and bide my time until I am overturned and the black depths come to claim me.

A deafening sound cracks through the room, and the air is alive with static and tension. My mother flinches, and Mrs. Christie lays a hand on her back. Their eyes meet, and grim understanding shows on their faces. I know this means I should feel scared, or at least an inkling of fear, but with Shirley next to me and my feet planted solidly on the floor, I can feel nothing but blinding anger. It is a living, roiling beast inside of me, clawing at my insides and demanding to be unleashed.

My parents, who once walked proudly, heads held high, now shrink at the sight of more neighborhoods of ashes. I hope that the pilots who wreak havoc on our homes return to destruction of their own.

I crush this thought and send it back to the dark place from which it came.

Father tells me the Germans call this the “lightning war,” but if it was only the threat of thunder that forced us below ground like rats, then why are buildings reduced to rubble nightly? The cathedral remains the only building standing on Ludgate Hill, and shops in Blackfriars burn up as swiftly as matchboxes.

Earlier this week, I took the 7:25 bus to school, as I do every Tuesday morning, only this time, the school was gone. In its place was a jagged structure of broken glass and charred wooden beams. A place of desolation, devoid of hope. I had turned swiftly on my heel and sprinted home. If my life could be so easily altered, could change its course so quickly, then what chance was there that I could ever feel grounded again?

The feeling of wetness on my cheeks pulls me back from the destruction of my school. I lift my hand to my eyes and realize that they are leaking. More accurately, I am crying. I don’t know how I did not notice.

I look to my mother, as I always do when I cannot think of how to respond to situations that upset me. She is hunched in her spindly chair, whispering with Mrs. Christie again. Whatever they are discussing, it clearly is taking a toll on my mother.

Each night adds a line to her weathered face, and every wrinkle is a shard lodged in my chest. We are both constellations of wounds, and soon we will both break.

SHROPSHIRE, 1958:

The graveyard’s white roses cloud my vision and their scent overwhelms me. Mother hated white. She said it was easily stained and sullied. The woman was practical above all else, and I owe that practicality my life. I gave my mother more than that, in the end.

On days like these, when the clouds blot out the sun’s rays, it’s impossible to hold back thoughts of dark cellars and stale hunks of bread. Though I escaped the destruction before it became deadly, nightmares still plague me in both my sleeping and waking hours. The warm meals and mindless tasks of the farm were enough to sustain me, but the hope of returning to my simple, austere apartment preserved my sense of self.

My parents came for me eventually, but their arrival was years too late. By the time I reached adulthood, every dream of seeing my family reunited and safe had deserted me, just as they did. I was safe, yes, but I was also hollow as a reed.

When I gather my thoughts and return to the present, my gaze is drawn back to the slab of stone in front of me. It reads:

Loving Mother and Wife.

If not for her name etched directly above these words, this grave could belong to any woman in England. My mother was not just any woman, but her fate was far from unique. Her story was that of thousands of London’s residents. She gave every piece of herself away to keep us all afloat until none of her was left. I always knew the war would destroy us, but I had no idea it would tear us apart first.

It was never the same between us all after I was collected and returned to the city. Those sleepless nights spent in dreary concrete rooms loomed over us, over our every conversation. I tried to escape it, escape them, but no amount of space or time offered me repletion. The cracks that had formed during my childhood remained, but no longer did they widen or threaten to swallow me whole. No, now they were welded and mended and held together by sheer force of will.

It is often said that time heals all wounds, but I believe it is actually the people themselves that remedy their own anguish. You tend to your injuries, you grieve, and you move on. There is no other way, and there is no cosmic force that will do this in your stead. Only you can heal yourself.