One Step

One step. Deep breath. One step.

I followed the pattern in my head as I walked through the crumbling remains of what used to be a beautiful library. The bomb had crashed into it, sending books, wood, and debris flying everywhere. I stood there now seeing as it used to be. Tall pillars of stone, oak wood book shelves filled with stories of various authors, sturdy chairs for reading.

I would come there almost everyday after my studies, running my fingers along the spines of the novels and taking in the musty old book smell. I closed my eyes as I recalled the moment, shutting out the reality around me.

When I opened my eyes I found myself not in that beautiful building, but in the burned and crumbling version. Wind whistled through the broken walls and sparrows flew about the empty space, flitting here and there. 

The breeze licked at my face and sent my beret flying, I lunged to grab it but my foot slipped on the ash and I stumbled, landing on my back.

The motion tore a flashback through my head.

Mother and Father are yelling my name as they struggled through the hordes of people, screaming children, and the sound of harsh military orders. The sky was dark with smoke and filled with enemy planes. The cobblestones digging into my back as I grasped my throbbing head.

I focused on my breathing. Not the breathing from my memories, raspy and panicked, but the breathing of today. There were no war planes. There were no soldiers marching the streets, I was safe. Safe. The word rang through my head and I opened my eyes. 

The sky was grey with clouds drifting lazily about, blocking the sun. I was learning to focus on the good things. Like my warm bed and a hot meal. But it was hard. I battled these flashbacks every day. 

It had been four months since the end of World War ll, but everything still felt real. We were left struggling with what the land could give us. I  lived in the city, so at least I wasn't trying to grow my own food in these rough times. But at the beginning, markets were crowded with beggars and people desperate for food. It was heartbreaking to try and buy produce. 

So many people without sons and husbands. Children and wives. They didn’t know what to do with themselves. My fiance was a pilot for the airforce. He never made it back. 

I forced myself to not spiral. It was too easy to get trapped in nightmares. I lifted myself to my feet and rubbed my sore back. My skirt was covered in ash so I dusted it off, looking around for my beret. But my eyes caught something else instead. 

It was a book. Tucked underneath of a chunk of charred bookshelf. I walked over to it, my heels clicking on the ruined floor. The book was a faded blue. It had obviously been near one of the walls where it wouldn’t have gotten so badly burnt. But it was black on the back and the words were impossible to decipher. The officers had taken away everything of importance from the library after the war, so I was surprised to see a novel that wasn’t just a clump of ash. 

I held it gingerly in my hands and brushed the dust off of it. The pages were brittle with water damage, but the bottom half that was covered by my wood seemed alright. I turned the cover page and looked at the dedication. It looked like the name Elizabeth, but the first part of the name was too burned to read. It seemed like this for most of the pages.

The top half would be wrecked, but the bottom half would be fine. The particular thing was that the book had a picture in the back. A young man in a tailored suit and tie. He looked very stern and carried an umbrella. Not something you usually see an author have in their photo. Interesting.

I was a part time history teacher at the local highschool, so odd things always seemed to intrigue me. But I knew I mustn't encourage myself. What good was a worn book in a ruined library? Why should it carry any importance? 

I tucked the book under my arm for further study. I suppose it wasn’t technically allowed, but no officer would care for such a thing. They had been burning ruined books for weeks now. 

I walked out of the broken library and faced my back to the place where the ornate door should have been. One more step and I'd be back out of the wrecked building again. But I forced myself to turn back around ignoring the painful stab of memories that followed. 

I closed my eyes and voiced a silent blessing into the sky for all the people who had lost their lives because of the building's wreckage. This was my pattern each day. After my teachings and studies, I would come to this place and remember. Strange, as much as it hurt, it made it better in some ways. 

It gave me perspective. Sometimes I would get so wrapped up in my own sorrows and memories of the people I had lost that I forgot about all the others who were suffering with me. So I would go there and honor the many that had died because of the horrible incident. 

I stepped out of the library and grabbed my faded blue bike. Pedaling back to my apartment I thought about the book. Who wrote it? Where were they from? What was the book about? 

Of course if I had seen this little book on the shelf before the library was ruined I would have never paid attention to it. But it held a piece of a very special place to me. 

I turned down my street and parked my bike on the rack. The apartment building was sparse. Faded walls and airy ceilings. They could only do so much in the circumstances. I waved at a fellow teacher who was doing his studies and made my way up the creaking stairs. 

My room was somewhere in the middle, with a small balcony and some plants growing around the space. It was a single room with a tiny kitchen and bathroom. It wasn’t fancy, but it was all that I needed. 

I hung my purse on the back of my desk chair and set the book down on top of the worn wood. I turned to boil some water for tea, following my routine. It was nearly dinner, but I wanted to study the little novel first. 

I sat at my desk with my steaming mug and picked it up when I heard a knock at my door. I jumped after being in silence for so long. I went to tuck the book into the top drawer of the desk, but my fingers slipped and the book fluttered to the floor in a heap of pages. I widened my eyes, shocked,what if I had ruined it?

I then realised that there was still someone at the door. I opened it a crack and peeked my head out.

“Hello?”

There stood a young man with a parcel for me. I was secretly relieved. As much as I love having conversation, after a long day it is nice to have some quiet. I signed the papers and thanked the carrier, taking my package inside with me.

It was some study books I had ordered from the post office, just in time for the lessons I had planned for the next week. 

I set them down on my bed and went to collect the book I had dropped. It was sprawled, pages down on the ground. When I reached for it I noticed a piece of parchment tucked between two pages. I pulled it out and unfolded it. Being in the center of the book it wasn’t too badly burned, but I still wondered how I had missed seeing it the first time.

I unfolded the parchment and saw hand writing. It was a letter. I felt a little like I was intruding  reading it, but my curiosity won me over. 

“Dear Meg, I’m writing to tell you that I have made it back from sea safely. The ships were at Mulberry Harbour for a while, but now since the war is over I can leave and go home. I’m on my way back now, looking very forward to seeing you.  My condolences to your brother, 

Love, A.J. Peterson. 

Love, A.J. Peterson. Peterson. I stared at the letter for a long time. Reading and re-reading it. It couldn’t be possible. I was told all my late relatives had died in the first world war. How could this be? My parents told me neither of their parents had survived. 

But this was proof. Aidan Jake Peterson had been my grandfather. Because I was Kitty Peterson. The sad thing was that my mom never knew her father lived after she was born. 

I pulled a wooden chest out from under my bed, my brain swirling with the revelation. The box was filled with old journals of my mothers and scrapbooks. I dusted off the first journal and opened the leather cover. Pages and pages of random entries. My mother talked about her days and what she did. Different stories from her childhood. The back of the book came fast, but there was nothing about my great grandpa. 

The next journal was unhelpful as well. As much as I enjoyed my mother’s words, I was on a mission. I pulled out the last book, dust swirling around my room. At the sight of the word ‘dad’ my heart leaped and I read furiously. 

First entry,

I asked mom about dad today. As usual she closed off the conversation. But I did get a little information out of her. I found out that dad left to go somewhere after I was born and never made it back. I suppose he died, it makes me sad but I never met him so it’s hard to miss him. 

The page continued on with another topic. 

So there was something at least. Aiden had my mother and then left mysteriously never coming back. Of course everyone just thought he had died, but there was never actually any evidence. 

I pondered this and rubbed my eyes realising how late it was. My window was dark and the words from the journals were starting to blur. I sighed and ate some bread, not bothering to make a decent supper. It was late anyway. 

I changed into my night clothes and flopped onto my bed. It took me a while to fall asleep, my mind was racing. Eventually I dozed off though and morning came much faster than I wanted it to. 

I realised that today was my break. I smiled and put a wool sweater on top of my nightgown, not bothering to get dressed properly yet. I grabbed some tea and a bagel and settled to the floor once more to read the journals. 

There was no more information on my great grandfather, but I think I had learned enough. Wherever Aiden Jake went, whatever he had chosen to do, I would find out. But for now, I had found a crucial piece of family history. 

I had a relative that had lived through the first world war. And because of the letter about Mulberry Harbour, he must have worked for the navy during the war, a very dangerous job. I had survivor blood in me. 

This person had fought all the odds. Through hunger, and war, and depression, he lived. I did the math in my head. The odds were definitely against me. But there was still a slight chance that my great grandfather was still alive.

And if he was, I was going to find him.