The Elephant of Belfast

by S. Kirk Walsh

  He placed his hand on Hettie’s hand again. Then, after a moment, he lifted it, leaving behind an imprint of warmth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wright.”

  He smiled for the first time as they stood up from the bench. Mr. Wright leaned forward and gave Hettie a hug. Her body tensed at the surprise of Mr. Wright’s embrace, but then she allowed herself to relax temporarily into his arms.

  “I just thought you would want to know the status of Violet,” Mr. Wright said as they parted, “given how much time and energy you’re devoting to the elephant.”

  Hettie looked up at Mr. Wright again. There was a little more life in his eyes.

  “I’m still planning on your assistance with the birth of the black bear cubs,” he said, businesslike again, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket for a notepad, similar to the one that Mr. Christie carried with him. “Alice is coming along well. She’s due the first week in May.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hettie said. “I’m looking forward to the birth.”

  “Don’t you need to tend to the flamingos before heading home for the evening, Hettie?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Good night, sir.”

  “Cheers,” he said, tipping his fedora before replacing it on his head.

  “Cheers, sir.”

  Mr. Wright made his way toward Maggie and Rajan’s enclosure around the bend from the Camel House. On the other side of the camels was the exhibit for the red deer. The small herd gathered near the shallow pool. A fawn, born just a few weeks ago, hungrily nursed from her mother’s swollen teat. Droplets of milk hung, like fragile icicles, from her eager mouth. Again, Hettie heard Rajan’s distinctive cry.

  Seven

  ON THE EVENING OF APRIL 7, HETTIE WOKE SUDDENLY IN THE middle of the night. Her bed swayed. At first she thought she was still asleep, caught inside a dream where she was asleep on a thin cot inside the deep belly of a ship. The wind wailed. The waves smacked against the sides of the ship. Then Hettie sat up, startled. The panes of her bedroom windows rattled. Outside, a cat yowled. Then in the distance, something pattered. As if sheets of heavy rain were hitting the roof of their house. Hettie opened and closed her eyes. Phantom bursts, like the downy fists of dandelion seeds, exploded before her eyes. Then the ghostly apparitions faded into the darkness of her bedroom. There was a loud clap and clatter, like a fierce thunderstorm.

  During the past six months, there had been over twenty false alarms, and Hettie assumed this might be another. But then there was no mistaking what was taking place: Hettie heard the distinct unsynchronized drone of distant planes. Shells erupted, shaking the doors and windows. Only then did the air-raid sirens start to wail their song—horizontal and continuous, spreading in all directions. The lament was everywhere. She turned on her bedside lamp and glanced at the clock that sat on a table. It was a quarter past midnight. She slid into her slippers, threw on a cardigan over her nightgown, and ran outside.

  A full moon illuminated the night sky, its pearlescent beams throwing long shadows across their courtyard. Strands of Hettie’s hair fluttered in the breeze. There was a machinelike patter followed by a series of loud, concussive explosions, both deafening and distant. Some of the explosions were unmistakably and alarmingly close. A field of yellowish orange lit up the sky over the harbor and east Belfast. A dog barked. Something was burning. Neighbors called out to one another. Rose appeared at the rear door.

  “This isn’t a practice drill,” Rose said, her gaze fixed on the pyrotechnic horizon.

  A string of percussive thumps trailed another eruption. Hettie ran through the house and out the front door. Their neighbors—Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Brown, Mrs. Lyttle, and Mr. Moffit—stood, as though they were in a football huddle, in the center of the street, dressed in their nightclothes and robes, their necks craned toward the peculiarly colored sky. It was smoky, yellow, and red. Some rushed forward to get a better view.

  “They’re bombing the docks,” Mr. Reynolds said, pushing his spectacles up the narrow bridge of his nose. “Look at that: The bombs are lighting up the port. It almost looks like daytime. There’s a really massive fire down there somewhere as well. They must have hit the timber yards.”

  Hettie stared up at the sky again: The Lough was partially visible through the darkened stands of trees and the overlapping rooftops. Plumes of smoke and fire rose toward the roaring sky. Bolts of fear lit up her insides, and her breath shortened. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  “It’s Harland & Wolff shipyards and Shorts’ aircraft factory they’re after,” Mr. Brown said.

  The distant sound came much closer, and suddenly a loud explosion shook the windows of her house. Panic drove Hettie forward, and she began to run toward the Antrim Road and the zoo.

  “Wait,” Mr. Brown called. “Where are you going? I wouldn’t go to the shelters if I were you. We’re better off in our homes than in those stinking concrete coffins.”

  Hettie ran up the rise and turned onto the Antrim Road. She ran until she reached the trail that bordered the fields that led to the Crazy Path. As she ran, Hettie remembered the cautionary story about Nellie Smith, how a year before, a drifter, a man no one knew, had raped Nellie while she was walking along the Crazy Path at dusk, and Hettie ran faster still. The sound of exploding shrapnel thrummed in the sky, and then the distant pop of machine guns. Hettie’s ribs ached. A cramp stitched her side.

  Up ahead, she could finally make out the rear entrance to the zoo. She turned the key in the padlock and unlatched the gate and made her way along the familiar pathways to the Elephant House. Sammy released a whining peal and flapped his flippers together. A flock of parrots squawked. Another explosion lit up the sky.

  This is the apocalypse, the apocalypse, the apocalypse is coming, screeched one of the parrots.

  At first, Hettie didn’t see Violet as she stared into the Elephant House, and she feared that Violet might somehow have escaped. But then a flare illuminated the sky, and Hettie spotted the elephant at the rear of the structure. She reached for the metal gate, and it creaked shut behind her. Violet kicked her foot against a loop of metal chains that hung from the fence, creating a forceful crash. Hettie jumped. Violet’s lumbering figure loomed in front of her.

  “Easy there,” Hettie said, her voice trembling. “It’s me, Vi.”

  Violet lifted her trunk up into the air and issued another throaty cry, and her reddish-brown eyes glinted in the light of a flare. The elephant began to pace the width of the enclosure. A stream of diarrhea traveled down Violet’s rear leg and splattered onto the dusty ground. A mechanical purr charged the night sky. Hettie walked closer to Violet. Liquid splashed and stained the rounded toes of her slippers. Her ankles felt wet, the ground sloshy and foul. Hettie tried not to breathe, but still the odor of shit hit her nostrils.

  “It’s all right,” Hettie said, doing her best to steady her voice. “Everything is okay.”

  Hettie took a few steps closer to Violet, whispering her name and saying that all would be well even though she didn’t believe it herself. Hettie reached behind one of Violet’s ears and gently rubbed it. Another explosion erupted above the treetops. One of the lions roared. Something rattled in the darkness. Viscous dung cascaded onto the already-moist ground.

  Then for a moment, the explosions receded. It grew quiet. The air smelled like smoke and ash. Hettie looked up at the sky, but no longer could see the moon. She searched the Elephant House for something to feed Violet. Thankfully, she had left behind a bundle of carrots in the supply closet. She broke one off and extended it toward Violet. The elephant took the carrot in the agile finger of her trunk and deposited it into her mouth. Hettie gave Violet another one.

  “Maybe the worst is over,” Hettie said, glancing over at Violet. “Maybe we’re safe now.”

  Manure decorated the elephant’s rear legs, and puddles of dung covered most of the dusty enclosure. Hettie walked to the side of the Elephant House and uncoiled the hose. She turned the spigot on and water spil
led out of its socketed mouth. Violet wandered over to the newly formed puddle of water and started to lick it up.

  “Thirsty girl,” Hettie said. She picked up the end of the hose and sprayed an arc of water into Violet’s mouth. Her long pink tongue lolled as the water hit her throat.

  Suddenly a silhouette appeared at the door of the Elephant House, and Hettie jumped before realizing it was Mr. Wright. Despite it being the middle of the night, he was still dressed in his customary outfit of a bright red coat, black jodhpurs, and a beige fedora. He held his riding crop in one hand.

  “Hettie, what are you doing here?”

  “I was worried about Violet,” she said, glancing down at her muddied nightgown, slippers, and cardigan. “The bombs, they scared her.”

  “Violet and everyone else,” he said with a laugh. “Bloody Germans. So much for those fools who said that Hitler had never heard of Belfast.”

  Hettie touched her hand against Violet’s forehead. The elephant released a soft cry.

  “Do you think it’s over?” Hettie asked.

  “Let’s hope so,” Mr. Wright said, surveying the puddles of diarrhea around the yard. “Go home. I can take care of the animals.”

  “I don’t mind staying for the night,” Hettie said. “At least until Violet is settled.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mr. Wright said. “I’m going to complete the rest of my rounds. Come and find me if you need me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Wright walked through the Elephant House, and his red-jacketed figure disappeared into the darkness. Hettie began to spray the surface of the enclosure, the force of the water washing away the puddles of dung. Violet tapped her trunk against Hettie’s forearm. She inspected the spot that the elephant had just touched. A moth, with orange-tipped wings, hovered above her shoulder. Its tiny body was there, and then it wasn’t. Violet let out another trumpet call, unfurling her trunk and then curling it back up again.

  By the time the all-clear sirens sounded at four fifteen in the morning, Violet was calm and settled. She followed Hettie into the Elephant House and found her usual spot in the corner of her stall. Before returning home, Hettie hosed down the exterior yard one more time. The sun still hadn’t come up yet as she made her way out of the rear gate and down the Crazy Path.

  When Hettie arrived at the Whitewell Road, several neighbors were still congregated in the middle of the street, talking excitedly about the rumors they had heard and the news that was being reported on the wireless. What had made the biggest impression on them was the two massive explosions at the very end of the raid, just when they thought it was over. According to Mr. Brown, one of the Luftwaffe bombs had destroyed the grain silo and a large portion of the Rank Flour Mill near Pollock Dock. He had heard that it was struck by a parachute mine. Apparently a second one had landed on the rooftop of the fuselage factory of Harland & Wolff, demolishing its main building, which covered four and a half acres, and sending pieces of metal and steel into the streets. There was still no word about the potential number of casualties, but the neighbors seemed to agree that there were bound to be some, especially among the men working the night shifts in the harbor area. As she listened to all this, Hettie felt dazed at the scale of the destruction and her night spent at the Elephant House.

  When Hettie eventually stepped inside their house, she was relieved to find Rose sitting in her nightdress and bathrobe at the kitchen table, drinking her morning cup of tea and listening to the news. The corners of her mouth hung low. She tapped the end of a glowing cigarette into a nearby ashtray and took a deep breath in. Though Hettie knew that her mother had smoked in her twenties, she had never seen Rose with a cigarette. She looked like a different woman, one who was younger and older at the same time. Rose released a rill of smoke from her thin lips.

  “You all right?” Hettie asked tentatively.

  “I was worried about you,” Rose said, staring up at Hettie and crushing the end of her cigarette into the bottom of the ashtray. Her eyes looked empty and distant. “You can’t just run off like that and not say where you’re going.”

  “I went to the zoo,” Hettie said. “To make sure that Violet was all right.”

  “Of course, Violet,” her mother said, her voice edged with bitterness. “Always Violet.”

  “She was scared,” Hettie explained. “I needed to calm her down.”

  Her mother stood up and embraced Hettie. “I’m just glad you’re home again.”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  Rose rubbed Hettie’s shoulder with one hand. The circular motion of her touch generated a spot of warmth on her back, and she could feel the knots of tension unfurl in between her vertebrae, releasing both a pain and a tenderness.

  “Look at you,” her mother said, taking a step back. “You’re a mess.”

  Hettie glanced down. Her mother was right: Splatters of dung and mud soiled her nightgown and slippers. She stared at her hands. Dirt filled the creases of her palms, and grime was pressed underneath her fingernails.

  “Go and wash up,” Rose said, nodding toward the hallway bathroom. “Give yourself a warm bath. We have water.”

  Hettie made her way to the bathroom at the end of the darkened hallway. The air-raid siren still vibrated inside her chest. Then she felt the phantom tip of Violet’s trunk on her forearm again. As she turned on the faucet, Hettie stared at her own reflection in the bevel-edged mirror. Shadows of soot and mud looked like a kind of topographical map on her skin. She rinsed her face again, watching the spiral of dirt and water disappear into the sink’s perforated drain. She thought about Maeve and Liam in Newcastle and hoped the Germans hadn’t bombed south of Belfast, too. She thought of Liam’s chestnut-brown eyes, the subtle angles of his cheekbones and sharp chin. Hettie shook her head and then rinsed her face again, and rejoined her mother in the kitchen for a cup of tea as they waited for the next news update on the wireless.

  Later that morning, after Hettie checked on Violet at the Elephant House, she encountered Ferris on the path as she made her way to the aviary. Streaks of soot decorated his cheeks. Without saying a word, Ferris gave Hettie a hug.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, releasing her. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled, as if he had just tumbled out of bed a few minutes earlier.

  “You too,” Hettie said.

  “Holy God, what a night.”

  “Have you been to the docks yet?”

  “I rode my bike to the other side of the Lagan, near the city hall.”

  “Do they know how many people died?”

  “There’s no official word,” Ferris said with a sigh. “Harland & Wolff and Ranks got hit hard, and then a number of homes near the docks. Hundreds of incendiary bombs fell on the lower Newtownards Road and a few landed on some houses. The police and the fire brigade are still trying to determine the damage and get the fires under control.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “At first I thought it was a thunderstorm,” Hettie said.

  “Could you see the bombs being dropped from your street?”

  Hettie nodded, sweat moistening her palms at the memory. “The whole sky lit up.”

  “A few of the windows shattered in my flat,” Ferris said.

  Mary and Helen were rolling up the collapsible metal face of the kiosk. They both nodded as Ferris and Hettie walked by.

  “Good morning to you,” Helen said. “Glad you’re both safe.”

  “You too,” Ferris said, tipping his cap.

  Mr. Wright approached Ferris and Hettie. His face was bright, his eyes were clear.

  “Hettie, you made it home safely.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “How are all of the animals doing?”

  “Turns out that Rajan could feel the vibrations of the planes coming before the bombs were even dropped,” said Mr. Wright with a grin. “Such an extraordinary creature, he is.”

  “How could you tell?” Ferris said.

  “He was pacing and trumpeting
before I heard the drone of the planes,” Mr. Wright explained. “A friend of mine who’s one of the top experts on elephants says that they can hear a lorry coming at least ten minutes before it arrives. These animals constantly amaze me. They know so much more than we do.” He retrieved his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

  “And the sea lions and the bears?” asked Ferris.

  “As far as I know,” Mr. Wright said, “everyone is intact. We are very lucky.”

  “I heard from a policeman that there were never more than eight or nine bombers overhead at any one time, but the damage was far greater because of all of the combustible materials in the factories and warehouses,” Ferris said.

  “I’d say it’s all speculation at this point,” Mr. Wright said, flipping his pocket watch open and glancing at the time. “I’m going to do a quick walk-around, and then we’ll be gathering for a staff meeting in the canteen at half past the hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferris and Hettie said in unison.

  Mr. Wright walked briskly up the incline of the Cavehill toward the enclosure of the polar bears.

  “He’s chipper this morning,” Ferris commented.

  “Probably relieved that no one was hurt,” Hettie said.

  They walked toward the canteen as the other employees made their way along the multiple paths of the zoo. The morning breeze carried the scents of blooming lilacs and burning smoke. Many of the staff were already gathered in the canteen, and an energy took over as people exchanged their respective accounts from the night before. As Hettie listened, she noticed that many of the stories followed a similar trajectory of waking up to the falling bombs, not knowing what was going on, and then trying to determine the severity of the attacks and whether they needed to seek cover in one of the city’s shelters. So far, no casualties of family members or close friends of zoo employees had been reported, she was relieved to hear. There had been a close call with an uncle who worked the night shift at Harland & Wolff, but he had stayed home because he had come down with a fever.

  Mr. Wright blew his whistle. Everyone fell quiet and scrambled to find seats at the tables. Without further delay, he updated the staff on what had happened the night before.