The Elephant of Belfast

by S. Kirk Walsh

  “I went there,” Hettie said, breathless.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Lyttle said, holding a hand up to her mouth. “Poor girl.”

  “I couldn’t find her,” Hettie said. “There were too many—” She broke off, unable to finish her thought.

  “She’ll be back soon enough,” Mr. Reynolds said after a short pause. “You’ll see.”

  “Go and give your house another look,” Mrs. O’Brien suggested. “I bet she is waiting for you this very moment.”

  Hettie desperately wanted to believe Mrs. O’Brien—that she would walk into the front hallway of their house and find her mother sitting at the kitchen table, with a fresh cup of tea, listening to the news on the wireless and commenting on how Hettie had spent all her time with “that elephant,” as usual. Her eyes stung, her throat was parched. Hettie parked the bike along the side of their house, then pushed open the front door with her shoulder.

  “Mum,” she called tentatively. “Mum, I’m home.”

  In the kitchen, her mother’s blue cardigan still hung over the back of the chair, and her half-empty teacup from the night before sat on the breakfast table. Hettie sat down in her usual spot at the table. A ring stained the porcelain cup’s interior. Hettie placed her hands on the tabletop, feeling its cool veneer and tangible solidness underneath her palms. She studied her splayed fingers. Soot and grime lined the edges of her nails. Dirt covered her hands, looking like the crude shapes of seas and continents. She touched her bare wrist where she usually wore her father’s watch, only just noticing that it was gone.

  Hettie reached into the pockets of her coat and was relieved to find Ferris’s snail still nestled here. She took it out, carefully placed it on the table, and studied its infinite swirl and iridescent sheen. She arranged the shell next to her mother’s half-empty teacup. Slowly, the snail’s antennae emerged from its sturdy chamber. Its rubbery head extended from its opening and stretched along the scarred surface of the tabletop. For a moment, Hettie felt an unexpected elation, witnessing that the snail was still alive. It seemed like a miracle. Perhaps the snail was a good omen for things to come, a sign that maybe Rose was alive and well somewhere.

  Hettie lifted herself out of the chair and walked down the hallway. It was still her family’s hallway, with the flower-stenciled wallpaper and the familiar geometric pattern of framed photographs from over the years. Anna and Hettie in their matching outfits. Thomas and Rose on their wedding day. Anna posing with a tennis trophy that she had won at the Cavehill Bowling and Lawn Tennis Club. Hettie looked into her mother’s bedroom again. Her bed was still unmade. Hettie’s stomach felt hollow and queasy. Her bones, creaky. Her joints ached. She thought she might retch again. She moved into her mother’s bathroom, lifted the wooden seat of the toilet, and knelt, waiting for her insides to hurl out of her. When they didn’t, she leaned her forehead against the porcelain edge. She breathed in the coolness. Still nothing came. Hettie felt she could no longer arrange her thoughts and memories into any kind of logical sense or order. It was too sad and overwhelming.

  She willed herself to stand up, to check their enclosed courtyard. The two wooden benches were still situated along the back wall; during the warmer months, Hettie and Rose often sat there after dinner, taking in the changing light of dusk. The courtyard itself was empty except for the buckets of water her mother had filled up a week before, in preparation for exactly this situation. Silently thanking her mother, Hettie rinsed her face, hands, and wrists with water from one of the buckets. With a bar of soap, she lathered her skin and rinsed the soot, grime, and salty sweat away. She was relieved by the simple act of washing her face, how it allowed her to recalibrate to some part of her former self.

  Hettie returned to the kitchen and saw that the snail had retreated into its shell. She took the creature in her hand and lay down on the couch in the living room, pulling the ruby-red afghan that Rose had knitted over her shoulders. Hettie placed the snail on the coffee table. The shell rolled across the tabletop and tumbled onto the floor underneath the couch. Hettie was too tired to get up and reach for it. Instead, she closed her eyes, but she couldn’t get warm. Her entire body trembled. The metal springs of the couch’s cushions pinched her side. She was too spent and exhausted even to adjust the weight of her body to get more comfortable. When she closed her eyes, the couch rocked.

  A rusty hinge creaked somewhere. Hettie lifted her heavy eyelids. The door was still closed. A distant siren of an ambulance wailed. A branch tapped against a window. A bird chirped. Johnny, get off the couch! Come inside this instant!

  “Get off the couch,” Hettie whispered to herself. “Get off the couch and go and find your mum.”

  Her eyes closed again.

  “Go and find Mum,” she mumbled, even as she felt sleep dragging her down into a dream state.

  Outside, a delayed bomb exploded, making her entire body jump. An engine backfired with a definitive pop. Someone’s wireless, somewhere, was playing “God Save the Queen.”

  O Lord our God arise, / Scatter her enemies, / And make them fall.

  Nine

  A FEW HOURS LATER HETTIE WOKE WITH A START. THE LIGHT was dim. Rain drummed on the windows. She couldn’t remember what day it was. Sunday, Monday, Friday. She opened her eyes. Her forehead felt sticky and feverish. She pressed her palm against her cheek. Time held a bent, elastic quality, as if it were no longer linear. The bombs were falling again. One wave of bombs folded on top of the other. There was no way to escape the Germans and the endless drone and destruction of their planes. She closed her eyes. Miniature starbursts exploded behind her eyelids. She waited to feel the vibrations, hear the explosions again. But there was nothing. Only the persistent tapping of rain.

  The wiry springs of the couch pressed against the buckles of her spine. Hettie lifted herself up. The room spun. The floor gently tipped. She returned her cheek to the couch’s cushion and closed her eyes again. Darkness took over.

  The next thing she knew someone was tugging her arm. Hettie opened her eyes.

  Ferris stood before her. “Hettie,” he said softly. “Wake up. Wake up.”

  She forced herself to focus on him. Ferris wore his familiar old school scarf. Tufts of sweaty brown hair stuck out this way and that. His cheeks were streaked with ashes and soot. Hettie found that she was very pleased to see him.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Hettie sat up, feeling groggy and dazed. What was Ferris doing in her house?

  “Where’s your mum?”

  And all at once, it came back to her. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice raspy. “I can’t find her. I don’t know where she is.”

  Ferris stared down at his hands and then at the worn floorboards. “She’ll be home soon,” he said. “Lots of people are still finding each other.”

  Hettie sat up.

  “You lost something,” Ferris said, picking up the snail from the floor and returning it to the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” Hettie said, taking the snail in her hand and closing her fingers around it.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “Where did you hide?”

  Ferris leaned forward, holding his head with both hands.

  “I’ve been up to the zoo,” he said. “I saw Mr. Wright.”

  “Did he tell you about Stella Holliday?” she asked. “How she sang through the night?”

  Ferris nodded. “Constable Ward stopped by earlier this morning to survey the damage,” he said. “Two parachute bombs hit a row of houses not far from the zoo.”

  Hettie’s mind raced to keep up with what Ferris was saying. “What does that have to do with the constable?”

  “The local residents made a formal request that the Ministry of Public Security take no further risks in case the Germans attack again.”

  “What does that mean?” Hettie asked, sitting up straighter. “No further risks?”

  Ferris bit his lip. “The ministry has ordered the destruction of the zoo’s most dangerous animals,�
�� he said finally.

  “Destruction,” Hettie said, her voice rising. “You mean the animals are going to be killed?”

  “The list of animals was delivered this morning,” Ferris said. “The constable and the sergeant will be carrying out the duties today.”

  “What about Violet? Is she on the list?”

  “That’s why I came to find you.”

  Hettie stared at Ferris. A stitching of dried scabs formed a half-moon above his eyebrow. A tear rolled down the side of his freckled face. Hettie reached for his cheek and wiped it away with the edge of her thumb.

  “Surely Mr. Wright can stop them,” Hettie said. “He won’t allow it.”

  “We should get going,” Ferris said, standing up. “We need to go.”

  Hettie felt drained by exhaustion and propelled by adrenaline. Her mind was reeling and folding into itself. She was torn. She wanted to ride her bike to the hospital again and search for her mother, but also felt compelled to go to the zoo with Ferris and save Violet. After a moment’s hesitation, she went into the kitchen. On a piece of scrap paper on the table, Hettie wrote: dear mum, at the zoo. helping with the animals. come & find me. i love you. hettie. She slipped into her coat, reached for her satchel, and tucked the snail into her coat pocket. Ferris stood in the doorway to the foyer, and their eyes met for a second before Hettie turned away and buttoned up her coat. She swallowed hard; her throat was a desert, dry and cracked.

  When Hettie and Ferris arrived at the entrance, Mr. Clarke wasn’t in his usual post at the foot of the grand staircase. The light bulb and the window of the security house had been smashed to pieces. Hettie and Ferris took the steps two at a time. When they reached the plateau in front of the Floral Hall, Hettie saw Mr. Wright standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the ground, his broad shoulders slumped. She recalled Mr. Wright from the night before as he stood mesmerized by Stella Holliday and her singing, the intermittent light and shadows of the dimly lit hall playing against his trancelike expression. His eyes had been wet and shiny, full of melancholy and devotion. She thought of Mr. Wright’s twin brother, Nicholas, and the Battle of Arras. The flying bullets, the song that he had heard.

  As they drew closer, Hettie felt the impulse to run up to Mr. Wright and hug him in the same way that he had embraced her the night before. She wanted to tell him about everything that had happened after she left his office that morning—her ride down the Antrim Road, the persistent stream of evacuees leaving the city, the horrors of the Royal and St. George’s, how she hadn’t found her mother yet but she was trying her best to stay optimistic that she and her mum would eventually be reunited and all would be well. But as Hettie took in Mr. Wright and his grave expression, she knew better and said nothing.

  Mr. Wright was speaking with Constable Ward and Sergeant Miller. Behind Sergeant Miller stood Samuel Greene, looking like an entirely different young man clad in his black police uniform and white gloves. As the men spoke, Samuel made eye contact with Hettie. Deep ridges etched his forehead. Flecks of gray that Hettie didn’t remember from the night at the Floral Hall peppered his short sideburns. It appeared as if Samuel was somehow closer in age to Mr. Wright than he was to Hettie and Ferris, that the night of bombing had mysteriously advanced his age by more than a decade. Mr. Wright paused in his conversation with Constable Ward and glanced up at Hettie and Ferris with a glassy gaze.

  “This is Ferris Poole and Hettie Quin,” Mr. Wright said solemnly. “They’re zookeepers here and oversee the care of many of our animals.”

  “As we already discussed, Mr. Wright, I have no choice but to follow the directive of the Ministry of Public Security. We all know another attack by the Germans is imminent. Next time, the animals could run free and endanger the lives of Belfast’s citizens,” said Constable Ward, who also wore a black uniform, the elbows and knees covered with shadows of dust. His mouth was thin and tight, and a delicate mustache sat above his upper lip.

  Mr. Wright kept his hands folded behind his back. The constable held a list and began to recite the animals to be executed: the lion, two lionesses, two cubs, the brown bears, the polar bears, the black bears, the wolves, the tiger, the hyenas, the pumas, the panthers, the lynx, and the elephants. Each man carried a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle, with the magazine fully loaded.

  “Unfortunately, we will not be able to leave the premises until the directive is carried out,” Constable Ward continued. “The government has agreed to pay Mr. Christie and the zoo eight hundred and fifteen pounds in compensation for these losses.”

  The wind shifted, and the smell in the air became more pungent. It was bitter, like the odor of burning rubber and hair. The parrot in the aviary squawked: Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Hettie could hear Rajan’s trumpet call in the distance.

  “You’ve made your orders clear,” Mr. Wright said finally.

  Hettie stared at Ferris with dread and shock. He was looking directly at Mr. Wright. His lower lip trembled, and patches of redness emerged along the length of his neck. A sudden affection for Ferris swept over Hettie. She pinched the soft interior of her palm.

  “Shall we proceed,” Mr. Wright said in a restrained voice.

  Constable Ward and Sergeant Miller nodded. Mr. Wright guided the party to the path that led to the top edge of the zoo. Hettie knew that he was taking the group to the lions’ den first. The men followed Mr. Wright with their official gaits and measured arm swings. Samuel Greene slowed down and fell in step with Ferris and Hettie.

  “There was nothing I could do,” he said, quietly.

  “Hard to do anything when the orders come from the ministry,” Ferris said.

  “If a bomb hadn’t fallen in the neighborhood, they might’ve not issued the directive, but it fell too close to the animals.” Samuel was talking quickly, his words running into each other. “How are your families?” he asked. “Did everyone survive?”

  “Hettie’s still trying to find her mum,” Ferris responded. “What about you?”

  “I’m sorry, Hettie.”

  “She’ll be home soon,” she said with conviction. “I know it.”

  “We lost our house. It was completely destroyed, but everyone in the family is fine. I was working down at the station during most of the night. It turned out to be one of the safer spots in the city. I heard from Alan Creighton that Colleen White wasn’t so fortunate . . .”

  Samuel trailed off, his eyes welling up. Hettie thought of Colleen in her lavender dress, her arms crossed over her middle, standing at the front of the Floral Hall on that Saturday night just last month. How Colleen’s slender figure had almost glowed in the dark, like phosphorescence, as she called out Samuel’s name. Hettie couldn’t take in the fact that Colleen was gone, too. It didn’t seem possible that she could be dead.

  “She was at the Floral Hall. When the incendiaries started going off, a warden told her to hurry on to the Percy Street shelter.” Samuel bent his head into one hand and his shoulders shuddered. “Then the constable called me about this,” he said, wiping away his tears, “because I scored so high in the marksmanship competitions in Enniskillen. He wants to see if my mark is as good as theirs.”

  Up ahead, Mr. Wright, the constable, and the sergeant were waiting at the perimeter of the lions’ den.

  “We best pick up our pace,” Ferris said.

  A few minutes later, they were standing outside the lions’ enclosure. Hettie thought the cubs might be spared because of their size and age, but it turned out that wasn’t going to be the case. Silently Sergeant Miller positioned his rifle with the heavy butt pressing against his shoulder. Through its sights he carefully took aim, pointing the grooved barrel toward Wallace, who lay on the floor of the enclosure. His flaxen tail twitched back and forth.

  A pop pealed through the air, and the fast-spinning bullet struck the large cat in the chest. Wallace growled and threw one paw up in the air before falling over onto his side. Sergeant Miller shot Wallace one more time. Hettie cupped h
er hand over her mouth. The other lions circled the wounded cat. His chest was still. Blood pooled by his front paw. Sergeant Miller lifted his rifle again, aimed at Cecil, and pulled the trigger. The cat tumbled onto the ground with a heavy thump. Victoria released a deep-throated howl and barreled toward the enclosure’s wrought-iron bars where the sergeant stood. Hettie took several steps back. Warm moisture gathered in her armpits, and it felt as if her bladder might let loose at any second. She looked over at Mr. Wright: He stood erect and motionless in his brilliant red coat. Tears streamed down his black-stubbled cheeks.

  “Mr. Greene,” the constable said, tersely. “The females.”

  Samuel lifted his rifle and spent a minute adjusting his aim on the animals. In quick succession, Samuel shot the two female lions. The cubs cried and paced around their fallen mothers. Their cries sounded like the sorrowful cries of human infants. One of the cubs climbed on top of Victoria, nestling his nose into the bloody scruff of his mother’s neck. He howled and kneaded his paws into her tangled mane. Hettie felt as though a part of her had died, too. Samuel positioned the rifle and killed each cub with a single shot. The group of officers and zookeepers stood there as the sound of the shot rippled in the morning air. Warm tears ran down Hettie’s face. Her knees weakened.

  “Ferris, we’re going to have to bury the animals,” Mr. Wright said in an even voice. “I would suggest the field near the top of the Crazy Path.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The brown bears will be next,” Mr. Wright said. “This way.”

  Rain started to fall, tiny drops splattering against the pavement and tapping against the budding leaves on the trees. A goldcrest, with its vivid strokes of green and bright yellow, flitted on one of the low-lying branches. The brown bear, Andy, was curled up near the granite boulders at the rear of the enclosure. His deep chestnut tail was tucked into the shiny surface of his fur. Constable Ward took a step forward, and the sergeant handed him a rifle. Just as he was aiming at the bear, the animal began to pace nervously before standing up on his hind legs and clawing at the sooty air.