ONE
May 10, 1941.
BETH WATCHED HER OWN BREATH roll like a thundercloud out before her, fading into the surrounding chill. The oil lamp flickered, but its solitary flame did nothing to warm the air. It was unusually cold for a night in May. It should've been spring, with summer just around the corner, but Beth was hugging her knees tightly with her feet up on the bunk. Yet despite her shivers, she pressed her back up against the cold metal of the shelter wall, appreciating the chill that seeped through her tattered coat. It eased the new ache in her lower back. She glanced at her mother to make sure she wasn't looking before straightening her spine to spread the relief; she had no interest in any further red-faced conversations about the “natural cycle of a woman”.
She was thirteen now, probably, and old enough to get through this new trial of life on her own.
It was one of the oddities of her adoption that her birthday three months earlier was—as it always had been—an anniversary of her arrival and integration into the Wade family, and not the commemoration of her birth. She couldn't remember any of it, having been somewhere around one year old at the time, but her olive skin and unfamiliar features made it obvious to all that the Wades weren't her flesh and blood.
From somewhere in the west, likely the heart of London, Beth heard a distant boom. Distracted from her aches and trains of thought, she looked up at the curved metal roof of the Anderson shelter, as if she were able to watch the clear moonlit sky for enemy planes. “It's started,” she said, hugging her knees tighter and propping her chin upon them.
“Those ears of yours,” mused her mother, Lynne. “I can't hear a thing. But that can only be good, right Oliver?”
Sitting on the adjacent bunk, Beth's mother looked down at her son, huddled up against her with drooping eyes. Oliver was only nine, and had that gift of being young enough to find war exciting and certainly nothing to lose sleep over.
With midnight approaching and the air raid sirens having faded into silence, Beth watched as her brother's head tipped forward and then jolted back up for the fifth time; his dreams and his equilibrium fighting for control. She smiled to herself, but the distant thunder of incendiaries was drawing closer. It wasn't long before her mother gazed up through that invisible roof and Oliver clambered out of his drowsiness. After nearly three weeks of relative peace, London was once more under heavy attack.
“Come on then, Jerry. Do your worst,” dared Beth's mother, typical of the defiance that kept Britain's capital standing. When the small flame of the oil lamp started to flicker more violently, it was as if the enemy had heard and was rising to the challenge.
Beth could already hear anti-aircraft guns going off in the distance, and as the minutes ticked by more guns joined in the defensive, their bangs getting closer to home. Through the man-made thunder she could pick out the low, monotonous drone of enemy planes, and then in stark contrast were the first whining whistles of falling incendiary bombs. Beth flinched in synchrony with her brother and mother at what sounded like a bomb exploding a couple of streets away. Another second gave them all the time they needed to realize it was just another anti-aircraft battery joining in the fray.
Not for the first time, Beth wondered how safe these oversized tin cans really were, even a well-constructed one like theirs. Dug deep into their small backyard and fitted out as well as could be afforded with limited resources, it was surprisingly comfortable given the cramped conditions. Bill, her father, was the manager of a carpenter's before his conscription and had used his self-taught know-how to build a simple but unique bunk system. A narrow bunk ran down both sides of the shelter, and then a wider third bunk ran across at the end, a couple of feet above. But when the bombs started to fall, comfort was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered then was how well a few thin sheets of steel would hold up.
Not knowing what was going on outside only made things worse. Practically sealed inside, there was no way for them to know where the planes were or where they were dropping their explosive cargo, other than to guess by sound alone. There was nothing to rely on except luck.
Beth glanced at the oil lamp that had begun to sway slightly from its hook. Tremors began to dislodge loose soil from the sods of earth on top of the shelter, and every now and then a small puff of fine dirt fell through the cracks. Vibrations ran up from the ground and through the wooden frames of the bunks, while outside the blasts grew louder and nearer.
”They're getting a bit close, aren't they?” Beth's mother asked rhetorically. She was trying to keep her tone jovial, but Beth picked up on the fear that edged her words. She felt the same fear, but knew how important it was to stay positive.
“They don't scare us, do they, Ollie?” she asked her brother. He looked up at her and shook his head with determination. Beth smiled back, but it slipped when she looked up at the small gap around the metal door. On a quiet night, she'd see nothing but black; the ambient light of the city that used to give the night sky its glow hadn't been seen for over twenty months due to the blackout. But now, that thin crack flickered with an orange hue.
London was on fire.
* * *
The first wave of planes had passed, but the constant tone of the all clear siren hadn't been sounded. Instead, Beth could hear a different drone, the pitch slightly lower than that of the Heinkels that had just rained fire. This was the one-note song of the Junkers, the heavy bombers.
Already the smell of earth and paraffin in the shelter had merged with the faint scent of smoke, and the fires that provided it were now lighting up London with bright bullseyes. In the heart of the working-class East End, Bethnal Green was lit up as well as any target. It was time to pray once more.
In the past the three of them would sing songs and play I-Spy. But after more than six months of what the papers were calling the Blitzkrieg, the Wade family, like so many others, were worn down and fed up. Outside, the thunder drew closer, and Beth saw her mother hug Oliver tightly. She listened and tried to gauge where the bombs were dropping. They whistled just like the incendiaries, but the bangs were louder. It sounded like the neighboring borough was being pummeled.
The ground trembled, and more soil fell between Beth and her mother as bombs dropped frighteningly close. The gap in the door flashed brightly and another explosion roared through the streets. Despite their proximity, the drone of planes was almost drowned out by the barrage of blasts, though above it all the deathly whistles could still be heard. Beth picked one out that was louder than the rest and looked over at her mother, who glanced back with fear in her eyes. For a split second it seemed the world had paused.
Then everything happened at once.
The shelter lit up like a bright summer's day for an instant before being plunged into darkness, their oil lamp flame blown out. Beth clung to the frame of her bunk as the ground heaved. The air was sucked out, and the roar of the explosion deafened her. Across from her, in flashes of ambient light, she saw her mother roll over and cover Oliver, while around them was an ever-changing snapshot of falling soil.
For a few moments, Beth could hear nothing; she was conscious only of the vibrations through the ground. Finally, the ringing in her ears slowly started to fade enough for her to hear the dull thuds of debris landing on the earth-covered roof of the shelter. She moved her jaw around, trying to equalize the pressure in her ears before she clambered to the edge of the bunk and unsteadily got to her feet. Distant flashes through the door's gap provided what little light there was to see by. Feeling down to find the latch, Beth pushed it open. The shelter was bathed in dull fiery light, and with it came the warm, smoke-filled air.
“Beth! Close that door—now!” her mother shouted over the roar.
“Can you light the lamp?” Beth yelled back.
“I think it fell down. It doesn't matter, just come in and shut the door.”
But Beth was mesmerized by the bright glowing sky above. She felt a hand on her shoulder gently pulling her away. Stepping back, she pulle
d the door with her, but then froze. She furrowed her brow at a sound that stuck out from everything else: someone, somewhere was crying.
Stepping from under her mother's hand, Beth pushed the door back open and stood on the first of the earth-carved steps that led up to the yard. With her head a foot above ground level and flinching slightly at the continuing flashes and bangs, she looked to her right, toward the heat and glow of a small fire. “Mum!” Beth poked her head back into the shelter with urgency. “Mum, it's the Connells. They've been hit. I think someone's hurt.” Without waiting for a reply, she scurried up the uneven steps.
The ground beneath her feet was littered with bricks and bits of mortar, glass, metal … and fragments of people's lives. The backyards of her row of terraced houses were normally separated by simple wire fences, but the two that should have been between her yard and the Connell's were flattened, contorted and ripped apart like they were lattices of paper. From the light of the small fire, Beth could see that the entire back wall of the Connell's house had fallen down, splayed out across their small yard like lava. It had to have been one of the smaller bombs, but that was all it took. Stepping closer to their yard, Beth saw Mary, her former best friend—her only friend—bent over a body half buried under the rubble.
It was Mary's mother.
From close behind, Beth heard her mother gasp before walking past her and over to the crying girl, trying to lift her away. Mary was slight, but her body was limp and too heavy for Beth's mother to deal with alone. It took her pleading eyes to snap Beth out of her frozen stare. She rushed over to take one of Mary's arms, while her mother took the other. Together they pulled her up to her feet, but she remained limp, like a blood-speckled rag-doll. They dragged her away from her bloodied mother. Beth knew better by now, but she glanced back over her shoulder, and saw the fire reflecting off the dead woman's eyes. Amongst the heat of the flames, it chilled Beth's heart.
* * *
At times it felt like the night would never end, that the Germans wouldn't stop until all of London was razed to the ground. In the Wade family shelter, the tumultuous night roared toward morning with few words muttered. Beth had taken her mother's place, with Oliver's head resting against her shoulder, while her mother became the consoling cushion that Mary sobbed into.
When the booming of the bombs became fewer and more distant, Mary's tears finally ran dry. She sat still and devoid of emotion. Beth couldn't help but stare. The streaks of her mother's blood on her dress had dried and darkened to blend in with the rest of the grime and dirt, and her blonde hair had never looked so tangled. Her blue eyes darted to Beth, but her pretty face bore no fear or anger or sorrow; it was a plain canvas, albeit a dirty one. It was in that moment that Beth realized Mary had become like her: an orphan. The rift between them seemed to close slightly as Beth offered a small sympathetic smile.
By the time the early light of dawn seeped through the gap around the door, the rumbling of destruction had been replaced with that of the aftermath. The all clear sounded and woke all four of them from various stages of slumber. Outside, Sunday morning awaited them, but that was all they could be sure of.
With a stretch and a groan, Beth was the first out of the flimsy metal door and up the steps. The sun was still rising, the dull blue sky seeming to brighten with every passing minute. She had been sure their house was still standing, but it was always a relief to confirm it with her own eyes. Remarkably, after such a close blast, only a couple of windows had shattered, but all around her was the all-too-familiar smell that always came after an air raid. It was no single thing, but a mixture, of smoke, dust, dirt and earth; of bricks and wood; of burnt belongings and dead things.
It was the smell of destruction.
Standing in the thin ribbon of backyard between the shelter and the house, Beth turned slowly to survey the rest of the damage within their enclosed triangular block of terraced housing. It appeared that the Connell's house, along with their neighbor's house, were the only ones hit. A trickle of smoke still spiraled up from the rubble that used to be a pair of kitchens. Beth looked away to prevent her eyes wandering down to the ground, to the dead body she knew lay there. Around her, others began to emerge from the huge tin cans that had been planted in half the yards. The other half either didn't want or couldn't afford an Anderson—one of the most common styles of shelter along with the indoor metal cage of a Morrison. Then there were the poor sods in the corners who simply didn't have the yard space. Front yards were rare, and most of the houses around here opened out onto the street.
Looking back at the mess in their own small yard, Beth found Oliver scurrying around while her mother led Mary into the kitchen, careful to block her view from her dead guardian.
“Looks like we're on cleaning duty then,” said Beth to her brother.
“Wait till Dave sees this. Bet he doesn't have anything like it!” Oliver excitedly held up a piece of shrapnel as if it were the Holy Grail before scampering into the house.
“Looks like I'm on cleaning duty then,” she murmured to herself, rubbing her neck.
Regardless of what the scriptures said, Sunday hadn't been a day of rest for a very long time. After putting together a meager breakfast with what was left before ration day, Beth's mother left for what would surely be a busy nurse's shift at The London Hospital. While Mary sat quietly, occasionally putting the past aside to silently help Beth, Oliver spent most of the day out of her way and out of sight. He was probably playing on bomb sites instead of attending the Sunday school that Beth didn't have time for. Whatever he was doing, he sure wasn't helping.
Her morning was spent sweeping floors of glass and broken ornaments, washing vegetables and putting up blankets over glassless windows. She was thankful when it was time to drag in the bathtub. All three of them needed a good scrub, especially Mary, and it provided Beth with a blissful reprieve from a laborious day. As common as hard work had become, she couldn't ignore her aching bones and muscles, or the sleepiness that made her eyelids heavy.
Her mother arrived home later from her own day of hard labor, the victims of last night's bombing having clearly taken its toll. By then, the blackout blinds and curtains had been drawn. Despite the remnants of daylight outside, within the dimly lit house it may as well have been midnight.
With a sigh, Lynne dropped the familiar brown bag that all nurses seemed to carry onto the kitchen table where Beth had begun chopping vegetables. She made sure to say “hello” to them all and to thank Beth for her hard work, before heading back into the sitting room. Beth watched as she bent down beside Mary. “How are you?” she asked.
Mary looked sheepishly at Lynne and shrugged.
“I know it's hard, but if you ever need to talk …” Beth's mother laid her hand on Mary's. “It'll never replace your own house, but you can call this home for as long as you want.”
Beth stopped chopping, frozen at the realization, while her mother stood and then disappeared upstairs. It was inevitable that Mary would be staying with them; they were the only family she had now. But Beth hadn't yet considered the loss of her own privacy.
Theirs was a typical terraced house; it had three bedrooms and a toilet upstairs, while downstairs consisted of the sitting room (previously two small parlors), the kitchen behind that, and the scullery tacked onto the end. The Wades had moved to Bethnal Green when Beth was three, their accents sounding posh beside the cockney of East London. Unlike many families in the neighborhood, they didn't need to share their house with another family to make ends meet. As such, Beth and Oliver had their own rooms.
Beth had enough floor space in hers for a guest, and it seemed an obvious choice. But while she felt sorry for Mary, she was certain that sharing a room with her wouldn't do either of them any good.
As if to remind her why alone time was particularly precious, Beth's lower abdomen painfully tightened with another cramp. She laid the knife down on the board and leaned on the table, placed her left palm over her pelvis and breathed deeply. I
t didn't help, but it felt like it should have.
Then she sniffed the air.
There was a new smell. Barely noticeable, but it was there. It was familiar, but not instantly recognizable. The closest thing she could associate it with was rusted metal, and she glanced around but saw no immediate culprit. Maybe it wafted in from outside, she thought, through one of the blanketed windows? But as quickly as it had drifted in, it disappeared. In its place Beth's pain came back to the fore, accompanied by a new sensation: dampness. Her head dropped and she looked at the floor, at what she determined to be the source of the phantom scent.
There, between her feet, was a single red dot.
Blood.
TWO
UNTIL THREE DAYS AGO, Mary had lived her whole life at number ten Moravian Street. She'd even stayed home with her mother and father when war was first declared, instead of vanishing off into the countryside with what seemed like every other child in London … except Beth. She'd stayed too, which wouldn't have been unusual if not for the fact that Oliver had been evacuated. Not that it mattered. Within months, half of those who had gone were back—Beth's brother among them. With a stigma attached when the threat from overseas turned real and evacuations took place again, fewer children left. Oliver stayed that time; she could only guess that he didn't want to repeat his previous experience. But by then, Mary's friendship with Beth had ended.
With a battered tin lunchbox in her hand and a tattered gray gas-mask box hanging from her neck, Mary followed the mismatched sister and brother as they walked and talked up Royston Street. It was Wednesday for them and everyone else, but it felt like Monday to her. This time yesterday, she'd been picking out the cleanest of the clothes that had been salvaged from her home before preparing to bury her mother. It had been a small, quick and quiet service, typical of so many since the bombs started falling. The few neighbors able to come joined the Wades and gathered around the plot in which her mother was laid to rest, alongside her fallen father. Mrs. Wade, who'd been a good friend to her mother, sniffed back tears and tried to comfort her, but Mary felt cold and empty. She had wished for rain to mask her dry face.
No Shelter from Darkness Page 2