If I Were You

by Lynn Austin

  Overhead, another bomb screamed through the sky, and she braced herself for the hit. When the explosion came, the suction tingled through her. The very air seemed to shake. Why was this shelter aboveground? No one would live through this onslaught. All around her, people whimpered and wept. Eve silently vowed that if she ever had to endure this again, it would be in an underground shelter.

  On and on the bombs fell, the explosions booming and roaring until Eve lost all track of time. The ringing in her ears was so loud she didn’t notice, at first, that the hum of planes grew fainter, replaced by the clamor of racing fire engines outside, the shouts of rescue volunteers. The bomb blasts tapered off.

  “Dear God, is it over?” she whispered. A hush fell over the room as everyone waited, holding their breath. Time passed. Eve’s limbs ached as she sat cross-legged on the floor, bracing for more, straining to listen for approaching planes. When the all clear sounded its steady, two-minute note, she slumped with relief, unsure if she had the strength to move.

  “Are you both all right?” she asked Iris and her granny. Plaster dust coated Iris’s black hair, making her look like an old woman. Iris nodded and swiped her tears, smearing more dust across her face. Eve must look the same. Iris’s granny stared straight ahead as if in shock, her gnarled hands clenched into tight fists.

  There was another scrambling race to get out of the shelter. Eve looked at her watch. Six thirty. Nearly two hours had passed since they’d sat in the sunshine in front of Iris’s house, enjoying the afternoon. Two hours of relentless bombing.

  Iris helped her granny to her feet and they all followed the others outside. Eve had feared the worst, but the sight that met her eyes was beyond imagining. She stepped out into hell itself. “Dear God . . . dear God . . . ,” she breathed.

  Bombs had demolished the neighborhood, leaving mounds of lath and beams and bricks where tenements and houses had stood two hours ago. The sky above the nearby docks resembled a wall of flame. The smoke stung Eve’s eyes and clogged her throat. If the fire spread this way, they would never outrun it.

  Fragments of wood and belongings lay strewn everywhere. A wooden table leg. The back of a splintered chair. A spoon. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as Eve walked forward in a daze. Farther down the street, a row of tenements still stood, but all the windows had blown out, leaving gaping black holes like unseeing eyes.

  Streams of water and tangled fire hoses filled the streets. Injured, bleeding people begged for help. Civil defense workers shouted to each other as they shoveled through the rubble, searching for survivors. Eve wanted to help. She needed to do something. But what?

  “Our home . . . ,” the old woman mumbled. “Where’s our home?” She looked disoriented, in shock.

  Iris was in shock, too. Her voice trembled as she said, “Please stay here with Granny, Eve. I’ll run home and see.” Eve kicked aside some broken glass and helped Iris’s granny sit down on the curb. They waited in silence. Nothing Eve said could console her in this nightmare.

  Suddenly a dark stream of movement streaked toward her—a swarm of rats fleeing from the burning docks. Eve screamed, unable to move as they raced past, then disappeared into the debris. She shivered in horror.

  Hours seemed to pass before Iris returned, carrying a few of her family’s belongings in a scorched pillowcase. “The landmarks are all gone,” she said, her voice hoarse with smoke. “I could barely find our house. Then I couldn’t find my way back.”

  “But your house . . . ?” Eve asked.

  Tears filled Iris’s eyes as she shook her head. “Gone. It’s gone.” She sank down beside her grandmother, clinging to her, weeping. “I’m sorry, Granny . . . I’m so sorry!” Eve thought of the sugar packet, the errand that had brought them to the East End. Iris’s granny would be dead if they hadn’t come.

  “We can’t go home, Granny,” Iris wept. “I tried to save a few of our things . . .”

  “There must be someplace we can take her to find food and shelter for the night,” Eve said.

  “I know, but where? And I need to find Mum and Dad.”

  “Stay here with her. I’ll find someone in charge.” Eve waded through the endless chaos, asking anyone and everyone if they knew where people who’d lost their homes could spend the night. No one knew. Surely plans had been made for this disaster. Everyone expected London to be bombed. But those plans had been blown to pieces amid the horror of the devastation. The most immediate needs were to rescue the injured, locate survivors among the wreckage, and clear the streets to allow stretchers and ambulances to get through.

  At last, Eve learned of a local school a few blocks to the east that was a temporary shelter for bomb victims. Night had fallen, but fires lit the streets like daylight as she made her way back to Iris. Eve helped them both to their feet and tried to get Iris’s granny walking, but she was still dazed and shaken. They had shuffled only a few yards when the chilling wail of the siren sounded once again, slicing through the night.

  “No . . . Oh, God, no!” Eve moaned. She couldn’t see the approaching planes in the smoke-filled sky but she heard them. They would find their targets easily, the night illuminated by fires from the first round of bombings. “We have to get back to the shelter!” she said above the siren’s shriek. They hadn’t walked very far from it. They turned and hurried back.

  Fallen bricks lay all around the building. The foundation seemed to have shifted. “It doesn’t look safe,” Iris said. “Are you sure we should go in?”

  “I don’t want to, but there’s no other choice.”

  Ten minutes. Maybe only eight minutes now. Eve relived the nightmare for a second time, holding her breath as bombs shrieked toward earth. Bracing herself for each impact. Breathing again after each explosion. And the next and the next. All around her, people wept and prayed. She tried to pray, too, but as the endless raid wore on, she could only mumble, “Please, God. Please . . .” as the world exploded around her. She battled waves of panic, feeling trapped and helpless in the windowless shelter. She wanted to get out—had to get out! But she didn’t dare.

  At midnight, there was still no end to the bombing. The shelter had been designed for short-term raids, a place for residents to wait an hour or two until an attack ended, not a place where hundreds of people could huddle through a long night of continuous bombing. There were no washroom facilities, no beds, and not nearly enough seats. No provision had been made for the elderly or small children. There was no food or drinking water, no way to fix a comforting cup of tea. The electricity cut off when the second raid began, and no one had thought to provide emergency lighting in the windowless building. Eve sat on the floor in the darkness as the hours passed with nothing to occupy her mind except fear. Her heart pounded and tripped over itself as her panic soared. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out!

  She couldn’t get out.

  The attack continued until dawn. Eight straight hours of bombing. Eve’s ears rang from the blasts. Nothing would be left outside. Where was the Good Shepherd? Didn’t He care about His suffering sheep?

  By the time the all clear sounded, Eve felt numb. Once again, she emerged from the shelter with Iris and her granny into a world of impassable streets, pocked with craters, strewn with debris. A woman sat on a pile of rubble with a limp child in her arms, crying in a low, endless wail. She refused to let the volunteers near her. Everywhere Eve looked, civil defense workers frantically dug through debris, pulling out bodies, loading the injured into ambulances, their faces weary and hopeless. Flames and smoke filled the horizon above the docks. Eve felt the heat, saw it shimmering in the air. Someone said the Ford Motor Works had been hit. She wondered about Iris’s parents.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” Iris asked. Everyone asked the same question. People called out names of missing family members, questioning everyone they met. Iris did the same, asking about her parents and the factory. Soot blackened many of the faces Eve passed; others were white with plaster dust. How would Iris recogn
ize anyone?

  A canteen truck arrived from the Women’s Voluntary Service with tea and sandwiches. Eve gobbled one down, weak from hunger. She and Iris hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. One of the volunteers confirmed that there was a temporary shelter being set up in the school a few blocks away. “If you wait there,” she told them, “the government will send buses to take you to a permanent facility with food and clothing. They’ll find you a place to stay until your homes can be repaired or you find new ones.”

  “Let’s take your grandmother back to our flat,” Eve said. “This is no place for her.”

  “No, you go home, Eve. I’ll take Granny to the school and wait to hear from my parents. If the Ford factory was hit . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  “Oh, Iris! Let me stay and help you. What can I do?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do. Go home and make sure your mum is safe.”

  She was. The area of London where the town house was located hadn’t been damaged. Eve fell into Mum’s arms, unable to find words to describe what she’d endured on her endless night in the East End. Mum let her weep, then drew her a hot bath. Eve thought of Iris as she soaked in the tub, and of all the people who no longer had bathtubs. Or running water. Or gas to boil a pot of tea. It took a long time for Eve to stop shaking.

  “I don’t think anyone ever imagined this,” Eve said later as she sat in Mum’s room, cradling a cup of hot tea. “If the soldiers on the battlefront endured this horror during the first war, it’s no wonder they came home shocked and broken. Now the battlefront is here, in our own streets. Every one of us is a soldier. But how do we fight back?”

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” Mum said. “It’s Sunday morning, and we should go to church and thank God for sparing your life last night. We’ll pray for Iris and her family, too.”

  Eve closed her eyes as tears spilled down her face. “I don’t know if I can face God. I’m still so angry. You didn’t see what happened in the East End last night.”

  “Try to get some sleep. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  Eve did manage to fall asleep in Mum’s bed for a few hours, but nightmarish visions filled her dreams. They didn’t spring from her imagination like most nightmares, but from what she’d seen and experienced. When she awoke, Mum had Eve’s breakfast on a tray. “Tildy made you eggs and toast. Everyone downstairs is thanking God you’re all right.”

  “I’m going to volunteer for the Auxiliary Fire Service,” Eve said as she ate. “I watched them work yesterday, and I want to help.”

  “Oh, Eve. You’re not big enough or strong enough to handle heavy fire hoses. I would be worried sick about you. You’re all I have!”

  “Well, I can’t just cower inside a shelter until the war ends. I felt so trapped sitting there! The fire service must have other jobs I can do besides handle a hose.”

  “Pray about it. Please, love. I know you’re angry with God, but talk to Him. This isn’t a good time to walk away from Him.”

  Tears filled Eve’s eyes as she looked up at Granny Maud’s picture of the Good Shepherd. It had comforted her as a child. She had trusted Him. But where was He now? How could He allow this terrible war to happen?

  Eve spent the afternoon with her mum, and they ate a light supper downstairs with the other servants. The horror Eve had endured slowly began to fade. She might be able to close her eyes tonight without seeing flames and rubble or the image of the mother cradling her dead child. “I should go,” she finally said. “I need to get back to my flat before the blackout.” She stood by the back door, preparing to leave, when the air-raid siren began its terrible wail, rising in pitch with a wobbling scream. Fear rippled through Eve. Ten minutes.

  “Oh, God, help us,” Mum breathed. “Eve! Get in the Anderson shelter with the others. I’ll run upstairs and help Lady Rosamunde.”

  “No, don’t leave me!” Eve said, clinging to her.

  Mum pushed her toward the door. “Go with the others, love. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Nine minutes. The evening air made her shiver as she followed the other servants outside. The shelter was so tiny, an underground hole designed for six adults. Her heart pounded with panic at the thought of being buried alive. She had to bend over to crawl inside. It smelled of damp earth and worms. Eve and the others sat on ledges across from each other, knees touching, a jumble of arms and legs. Waiting.

  Five minutes. Half the time had passed by now. Above the sound of the siren, the taunting drone of enemy airplanes rumbled. Where was Mum? Hurry! Please, hurry! Eve was about to leap up and run back inside the town house to find her when the flap opened and Mum crawled inside, breathless. Eve made room for her, gripping her hand as she sat down.

  “Where’s Lady Rosamunde?” the housekeeper asked.

  “She wouldn’t come. She said she refused to be buried alive in a nasty hole before she’s dead. I hated leaving her there all alone, but . . .”

  The explosions began. The nightmare returned. It didn’t seem real. The blasts were more distant than last night’s, but the thumps and crumps of falling bombs terrified Eve nonetheless. She had witnessed their destruction. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out!

  She couldn’t get out.

  As the other servants talked softly, she tried to gauge how far away the blasts were. What the targets might be. Which part of London was getting the worst of it. It sounded like the East End. Again. She tried to draw deep breaths but couldn’t. A heavy weight sat on her chest.

  Hours passed and nothing changed. Eve sat in the shelter with her mum throughout another long night as the ground shuddered and London burned. She prayed for Iris and her family. She prayed she and Mum would survive another endless night.

  13

  WELLINGFORD HALL, NOVEMBER 1940

  The telephone awakened Audrey just after dawn, jangling its dire alarm. She grabbed her robe and stuffed her arms into the sleeves as she hurried downstairs. Robbins answered it, and he held out the receiver to her. “It’s the vicar, Miss Audrey.”

  “Hello, Rev. Hamlin. This is Audrey.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Clarkson, but there was a horrific bombing raid on the city of Coventry last night. They’re asking for help. Will you come?”

  Her heart thumped faster. She knew the vicar well enough to recognize the urgency in his voice. “Yes, of course. What can I do?”

  “We need blankets. Food. Old bedsheets to tear into bandages. Clean drinking water.”

  “Right. I’ll meet you at the church as quickly as I can.”

  “And, Miss Clarkson . . . ?” he added before she rang off. “I’m told that Coventry is a scene from hell. Nazi planes bombed the city for eleven straight hours. Devastated it.”

  “Oh, dear God . . .”

  “They even destroyed Coventry Cathedral.”

  Audrey closed her eyes. That beautiful fourteenth-century cathedral. Gone.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “Everyone will understand if you stay here while we deliver aid to the survivors.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I would like to help.” Eve had taught her to be courageous, forcing her to pilot the Rosamunde for the evacuation of Dunkirk, insisting she learn to drive a car. She could do this. She would do this.

  Audrey ran up the stairs to her room to dress, praying for the people of Coventry, for the men and women who labored to help them. She’d learned to pray in the past few months as she’d become more involved in the village and in the life of the church. It was simple, really, the vicar said. A matter of talking to the Almighty and believing that He heard. That He cared. She’d also taken a first aid course to learn how to apply a tourniquet and administer basic medical help. Now, as she and one of the chambermaids gathered blankets and sheets from Wellingford’s bedrooms, then raided the linen cupboard for more, she thought of how different she was from the shy, tearful girl she’d once been.

  Mrs. Smith and Robbins boxed up all the food they could find and filled spa
re containers with drinking water. George helped load everything into the car. “I would like to come with you, Miss Audrey,” he said. “They might need me to help dig . . . you know . . . for survivors.”

  Audrey feared he was too old for such grim labor, but she wouldn’t deny his request. “Yes, of course, George. Put your shovel in the boot with the rest of the things.”

  They stopped at the village church to pick up more supplies and volunteers. Then, with the car fully loaded, Audrey followed the vicar’s car across the tranquil countryside to Coventry. With such dire news these past weeks, Audrey wondered, at times, if England would survive. Italy had entered the war on the side of the Nazis. France had surrendered less than three weeks after the evacuation of Dunkirk. Nazi troops occupied Britain’s Channel Islands, a few miles away. Nearly all of Europe had been defeated. Eve’s letters detailed the ongoing fear and destruction in London as the Nazis bombarded the city night after night. Would anything be left?

  Meanwhile, Audrey’s family was separated. Mother insisted on staying in London in spite of Audrey’s pleas. Alfie would be shipped out soon, traveling through U-boat-infested waters aboard a transport ship. Father was overseeing his factories in Manchester, with no plans to return to Wellingford. And Eve worked in London during the day and slept in a bomb shelter every night. Audrey longed to gather together all of the people she loved and stash them in the shelter George had dug in Wellingford’s back garden, but she couldn’t. They were all fighting this war in one way or another, and she wanted to help, too.

  Three miles outside Coventry, a dense cloud of oily black smoke filled the horizon, tinted with a reddish glow. The city was on fire from end to end. Their convoy halted beside a group of dazed refugees, staggering away from the stricken city as if sleepwalking. George fetched his shovel and went ahead with the vicar to help in the rescue operation, while Audrey climbed from the car to distribute food and water and blankets to the refugees. She dug out her first aid kit to bandage wounds and burns. Many survivors had cuts from broken windows, shattered by the explosions. Audrey and the other women of the WVS worked nonstop as victims with smoke-reddened eyes and sooty faces continued to come throughout the morning.