Peter and the Blitz

We were not prepared for what we would encounter along the way. Down the road we came upon a sight of utter destruction. Several houses had been hit, resulting in huge gaping holes where homes had once stood. The contents of the houses were in shambles, yet in-explicitly amongst all the debris a single article would often be standing completely unharmed. We stared into the ruins, amazed how the morning sun’s rays hit a gilded mirror standing on its side completely intact. It was macabre how it perfectly reflected the devastation surrounding it. The inhabitants of the houses stared numbly at the remains of their homes. Several women sat on the curb of the road. A young woman wearing only a bathrobe and slippers rocked back and forth in anguish. In her hands, she held pieces of what once had been a toy wooden soldier. A young man wearing torn pajamas limped toward her. When she raised her face to him it was covered with the filth from the explosion. Tracks of tears ran down her cheeks. She had been crying in silence. The man sat on the curb next to her and pulled her to him. Immediately her entire body shook with passionate sobs of unbelievable sorrow. Behind her their Anderson shelter had been blown out from its foundation and lay in a twisted heap in their yard. David nudged me and asked, “Do you think anyone survived that?” I choked on my answer, “I don’t know.” He was incredulous. “But I thought they were supposed to protect people from bombs.” I could not believe his ignorance. “Not if it takes a direct hit.” “I didn’t know.” We slowly moved away. Stunned, we passed a group of men who regarded the carnage in disbelief. Their clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and their faces had the exhausted look of a wakeful night. One muttered under his breath and punched his right hand into the palm of his left. I wanted to tell him that I felt his anger. I knew how his whole body ached from the sights he witnessed, but I kept on walking. Two ambulances had parked in the midst of the confusion, and Red Cross personnel tendered to the injured. A path from one of the houses had a darkish stain splattered across it. I immediately looked away. All around us my greatest fears had become reality. An older boy and girl gazed at me in despair, but I had no words for them. They didn’t try to hide the tears streaming down their faces. The sport of war was no longer a game played in the school yard. It was very real now. Only the very small children didn’t seem to mind the changes in their surroundings. A laughing toddler pulled on a rope that cordoned off a bombed area. He was amused how when he tugged the rope sharply the wrecked fence moved up and down. His laughter rang through the misery in an eerie way. I hastened to leave. A tiny girl smiled at us as we passed. She had found her doll’s pram and was trying to push it unsuccessfully since it had lost a wheel. Her face was alight with happiness. What did she have to be happy about? Her life would never be the same. The coroner’s van had pulled up in front of the pile of bricks and timber from which she had uncovered the pram. A white-haired woman who was watching over her ushered her away from the scene. We heard the child question, “Granny, where’s mum?” I did not wait for the answer. I could not escape the reality of the previous night’s Blitz. Hitler and his Luftwaffe had bombed London without concern for civilian life. The plan was very clear. Destroy London and all its inhabitants. A row of shops had been hit, including the sweet shop where we had intended to spend my found money. I looked at the colored glass that covered the street. Just yesterday sour balls, licorice strings, caramels and other penny sweets stored in tall tinted glass jars lined the shelves of the shop. Today hundreds of colored glass pieces mixed with a sticky mess covered the cracked pavement. “Guess we’ll save the money for another day,” I told David. “I’m really not in the mood for licorice anymore,” David answered. Every shop on the road had massive damage. All that remained of the bakery was its huge oven. A few bricks had fallen off it, but it still looked workable. Several people were observing the damage, and I overheard one say, “If the baker can get flour, we might still be able to have bread for our tea.” The others didn’t reply to this statement. I imagined they were thinking of the enormity of the war versus a loaf of warm bread. The bookstore’s contents had survived the bombing, but not the rush of water the fire brigade had used to extinguish the resulting blaze of the building. Water logged books and papers were strewn everywhere. I looked down at my feet where a drenched copy of A Tale of Two Cities lay open. “No, this is a tale of one city, our London,” I thought aloud. An icy breeze swept over me, and I buttoned my jacket tightly against the sudden autumn chill. David looked equally as miserable as he stepped over the scattered papers and books. “Pity, this was my favorite book store,” he muttered softly.