Lilly's Stories

September 7, 1940

I was not ready. 

The day my city was bombed, I was anything but ready. I had left my dress from yesterday hanging over a chair and the rest of my things were splayed across my desk and any other surface. I told myself that I would clean it up tomorrow.

But the mess would remain, if not grow into the pile of rubble that so much of London would soon become.

I was perched on a stool in the cafe with a couple of my schoolmates, picking the cherry off of my milkshake.

The first bomb detonated about three kilometers from where we sat. A waitress dropped a tea cup, but no one heard it shatter. Every head turned to the window to see what had happened. Someone screamed that it was the Nazis. After that, all we could hear was screams. 

I felt myself shaking but couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t tell if my heart had stopped or if it was beating so fast I couldn’t feel it. The ground shook like an earthquake and everyone ran around like swarms of gnats.

“The subway!” I heard Julian shout at me with his wrists in his ears.

I tried to nod, but it only jumbled together with my trembling. Mavis dragged me by my forearms out the door and onto the street. Julian led the way through the crowd and Mavis pulled me along. I couldn’t quite tell through all the commotion, but I could have sworn that she was crying.

I saw a child about two feet tall clutching his mother’s leg as the mother called out a name that I assumed was another child. My heart broke for them.

I felt a tug at my arm as Mavis led me around a corner. I tried to bring myself into the moment. I wouldn’t be the weak one. I had to stand strong.

I pulled myself out of my friend’s grip and flew down the stairs into the subway station where there were already flocks of people huddled by the walls. Everyone had their hands over their heads, anticipating an attack at any moment. Would we make it through?

A man came down the stairs, his breath heavy and his face torn with an impossible array of different expressions. He was carrying a woman who barely looked older than me. She didn’t move. 

I couldn’t hear anything, but I could see that he was shouting out what must have been her name. He stumbled through the crowd, and I could soon hear his cries. 

He was shouting her name over and over again. He begged anyone around him for help. It pained me to watch, and I turned around. 

“Someone!” he screamed. I doubt many people heard him. 

A rough hand thumped on my shoulder and dragged me down. It was him. 

“Please!” 

I shook my head, crying. I could do nothing. I had no medical expertise. I was no nurse. 

He shook with sobs. “You have to,” he shouted. 

I could only stand there, useless. Julian pulled me away and Mavis stayed with the man. I didn’t know what she could do, but if it calmed him, then I trusted her. 

I was now shaking again, but not from fear. How was there already this much damage? 

Barely ten minutes into the bombing, and here we were, worlds falling apart. 

All I wanted was to step back in time. Is this what we would have to live with? How long would it last?

May 10, 1941

I didn’t know how we made it through. Eight months of constant fear. 30,000 dead in London alone. And yet we lived, Julian, Mavis, and I. The man’s wife, Ann, was buried in one of the only parts of the city that weren’t completely covered in rubble. Her husband stayed with us in the air raid shelters underground. They were no longer subway stations, but safe havens for the civilians. 

Twice a day, I walked with Mavis down to the tunnel’s makeshift cafeteria where food had been provided by brave donors. Every once in a while, we would peek our heads out of the station and survey the damage of the bombings. For fifty-seven consecutive nights after that first day, London had been hit by a deafening explosion that rained devastation on the city. Some days were better than others, and some days there was nothing at all. 

By then we had set up our own designated sleeping areas. They were tight and mostly consisted of a blanket and pillow, but they were our own. 

According to my cousin who had made it to our tunnel four months ago, the rest of our family had fled to an underground shelter in a hotel across town and there was too much damage for either of us to cross to the other. I prayed each day for their safety and that soon, we might be able to see each other again.

He also brought news of other underground tunnels that had flooded. Apparently some detonated bombs had ruptured underground water mains, killing nearly everyone in the stations. My fear seemed never ending. 

It was an hour to midnight, and I couldn’t sleep, although I tried to. Most everyone around me had fallen into the routines of restless slumber that we all suffered through. Surrounding me were people of all ages tossing and turning through their dreams, most of which were likely nightmares. 

Soon enough, I thought I was in a nightmare of my own. 

By then, I had become used to the sound of bombs. But this was the most I had seen all at once. Over seven hundred tons of explosives erupted that night. 

Everyone was awake and frantic. Cracks began to form in the ceiling, and we all plastered ourselves flat against the wall, terrified that it might cave in on us. There had to be missiles right above us. 

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed as I had never prayed before.

All night long, for nearly seven hours, I stayed pressed against the wall and prayed. My heart never stopped pounding and the adrenaline from the first blast never went away.

And then it stopped. All of it. All sounds of explosives ceased. The ceiling held. The noise was over. 

We waited for hours, listening for anything. Slowly, we pulled ourselves from the bricks and looked around at each other. Had we made it? Could it really be over?

No, it would never really end. For days, we would be alert and scanning the skies every minute, never quite sure if we were safe.

Eventually, weeks later, I would find my family. Months later, we would have a temporary place to stay. Years later, our city would begin to show signs of recovery. That we would not let the war claim us.

I hadn’t truly experienced war until that year. Little did I know, it would go on for so much longer. Every day I would wake and hope that we would never see another day of that kind of suffering. Every day, for another four years, I prayed.