When Darkness Fell

On September third, 1939 Britain and France declared war on Germany. The peaceful routine of everyday life was shattered.

I was only eight at the time, father and brother were both sent to the front lines to fight and protect our lovable country. Although at a young age I knew exactly what was happening around me, I was very observant as a child. It broke my heart to see my brother and father off to another country, I knew that there was a possibility that they might never return. However I had no other choice than to put on a brave face and wave them goodbye, perhaps one last time.

Mother sent me to buy little food which was left in the shops as she continued to build the air raid shelter in our garden. As I walked the streets of London I was horrified with what was left of once a happy city. Streets were abandoned, all windows and doors were blacked out and the few people on the streets carried gas masks to protect themselves against a possible gas attack. As I came across the shop, I felt the earth shaking beneath my feet and I could see the glass on the door cracking. I ran all the way home and thankfully my mother and our home was fine. That night I couldn’t sleep, I got out of bed and wondered the roads. That’s when I heard the first siren go on, I was petrified. I was nowhere near home and even if I ran I would not have gotten there in time.
A family offered to take me in as they had a small shelter, I had no other choice. As dawn struck I ran to my house to find nothing but ashes. I dropped to my knees and uttered a loud sharp piercing cry. I peered in what was left of my once treasured home, to see if I can spot my mother. Neighbours came and gave me a hand, and they found her. She was dead, it was devastating, sheer horror. I wanted to be there when the bombing started, I had no other reason to be alive with my mother being dead.

It was dangerous living in a big city during the war. Cities were the target of enemy aircraft, that is why blackouts where necessary as they prevented any glimmer of light escaping and aiding enemy aircraft during the bombing raids. I left London the day after my mother’s death. Nearly 2 million children were evacuated from their homes at the start of world war two, I was one of them. We were evacuated to the countryside to escape the bombing, it was terrifying. Most children had their siblings I had no one. Children had labels attached to them, as though we were parcels. We stood at railway station not knowing where we were going. I had no relatives to go to so I had to go and live with complete strangers. Everyone encouraged me, told me everything was going to be fine but they didn’t know what a gruesome family was awaiting me.

I knocked on the door while I held my small suitcase which held my coat and my precious doll.
The rusty hinges of the old door squealed like fingernails on a dusty chalkboard, revealing behind it Mrs Powel. She showed me around the house, but I couldn’t listen, I couldn’t stop looking at her. Her red hair was mesmerising, her blue eyes were beautiful but frightening in a way that cannot be described. I was left in a room which was said that was mine, for what seemed like hours, I was extremely hungry and I couldn’t bear with the smell that was coming from the kitchen. Then she came in, I presumed to tell me that the dinner is ready, but I was extremely wrong. She told me what chores I had to do, and handed me some peanuts, I had to wash the dishes after Mrs Powel, her husband and two children had eaten, give a bath to the little one, and mend some clothes. I was fine with that, I was used to do chores but as the days continued to pass more chores were piling up and I was practically a servant. When I asked for some more food, I would get beaten till I was unconscious or locked in the shelter. I did not even have the privilege to mend my only piece of clothing.

As this was not bad enough, one night Mr Powel entered my room as I was sleeping.
“Do not say a word”, he whispered as he pressed his body against me. I laid there with tears pouring down my eyes as that sick, perverted man molested me. It became a pattern from that night on, every night he would creep into my room, and make me have sex with him. The worst thing about it was, I could not do anything about it, I was positively sure that she knew what was going on. I took out all my rage on my doll, I made it feel everything I felt, dirty, disgusting and self-loathing. I stabbed it, I stabbed it enough that I got exhausted and had no choice but to sleep.

A telegram arrived notifying me that my father was killed in action, it was overwhelming. I could not take it anymore. I could not handle more bad news. I was on the verge of giving up, when I was not being molested, I stayed up thinking how I was going to end my life. Then one day I heard a knock on the door.

I opened the door and behind it, I saw my brother, his weight all on one foot. He had got injured and was of no use in war any longer. I could not believe my eyes. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, my hero. There is no other word to describe him by with out undermining him.

He caressed my face, and was astonished of how much I had grown in the past few months. Afterwards he noticed some bruises on my hands and neck. I had never seen him so furious. He started yelling on the top of his lungs, hurried to my room to gather my things and he found my doll. His eyes were filled with pain and hurt.

“What have they done to you?” he said in a taut voice. His eyes peered in mine filled with both anger and concern. He repeated the question, now louder and it was not meant for me. He limped his way to the kitchen, he grabbed Mr Powel from his neck and started strangling him, everyone in the room started shouting and crying. The neighbours came running in and broke it off, I can not imagine what would had happened if they did not involve themselves in the situation.

We ran, we ran as fast as our legs could carry us, well Tom limped. A friend of his told him that he had a farm in Wisconsin which no one was taking care of, he offered it to my brother, and said that if he ever made it out of war alive he would join us. A new start. That was exactly what we needed, only worrying about a bomb dropping on us, and after what we both went through it was definitely not the worst way to go. Everything was going to be fine as long as we were together, my knight in shining armour had come to the rescue.

G.K Chesterton once wrote, Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed.