lit only by a candle
stuck in a flowerpot,
casting eerie shadows on the wall.
I hold my nose
fighting the smells
of sweat, vomit, urine, and fear.
“We should bring an oil stove inside
to help us stay warm,” says one neighbor.
“Don’t be daft!” says another.
“It would use up the oxygen!”
Some shelter this is.
Spooky, stinking, suffocating.
Sounds of Hate
My family and I hunker down,
listen to the
drone of the planes,
the ack ack ack
of the antiaircraft guns,
then the high-pitched whistle
and
BAM!
of the bombs.
My stomach
drops
with
each
one.
Then there’s silence,
ghostly and still.
What has happened?
What’s to come?
The A..L..L......C..L..E..A..R sounds—
one long steady note.
We breathe out
a collective sigh,
and get ready to go home . . .
till the sirens wail again.
MONDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER
Packing
One more day.
I’m allowed
1 small suitcase (26" x 18")
1 small duffel bag
and my gas mask, of course.
I need my ID card,
my ration card,
2 pairs of pajamas,
2 pairs of pants,
2 pairs of trousers,
2 shirts,
1 pair of shoes,
a hat,
my new warm overcoat
and not much more.
None of my books are permitted,
just a Bible.
I’d rather have my Dandy comic books.
Or my Plane Spotter’s Guide.
Never mind.
I’m starting my own story now.
You Can Always Tell a German Plane
Planes are my hobby—
Sunderlands, Spitfires, Hurricanes,
Blenheims, Messerschmitts, Junkers.
I know their names,
I memorized their shapes.
I pester my teachers
and parents with questions.
They shush me,
saying, “So many questions!
Such a chatterbox!”
But I need answers,
so I’ve pored over books at the library,
ever since England declared war on Germany
a year ago.
I’ve heard English planes roaring
over the countryside,
doing drills since last year.
Now, the third night of bombing,
I notice German planes
make a different sound from ours.
German planes are diesel.
They throb.
Ours hum.
You never know
when the Germans plan to attack,
but you can tell
by the sound
they’re here.
Another Sleepless Night
My head pounds
with the sounds of the planes.
I dread another long night
inside the crowded, smelly shelter,
another morning
staggering round the neighborhood,
blinking in the dust
to see what’s left,
who’s alive,
hurt,
missing.
I don’t know much about Canada,
but I know this.
They’re at peace.
There are no bombs,
no Germans,
no war in this New World.
I’m desperate to get away,
to make the headaches stop.
“Dad, I leave tomorrow, right?”
feeling guilty even as I ask.
How will my family survive
night
after night
after night of this?
“Yes, Ken,” says Dad, “tomorrow.”
TUESDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER
I’m Off
My dad is at work
(he got a new job
as a postman
and can’t risk losing it),
so my stepmum
will see me to
London’s Euston train station.
I hug Margaret good-bye
before we leave,
but she doesn’t understand
that I’m going,
maybe for good.
“ ’Bye, Kenny,” she says,
pushing me away
to go play at the neighbor’s.
I take one last look around.
Good-bye, house.
Good-bye, home.
At the Station
Mum and I arrive on the train platform
under the clock,
where crowds of families
mill about,
all waiting,
all watching for the same train.
No crowd of well-wishers for me.
Some dads squat down
to comfort crying kids.
Others hoist sons
high on their shoulders.
No playful punches, funny faces,
or jokes to jolly me along.
“Kenny, stop biting your nails,” Mum scolds.
“Stand up straight. Act like a man.”
I smile as a tiny girl scolds
her blubbering sister.
“Stop that immediately!
Be British!”
Mums squeeze their eyes shut
as they hold their little ones close,
whisper in their ears.
Loving fingers trace
silky heads, pudgy cheeks.
I wish I had a mum
who would miss me.
I look up at my stepmum.
She looks at the clock.
Wave Me Good-bye
With a screech of brakes,
our train arrives around 11:00 am.
“Well, ’bye, Mum,” I say.
“Behave yourself, Ken,” she says.
“Don’t worry. When the war’s over,
you’ll make your way home.”
There are no tears
from my stepmum,
no clinging,
no hugs,
no lingering last looks.
“I’ve got to get back now,” she says.
“Be good and make us proud.
And whatever you do, don’t lose that coat!”
She waves me good-bye,
and that’s it.
I raise a hand to wave,
but stop
when I see
she isn’t looking.
“ ’Bye, Mum,” I whisper,
as she hurries away.
A Shout
Our escorts
check us in
as we board the train.
When I step into the carriage,
I hear my name.
“Ken!
Ken Sparks!”
I glance up
and see a friend.
“Terry? TERRY!”
It’s Terry Holmes,
my best neighborhood friend
and football chum
from just up the road.
He’s only ten,
but he’s a good lad
and a talented artist.
I’ve always wished
I could draw like him.
“Terry! You’re going, too?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” he says.
“You know—we had to keep it a secret.
I begged to go, though.
I don’t know anything
about Canada, but Ken!
We get to sail on a shi
p
on the Atlantic Ocean.”
Terry’s excitement lifts my spirits.
“Oi, this will be an adventure, all right,” I say.
“Did you bring your sketch pad?”
Terry loves to draw ships
more than anything.
“I did. Don’t tell!
I sneaked it in my suitcase.”
I laugh and give him a shove.
He shoves me back.
The engines gasp and rumble
and in a cloud of steam
and a scream of whistles
we’re off.
Good-bye, London!
I lean my forehead against the window
and watch the houses rush by
to the beat of the wheels rolling the rails.
City melts into suburb,
suburb into country.
I’m leaving
everything behind.
Memories
slide through my head—
my house,
my school,
the girl with braids
who just started to smile at me,
my bike,
my go-cart,
my apple tree.
I’ll miss Margaret.
I’ll miss my dad.
But I’ll see them again
when the war is over.
But what if . . .
never mind.
Good riddance to air raids,
sirens,
nights under the table,
in shelters,
in the Underground.
Good-bye to bombs!
Good riddance to being yelled at.
Terry and I
are on our way,
leaving today,
for a new life
in the New World.
Good-bye!
We Are Wrong About the Bombs
I settle back in my seat
and close my eyes . . .
SCREEEEEEECH!
What’s happening?
Why are we stopping?
“Outside, children!”
yell the escorts.
“Leave your things. Run!”
Terry and I scramble outside.
Wailing sirens fill the air.
“Now they’re not even waiting till nighttime!”
I shout.
I run faster,
but trip and
scrape my knee.
Terry pulls me up
and hauls me inside the shelter.
“Thanks, Terry,” I say.
We huddle together,
hearts pounding,
cold sweat
drip-
drip-
dripping
down
our
backs.
Minutes go by,
a half hour,
an hour.
Finally
the all-clear sounds.
We climb wearily
back aboard the train
and lurch along—
starting,
stopping,
running,
hiding,
starting,
over and over again.
I feel like a thief,
stealing away,
making off with my life.
We’ve been tracked, hunted down,
our cover about to be blown.
We slink along, mile upon mile,
to a secret port
who knows where. . . .
The Orphanage
I’m sound asleep
when the train pulls in.
“Ken, Ken,” whispers Terry.
“Wake up. We’re here.”
I open my eyes to see
black tree branches
reaching gnarled fingers up
to the staring moon.
“Where are we?” I ask an escort
as I climb down onto the platform.
“Liverpool,” he says.
“On the Mersey, near the coast.
Just a little farther now.”
A short bus ride later we enter
a great spiked gate.
What did that sign say?
They’re taking us . . . where?
To an orphanage?
Gaping,
we’re led off the bus.
“All right, children, line up,”
instructs a woman escort.
“My name is Miss Day,” she says,
and then introduces us to the
nine other adults who will be
escorting us on our trip.
One places a hand
on my shoulder,
“No need to chew
your nails, lad.
It will be all right.”
I’m not scared.
It’s just a bad habit.
We’re led
to two grim brick buildings
with long black windows
straight out of Dickens—
boys in one,
girls in the other.
Our escorts shepherd us into a
long school assembly hall.
“Come, lads,” says a lanky priest.
“My name is Father O’Sullivan.
We’re going to check you in.”
We all wear identity discs
on a string round our necks.
As I slip mine out of my shirt,
I can’t help feeling sorry
for the small boy blubbering
in front of me.
“John?” says Father O’Sullivan,
reading his tag. “John Snoad, what’s wrong?”
John collapses in tears
and another escort picks him up
and takes him out of line.
“Poor little chap. All tired out,”
says Father. “All right, next.
Kenneth Sparks,” he reads.
“You’re all right, aren’t you, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Grand. Now see those white mats
“What is it for, sir?” I ask.
“It’s your bed, darling boy.
Here’s a blanket.
Use your pack for a pillow.
Next boy in line.”
I look back to see dozens
of boys, tiny and tall,
yawning, scowling, weeping.
I walk over to the mats
and squat down to stuff one.
“We’re like seeds in a pod,”
the boy next to me mutters.
A rat scutters across the floor.
I’m not so sure
about leaving home. . . .
Crying in the Night
I wake to weeping.
It’s John Snoad,
on the mat beside me.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“I . . . want . . . to . . . go . . . home,” says John,
hiccupping between sobs.
“But John, we’re on an adventure!
Just think. We’ll be real sailors on a ship
with the Royal Navy!”
I pat his arm, try to tell him a bedtime story,
but John only weeps louder.
“Shhh!” say the others. “Pipe down!”
“What’s wrong with him?”
whispers Terry on my other side.
“He misses his mum,” I say.
Not me.
WEDNESDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER
Making Friends
In the morning,
Terry and I venture outside
to join the boys racing round
the orphanage schoolyard.
One bloke with wavy brown hair whips by,
trying to catch a little blond lad
who looks just like him.
The little one runs up and hides
behind me, hugging my knees.
“Hey, mate,” I say
.
“Is that your brother you’re hiding from?”
He giggles and crawls through my legs.
“Alan, come here, you worm,”
says the other boy.
“Derek, you can’t catch me!” he calls.
“But I can!” I say, scooping Alan up
and flipping him upside down.
“Help! Help!” giggles Alan.
“Thanks, ah . . . ,” says Derek.
“Ken. And this is my friend
from home, Terry.
How old is this little chap?”
“Five,” says Derek.
“I’m twelve, so Mum said
I have to be the grown-up
and look after him.”
“Maw said th’ same to me,” says a boy
with a thick Scottish brogue
and a younger brother in tow.
“I’m Billy Short,
Peter’s five too.
I kin barely keep ahold o’him.”
Derek and I exchange glances.
“How old are you, Billy?” asks Derek.
“Nine,” he says.
“Nine? Well, old man, we’ll help you out,“ I say,
thinking we’ll have to look after Billy, too.
Alan starts to tickle Peter
and they roll in the grass
like puppies.
They make me grin.
“You chaps are lucky,” I say.
“I always wanted a brother.”
“Careful what you wish for!”
says Derek. “Oi! There they go again!”
“Peter, come back!” yells Billy.
Shrapnel
“Oi, look at this, Alan,” says Derek,
grabbing his brother by the hand.
“Shrapnel!”
We stop and scoop up
the gray metal bits—
pieces of exploded bombs
and guns—
to add to our collections.
“I found some back home,” I say.
“Traded the biggest pieces
for marbles.”
No marbles here.
It’s just something we do—
pick up the pieces of this war,
wrap our hands round the danger,
try to contain it.
Derek finds the largest lump
and hands it to Alan.
“It’s for luck,” says Derek.
“For luck!” crows Alan.
The Shy Kid
A skinny, fair-haired boy
with curls
slumps against a wall, watching us.
I ask Terry, “Who’s that?”
“I think his name is Paul,” says Terry.
“He doesn’t talk much.”
I shout, “Hey Paul,
come help us!”
He looks startled,
but then he takes his hands
out of his pockets
and walks over slowly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Collecting shrapnel,” I say.
“It’s pieces of the bombs!” says Alan.
“Want some?”
“You’re playing with bombs?”
“Sure,” I say. “They’re smashing good fun.”
The other boys laugh,
but Paul just stares.