Air Raid Patrol warden,” Denise says. “What a twit, swaggering around, checking our blackouts. Living under constant watch made us feel no better than common criminals.”
The entire time I lived in Britain, everything I ate, did, and said was watched and judged. Everyone, not only the wardens, kept tabs on everyone else. One of our neighbors was turned in for feeding birds in her garden. For wasting bread, she was fined a whole ten pounds. I didn’t want my aunt’s family to get into trouble because of me, so I followed the rules. Even the ones I found stupid or unnecessary.
The blackout was awful and inconvenient, but whenever I complained my aunt reminded me of the poor farmer in a town south of London who stepped outside to watch German bombers during a late-evening air-raid. He foolishly lit a cigarette, and all it took was that tiny red glow to pinpoint him. Needless to say, that cigarette was his last. I hated the blackout, but I would have hated being bombed even more.
“When the war is over, I hope to never again hear the words
make do and mend
.” Denise wiggles her fingers. “These hands will never darn another sock or sew another mismatched button. I won’t even wash my clothes. Once they’re dirty, I’ll toss them in the rubbish and buy something new.”
“My aunt would have a fit if she heard you say that.”
“Oh, is she one of
those
women, like my mum? Rationing and mending everything in sight is like a game to them. A game they’re too competitive to risk losing.”
“Yes, that sounds just like my aunt!” I remember the matching jackets she sewed us from old curtains. I suddenly feel very guilty about being too embarrassed to wear mine. “She shined our shoes with half a potato and sewed patches on the knees of my cousins’ new pants before they even had a chance to wear them.”
“My mum combed our dog and cat for wool.” Denise laughs. “I think I had fleas for a while.”
All of us agents are under orders not to discuss our personal lives with each other. But it feels so nice to be having such a regular conversation.
I cram my cheese into the bread to hide the moldy bits, saying, “My aunt would make a delicious sauce out of this cheese. She was so good at taking what she had and turning it into something else.”
I squeeze the bread into a tight wad and chomp on it, lost in thought, until my jaw aches. Even though my aunt is a wonderful cook, I never saw her eat much of anything. Whenever the air raid sounded during dinner, she rushed us out the door to the corrugated-iron-walled Anderson shelter in the garden with our plates but without serving herself.
“So what do you suppose we’ll do after this?” Denise says. “When we get back home to regular life. What does one do, exactly, after they’ve been a spy?”
“I never thought about it, really.”
My future, beyond my time in France, is a blank slate. What I had wished to someday return to no longer exists.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Denise asks.
“You’ll think it’s silly.”
She draws an imaginary cross over her heart. “I promise I won’t.”
“I wanted to make movies.”
“No fooling? That’s fabulous!”
I grin. “How ’bout you?”
“A mum.” Denise settles onto the grass and lays an arm over her eyes. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
I take out my notebook. While Denise rests, I turn out a quick sketch of the ducklings fast asleep with their beaks tucked beneath their wings.
“Well, time to stop piddling about.” Denise gets to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles from her pant legs. “We have a farm to get to before dark.”
Before I have time to flip my notebook closed, she peeks at my drawing.
“You drew that? Just now?”
“It’s nothing. Only a doodle,” I say, tucking the notepad and pencil into my pocket. “I like to draw animals.”
“My goodness, you’re talented.”
I turn away, squirming beneath her praise. “Thank you.”
Back
The entire time I lived in Britain, everything I ate, did, and said was watched and judged. Everyone, not only the wardens, kept tabs on everyone else. One of our neighbors was turned in for feeding birds in her garden. For wasting bread, she was fined a whole ten pounds. I didn’t want my aunt’s family to get into trouble because of me, so I followed the rules. Even the ones I found stupid or unnecessary.
The blackout was awful and inconvenient, but whenever I complained my aunt reminded me of the poor farmer in a town south of London who stepped outside to watch German bombers during a late-evening air-raid. He foolishly lit a cigarette, and all it took was that tiny red glow to pinpoint him. Needless to say, that cigarette was his last. I hated the blackout, but I would have hated being bombed even more.
“When the war is over, I hope to never again hear the words
make do and mend
.” Denise wiggles her fingers. “These hands will never darn another sock or sew another mismatched button. I won’t even wash my clothes. Once they’re dirty, I’ll toss them in the rubbish and buy something new.”
“My aunt would have a fit if she heard you say that.”
“Oh, is she one of
those
women, like my mum? Rationing and mending everything in sight is like a game to them. A game they’re too competitive to risk losing.”
“Yes, that sounds just like my aunt!” I remember the matching jackets she sewed us from old curtains. I suddenly feel very guilty about being too embarrassed to wear mine. “She shined our shoes with half a potato and sewed patches on the knees of my cousins’ new pants before they even had a chance to wear them.”
“My mum combed our dog and cat for wool.” Denise laughs. “I think I had fleas for a while.”
All of us agents are under orders not to discuss our personal lives with each other. But it feels so nice to be having such a regular conversation.
I cram my cheese into the bread to hide the moldy bits, saying, “My aunt would make a delicious sauce out of this cheese. She was so good at taking what she had and turning it into something else.”
I squeeze the bread into a tight wad and chomp on it, lost in thought, until my jaw aches. Even though my aunt is a wonderful cook, I never saw her eat much of anything. Whenever the air raid sounded during dinner, she rushed us out the door to the corrugated-iron-walled Anderson shelter in the garden with our plates but without serving herself.
“So what do you suppose we’ll do after this?” Denise says. “When we get back home to regular life. What does one do, exactly, after they’ve been a spy?”
“I never thought about it, really.”
My future, beyond my time in France, is a blank slate. What I had wished to someday return to no longer exists.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Denise asks.
“You’ll think it’s silly.”
She draws an imaginary cross over her heart. “I promise I won’t.”
“I wanted to make movies.”
“No fooling? That’s fabulous!”
I grin. “How ’bout you?”
“A mum.” Denise settles onto the grass and lays an arm over her eyes. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
I take out my notebook. While Denise rests, I turn out a quick sketch of the ducklings fast asleep with their beaks tucked beneath their wings.
“Well, time to stop piddling about.” Denise gets to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles from her pant legs. “We have a farm to get to before dark.”
Before I have time to flip my notebook closed, she peeks at my drawing.
“You drew that? Just now?”
“It’s nothing. Only a doodle,” I say, tucking the notepad and pencil into my pocket. “I like to draw animals.”
“My goodness, you’re talented.”
I turn away, squirming beneath her praise. “Thank you.”
Back
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