While Born During WWII

(Brunhilde)

While sirens wailed.

Writhing on the dry ground, the screaming and crying boy glowed. Allied planes had passed over our neighborhood and dropped phosphorus bombs. An exploded bomb sprayed the boy who dropped to the ground in pain. He crawled inside the root cellar, luftbunker, our air raid shelter. Sirens stopped. Neighbors ran, passing him on their way to safety. No one dared touch the boy, not even his wailing mother who was held from him by old women. “Nicht anfassen! Don’t touch”, they said. Touching the silver substance could be fatal. The mother stood staring at him, torn between loving and living. Terrified, her son reached out to her. She shook her head and screamed, “Mein sohn!. My son!” Phosphorus, the burning agent, spread along his body and scorched his clothes. He rolled in the dirt to smother it. “Mutti, Mutti, Mommy, Mommy”, he called as his blackened flesh began to curl.

My mother dragged me passed the boy. Scared, I stumbled after her my small hand held tightly in hers. Mothers carrying small children shielded little faces from the hideous sight. Omas, grandmothers, prayed, “Mein Got in Himmel”. We huddled in the back of the root cellar, away from him. In the dark we noticed a small splash of glowing phosphorus on my mother’s clothes. It burned a hole in her jacket, but did not reach her skin. Women ripped off her jacket and buried it in the corner of the cellar.

That night the boy died alone. I recognized him from the neighborhood and felt sorry for him. He was nine-years-old; an only child whose father was in the armee. Although I was only three; forever, I will see his glowing death.

(Peg)

While sirens wailed.

I sat cross-legged sandwiched between the white Kelvinator refrigerator with its hat box motor and the doorway to the cellar, my back against the wall under the family’s jackets on coat hooks, dressing and undressing my wooden doll. “You know, Suzi Q, we have to stay here,” I said putting on her shoes and socks.” Until we hear the sirens stop and start again. We’re safe here in our corner,” I said hugging my companion. “We aren’t afraid, are we?”

Across the dimly lit room, Mother and her mother, Grandma Craig, sat at the kitchen table; the window above covered with a dark blanket. Seated at one side of the table, Mother looked up from playing Solitaire saying, “We won’t be here much longer. It will soon be bedtime.” Grandma opposite her, stroking her tiny Chihuahua Skippy on her lap, sang “On a hill faraway stood an old rugged cross” from one of her beloved hymns. We were in a black-out in the midst of an air raid drill.

My father patrolled the neighborhood as an air raid warden. Over the age limit to serve as a soldier on the battle front, he proudly served his country on the home front.

Dad wore a white helmet. “Can I try it on?” I would ask. It wobbled on my small head. Daytimes I strutted around the house shining a flashlight on windows. “You need to cover your window,” I would say to my pretend neighbor. Dad’s flashlight lit his way up and down the dark street until the all-clear siren sounded. Windows of lighted rooms were to be covered in homes along our street; street lights were out, no lights were to be seen. I wasn’t afraid during a drill. I was at home with my mother and my father was protecting us.