Through the Blackout

My darling Harry,

I am writing this by the light of a single candle in Mrs. Higgins’ basement. The electricity is out again — the third time this week — and the wax is dripping onto the page, but I cannot stop writing. Writing to you is the only thing that makes me feel sane.

The sirens went at nine. They always go at nine now, as punctual as the evening post used to be. The drone is starting — that low, hateful hum that grows and grows until you feel it in your teeth. I can hear the anti-aircraft guns from the park, thumping like a giant’s heartbeat. Mrs. Higgins is singing “We’ll Meet Again” in the corner, quite off-key but I haven’t the heart to tell her. The cat, bless him, has buried his head under my arm and refuses to move.

I went out between raids this afternoon. My shift as an ARP warden. Harry, the street is not the street anymore. There is a crater where the newsagent’s used to be. Mr. Bell’s house is gone — just a pile of brick dust and a standing chimney. He was sitting on a chair in his garden, drinking tea, staring at where his front door had been. He asked me if I’d seen his wife. She was at the shops when the first bomb fell. I don’t think she’s coming back.

But here is the strangest thing: the rose bush in our garden is still blooming. The one you planted when we moved in. The blast from Tuesday’s raid took out the fence and scattered glass across the lawn, but the roses are there, defiant, the most ridiculous shade of pink I have ever seen. I picked one and put it in a jar. It sits on the kitchen table as if everything were normal.

I don’t know if you’re receiving any of my letters. The Red Cross says letters are getting through to the camps, but slowly. I keep writing as if they’ll reach you. It’s the only way to feel close. I imagine you reading this in some cramped hut in Poland, surrounded by other men who are also trying to remember what home feels like. I hope you can smell the rose.

I have to go. The All Clear hasn’t sounded yet but I heard a whistle and a crump that sounded too close. The candle is low. I will seal this letter and add it to the stack.

Come back to me, Harry. Come back to your rose bush and your impossible wife and your cat who has forgotten what silence sounds like.

All my love, all of it, Evelyn

I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. But I needed to write it. If you’re reading this one day, know that I am thinking of you at this very moment, in this basement, by this candle, and I will not stop until you are home.