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The ride was dark and bumpy. I heard the coughing of the exhaust pipe and the churning of the tires as it dragged the truck over the devastatingly barren land. I’m sure it smelled terrible. Piles and piles of us shifting round and round and bumping up and down as we traversed. To where, I’m not sure yet. I was never quite sure what they do with people like us but I was holding on and determined to find out. We were driven for what felt like hours, from one town to the next as more people boarded our already loaded truck. I was unsure how much more they could fit. The cracks of light coming through the truck had lessened more and more throughout our journey.

I remember as a young man I’ve always wondered when my day would come. I wondered if it would come as quick and as sharp as a dagger, or as slow and cool as that of a frozen breath blown down my neck. Unfortunately it didn’t come for me—not yet anyway; instead, it came for my wife Elenor Gray. I met my sweet Elena in the large and vast green pastures of her fathers backyard. My father was a metal works factory superintendent in town so I sometimes went with him into the city while he worked, as he wanted me to see what he does with hopes that one day I would follow in his footsteps. However, I would often steal away looking for adventure anywhere it could be found. On one particularly gloomy Sunday morning I found myself in front of a large red bricked and ivy-clad house. This house stood high yet modest, with a certain charm that illustrated true English brilliance. The front had large pillars that spiraled from head to toe with a garden surrounding the yard which resembled that of Eden.

I walked around to the back of the house following a fairly large black fence and that's when I saw her. She was basking in the sun while reading a book. I couldn’t see her face as she was turned around so I continued to follow the fence to have a better look. I rounded the corner and just as I was about to see she closed her book, got up, and entered a glass sliding door at the back into the house. The inside was dark and I stayed to see if I could get a look of anything or anyone inside. Like the flickering light at the bottom of a candle my curiosity was running thin. Figured it was smart to head back before my whereabouts were noticed by my father. Just then as I turned to leave there was a light tapping on my shoulder. It was her.

“Christ, you scared me half to death” I said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m sorry ma’am I was just in the area and–”

“Ma’am? Just how old do you think I am?’

“Uh…miss, I was just in the area and your… house caught my eye. It’s a beautiful one,” I said.

“The house yeah?” she said as she looked me up and down. She looked as if she were figuring out the different shapes to have me carved up and thrown into the cut.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be on my way now…” I turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said as she grabbed me by my arm. I turned around and our eyes met, it felt like I was looking at her again for the first time. She was tall for a woman, almost as tall as I. She was still in her black swimsuit and wore an interesting necklace round her neck, a silver insect in front of a bronze heart shaped base. Her ocean blue eyes peering up into mine, her slick jet black hair that just barely touched her shoulders, it felt like I was dreaming.

“You’re lucky, I’m quite bored. Care for a swim?” she said.

I went back again. Day after day, sometimes begging my father to go with him to the city on days he said I needn’t come. Soon I found an apprenticeship as a printer's devil, just to find reason as to go into town to see her. She would frequently be waiting for me in her yard and would let me in through the back. We’d have long talks and playful arguments, talks of dreams and where they would take us. This friendship turned to something greater and soon we got married in ‘27. Compromising my job at the printing shop, we soon found us a nice place further out in the country, favoring the peaceful scenic view that enveloped our home. Elenor taught at a nearby school for girls while I managed to find work as a handyman in the surrounding area, the skills of which I had credited to my late father; a master in both management and in trade. I had become content with my position, my life. My father would often scold me about my lack of ambition and the lack of personal drive that was so apparent in himself. Like the changing of the seasons, our time together went by fast, she was stolen from me in ‘33 and it was then I knew I’d die alone.

We had made it to the next town, Salford. Our escorts had added a wagon attached to the end of the truck which allowed more people to board. It was Saturday and the day was as black as the night. Like a thick grey blanket, ash billowed up and covered the sky. The truck dragged through the mud as it made its way down the freshly devastated Chapel street. I could feel the wheels struggling with every turn under the weight of fear and exhaustion. Aerial bombardment had trickled down from the sky reconstructing the streets and homes into piles of rubble and ash. The smell of blood and death seeped through the air as we left a trail of the only hope any poor soul could cling to in that moment—a way out. It was on this street that I saw horrors. Horrors born not of dreamery and nightmare, but horrors manifested from instruments born from the darkest corners of the human mind.

I witnessed an old woman stumbling around barefoot through the debris in a confusing stupor while holding a rusty frying pan. Red stains scattered around the area, thick and uneven, like paintbrush strokes on a dirty canvas. I witnessed a child sitting down crying next to the torn remains of his mother. An old man in a tattered dirty black coat preaching about how he knew this day would come. I witnessed a dog sniffing around the local shop, searching for food in front of the now storefront cemetery. Men and women tearing through the rubble brick by brick trying to find any meaningful fragments to take with them, while carrying the knowledge that their home was forever gone. I watched as a little girl, so seemingly unaware of the devastating situation, skipped down the shattered sidewalk, as if heeding her mothers plea to not be home so late. We made multiple stops as more and more people boarded our truck. We were silent and broken as the ramshackled truck got heavier, yet still, we continued on.

I was getting older. Our country was now on the brink of war and that morbid feeling did little to ease the pain I’ve now carried for years. War wrought an endless cycle of death and led me thinking about shameful ideas of the futility of life and the cosmic insignificance of the human condition. When we declared war on the Germans it cast a shadow over all of Great Britain. This shadow amplified the one already in my mind and so my loss of Elenor continued to sow sorrow and despair through my heart and soon infected our homey worldview. The walls darkened and the furniture looked as if it had aged 100 years. I became restless and began to detest the place I once found veritable joy. The idea of coming to a home filled with memories was daunting and the thought emptied my stomach into a pit of dullness.

I had sold our place and settled in a flat on deansgate street. It was on top of an old grocery store that’s been there for generations. On my arrival the bustling street amazed me. The sounds of chattering busy footsteps and scents of black coal smoke, reminded me of the time I would come as a boy with my father to the city. Outwardly my decision to move radiated a longing for the new experiences that would come, but inwardly my heart felt swollen and empty. I felt purposeless and the passion for life I once had was gone, now leaving me with nothing but a numbing indifference to the world. Mr. Pickens was the name of the man who owned the shop. He was a bloke of about 50 but looked far beyond his years. He came out to greet me and helped me take my baggage upstairs. His face bore a maze of wrinkles while his deep eyes looked as if they harbored wisdom far beyond my own. We went through a side door next to the grocery store that led directly to an old rickety brown staircase. Pickens was a man of large stature, he looked as if he had worked as a log man in his early days, his large and husky arms lifting my luggage effortlessly as if they were made of feathers. We reached the top of the staircase that led to a small and cramped hallway containing 3 different doors to 3 different rooms. One to the right of us immediately at the top of the stairs, then one in the middle of the small hallway and finally one at the end of the hallway, where my flat was located.

It was weird at first, being there. There was a slight tingling feeling of discomfort I got from being alone in a new place. I heard the swarming of people and vibrant sounds of society outside my gray window, and found myself yearning for community and belonging. I had taken a job at the printing shop I once worked at as a journeyman, as I found my trade as a handyman too challenging in comparison to the different competitors working in the inner city. I discovered a newfound love of the work I once did, and reveled in the nostalgic feeling that I had as a younger boy. In contrast to the skills I was fairly decent at as a printer, I had discovered the extent of my inexperience and quite frankly, distaste for cooking. Elenor was an amazing cook and I found myself excited to taste whatever she had made after a long day at work. I, on the other hand, was new to it but treated it as another obstacle I needed to overcome in order to truly feel at peace with myself and my new life.

I remember on one occasion conveniently going downstairs to the grocery store owned by Mr. Pickens and picking up things in order to cook dinner. I walked into the shop and was immediately hit with the strong smells of fresh produce. There was a distinct smell of tea, dried herbs, and a variety of fruits and bread. The lights were dimly lit and the ancient floorboards slightly creaked as I walked around the spacious shop, surveying the surrounding area. Mr. Pickens was behind a long and shabby wooden counter and behind him sat an assortment of rationed items such as sweets, cigarettes, razors, soap and all the like. Behind him also hung rations of bacon, sausages, and cheese. There were only a few people shopping at the time and business seemed to be slow. I saw a man arguing with Pickens over the price of a block of cheese that sat upon a scale covered with flour as an old wire slicer sat next to it. He wasn’t at the point of yelling, but was loud enough to bother me and the other shoppers inside. At one point I walked past them and watched as Pickens just sat there, enduring the man's bickering with a look of stoic nonchalance. Pickens and I locked eyes and he nodded at me. My sullen and somber eyes darted away and I moved on gathering basic things I needed such as butter, eggs, potatoes, milk, and a selection of canned goods. I had planned to recreate a soup I had once watched Elenor make but couldn’t remember all the ingredients. At a certain point I gave up trying to recollect them all and so I made my way towards Pickens to purchase what I had.

I approached the counter and laid things on it. Mr. Pickens greeted me and I did the same, then he began to put each of my items in a brown paper bag.

“How are ya settlin’ in lad?”

“Just fine,” I muttered. I was in no mood for conversation.

“What are you lookin’ to cook today?” he asked

“I don’t know, soup perhaps”

“What kind of soup?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well with these there are many types of soups you can make. You’re missing a few things but if you wanna grab them I could tell ya about one that I…”

“Look mate, I get it but I don’t need your help,” I stated.

“Hm suit yerself.” There was a pause as he put the last of my things in the bag. He continued…

“So who did you lose? Mother? Brother? Perhaps a lover?”

There was a striking silence that to me, echoed throughout the whole shop. He looked at me with eyes of pity or concern, I couldn’t tell which. I just stared at him in shock, not knowing what to do or say.

“What?” I muttered.

“Oh come on lad I’ve seen the look before. I noticed it the second I saw you when you moved in. I wasn’t really planning on saying anything but I can understand how such a thing can take a toll on a man's life. How it can make one feel sort of…I don’t know, empty perhaps.”

I looked at him with eyes of slight contempt. In front of me was a man who seemingly had no troubles in his life. He owned a nice shop that looked as if it was doing pretty well, while being the landlord of the flat right next door. “How on earth can you understand what it’s like? You have no idea how I feel,” I said. I didn’t intend for my words to come out as aggressive as they did, but he was right. It was as if the desolation inside made me angry at everything and was preventing me from truly living. I had no friends to call my own. I had found no joy in life other than the few hours I worked, hell work was more of a distraction away from my mundane life. I was beginning to calm myself down and I felt a bit regretful of my words as he said,

“Lost my wife too lad, my baby girl with ‘er. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He looked at me solemnly, it was almost as if he was looking through me but you can tell his mind was filled with longing and nostalgia. I was disheartened at my rudeness towards someone simply trying to help me and so I apologized and went on.

“Sorry I…, It was my wife. Her name was Elenor. It’s been 6 years and I still think about her every day. I don't know why it feels like I can’t move on, it’s like my life is fairly normal now but the thought of her still lingers in my mind. Her face, her hair, the smell of her…a familiar smell that would hit my nose from time to time with no distinct origin from which I can trace it, it’s like she’s haunting me. Part of me wants her ghost to go away and to take all the thoughts of despair and misery with her but the other part of me wants it to stay. The other part of me wants it to never leave because the love I felt for her will be like no other. I still see her lying in that hospital bed and I felt helpless, there was nothing I could do and when the doctors told me the cancer had spread they knew they were helpless too. It seems like this feeling will never go away. I sometimes think I should’ve died with her.”

I didn’t realize how much I was maundering on. Pickens looked at me, his eyes full of sympathetic understanding. “I’m sorry. Your wife, when did she?”

“Ah, back in ‘22,” he said. “Not really a fun story. It was a long time ago but you have to realize life goes on.”

“Well how did you get over it?” I foolishly asked.

“You don’t. I didn’t. I, too, still think about her almost every day. That's sort of the trick isn’t it? How do you move on from something that was supposed to be forever, an eternity? How is one supposed to get out of bed everyday and look forward to anything when something so dear was ripped away from him? And understably, living feels harder than dying but you must remember one thing: What would she want? What would she want you to do? Maybe you don’t need to move on, but you also shouldn’t be stuck in the same place forever. Hell you moved out here and even that's a big step, a good one. You’re not totally lost yet, son.”

Pickens’ words resonated with me in such a way. The feelings and emotions brought on came as fresh as the energy I felt surging from the city when I first moved back. My heart was pumping quickly and I broke into a sweat. I could feel the goosebumps come on as my eyes remained wide open. The world felt clearer and more calm as Pickens went on.

Again I went back. Time after time. Some days I needed groceries, other days just a few things, and on occasion I needed nothing but conversation with my unexpected, yet new friend. We spoke about our lives as young men, most of which Pickens spent in the military as I soon found out, and shared stories about our dearly beloved. We spoke a lot about the beauty of the city and he taught me about all its hidden wonders. We also found time in leisure and went fishing, which I found myself to not be very good at. I had soon learned about the death of his wife and child and make no mistake, it was not a pleasant story as he had warned me.

On one particular golden sunny day I had just finished one of my many talks with Pickens that I had right after a long day at work. I had planned to go home and relax for a bit. Going up the creaky brown staircase and I had made a left and walked down the small hallway towards my place. Just then, the door to my right, closest to my flat, swung open and a woman quickly stepped out and bumped into me. “Sorry,” she said as we locked eyes, I was frozen. It was hard to tell whether or not it was sheer universal coincidence or if god was playing some sick joke, but it was so that the woman who stood before me was an almost spitting image of Elenor. It was certainly strange, to rephrase I don’t exactly mean she physically looked like Elenor, but it was the initial look she gave me, that initial look from her crystal blue eyes took me back years.

“Jesus. Sorry I wasn’t looking,” she said.

“It’s fine.” I continued to look at her, inspecting her features, trying to make sense of what was so familiar about it. She wore a necklace of sterling silver in the shape of an avant garde cross made of spirals.

“Ah you’re the one who just moved in next door, correct? It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Linda. Linda May. I’d love to chat but I’m in a hurry so maybe next time!”  I wasn’t able to get a word out before she went past me and hurried down the stairs. I went into my flat and quickly walked over to the sitting room where the windows overlooked the main street. She came out of the building and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and continued down the street. I was surprised to later find out that she lived alone. The war effort created new opportunities for women which allowed them to get more jobs, which in turn gave them the freedom of independence and autonomy. Stepping away from the window, I caught the thought of her spinning around in my head like a wheel. I was no fool, I realized what my heart was feeling. I knew the way this could go with the impulse I had to talk and get to know her more but at the back of my head a single thought crossed my mind. I had forbidden myself to pursue the thought further, forcing myself to remain uninterested.

We had made it to Liverpool after what felt like hours, maybe days. My sense of time had disappeared at that point and I was exhausted from the trip, I had no idea how much longer I could hold on. We arrived on the scene on Durning Road. What I saw rendered me completely hopeless, leaving me with a discernible feeling of numbness and shock. Rowes of terraced houses were smashed to rubble, caved in as if god himself took a hammer to them. Many homes were flattened; they looked as if the very idea of destruction itself were pressed onto them. As we moved through I felt the tires groan as they rolled over the street bestrewn with broken bricks and glass, scrappy metal and burnt timber. There was a particular building I noticed, it was a larger house on the far corner of the street. The front and right side of the house was alright but the rest was completely decimated and burning, weirdly though it was still standing but not for long. “Make way! Make way!” I heard a man call as confused survivors scattered from the area. One could see the house slightly swaying and feel the ground starting to lightly shake. Finally the chimney on top of the right side collapsed and with it, the rest of the house. Thick black smoke bellowed up into the sky and hung in the air, an unnecessary reminder of the future that awaits us.

Another disheartening detail on Durning Road were the bodies. Mountains of bodies piled up like sandbags before a flood. The scene was similar to Salford. I saw families pulling out their own from the ruins, even children weren’t spared. Many were injured, missing limbs. I saw a man crawling through the street, his legs look like they’ve been ripped apart by a shredder. I watched as the fire brigade struggled to put out the flames of surrounding homes and helped those who were found alive out of the rubble. One woman was grey head to toe, covered with dust from the debris. Medical teams also strained to bring relief to people caught in the demolition and civilians helped them with the effort any way they could. The dead, the injured, and even the muddled survivors were scattered everywhere, like ghosts lost in limbo. We had stopped on the street for a while as the team driving us stopped to relax; by the time we were ready to leave, it was nightfall. During the wait they had brought another truck to move people out of the town, the same destination as my own. On they boarded, men, women, and children of the like, faces frozen in shock, skin as pale as bone. We continued on.

On one night in November, a night of broken glass, a brutal wave of violence and vandalism spread throughout Germany targeted towards the Jews: enemies of the German people. Businesses were smashed and ransacked, synagogues burnt to ash, and thousands of jews were snatched and carted away to camps. A month later at a far off and distant Berlin laboratory, two radiochemists conjured up a theoretical explanation to the phenomenon of nuclear fission, and began experiments of neutron bombardment. In April 1939, the New York World’s Fair took the United States by storm. More than 45 million people attended this “world of tomorrow,” over the course of two seasons. It was a world full of art, entertainment, food, and activities presented by more than 65 foreign nations and 35 U.S states. The September campaign of the Nazi’s had commenced. The Germans, the Slovaks, and the Reds, pounced on Poland like a pack of wild dogs feasting on their prey. Soon, France had fallen too. Yesterday, our very own Birmingham was bombed, marking the second darkest day for our mother country after the devastating attack on London during that dark Saturday.

Months before, the new decade brought hope and vitality to Britain despite the ferocious threat of violence. Deansgate street was especially lively, as people rushed to the markets as a consequence of the rationing of food and other goods. There was an influx of people coming from areas with smaller markets because those shops couldn’t keep up with the large demand for necessary commodities. When word spread that items such as meat, sugar, or tea came in, through my window I would watch as large crowds would form outside of Mr Pickens’ shop. He was seeing more business than ever. Business at the printing shop picked up as well due to demand for posters, pamphlets, manuals. I had kept up my talks with Pickens, seeing him as often as I could. We had become good friends and engaged in pastimes such as going to the local pub. He felt like a mentor to me but I wasn’t the only one. Linda May turned out to be the niece of Mr. Pickens. She had left home early, unmarried, the second she got a job opportunity with thanks to the war effort. He had put her up in her flat free of charge for a while until she got on her feet. I discovered this when I came back from work one day in the few weeks after I moved in and saw them talking through the windows of the shop. Before walking out the door she embraced him and it got me wondering about their relationship. I would see them talking often and despite my curiosity, I thought it inappropriate to bring up his personal business. As we got to know each other I mustered up the courage to finally ask and he told me. Soon the talks involved all three of us and despite my tryings in resisting the idea of becoming close with Linda, I soon gave in. She was a person full of wonder and adventure. Over these past months the progress I had made with my grief was astronomical. I had come to terms with Elenors death and the need for hope and something fresh with my new life. Early on, Linda would often make an effort to talk to me and at first I resisted until that one memorable day.

While my relationship with Pickens was improving my cooking skills did not. I had come back to my flat from one of our many talks along with fresh new groceries, which had gotten really expensive but Pickens was nice enough to give me a discount. I had planned to make a meal containing lamb kidneys, Worcestershire sauce, and many other ingredients I vaguely remember my mother using, but was now adding my own take on it. I thought I had done everything right, cut the kidneys, removed the core, fried it with butter and a splash of stock, but I guess I had left it on for too long or added something I didn't need. I was in my bedroom when I smelled smoke. It was at first a very pungent vinegary smell and quickly grew to be rancid. When I rushed out of my room I saw black rancid smoke filling the air. The pan was still producing smoke even after it was turned off and so I tossed the blackened and burnt food into the garbage and dashed to the sink to cool it off. The smoke got in my throat and eyes and produced a coughing fit that wouldn’t subside due to the immense amount of fumes already in the air. I opened the windows then ran into the hallway where I waited to let the smog abate. After I felt it was safe, I went back inside, cleaned up the kitchen, and settled on eating cheese and biscuits with tinned sardines. As I was eating my upsetting meal, I heard a tap on the door. When I opened it there was Linda standing in the door frame. I barely had time to greet her before she walked in without saying a word. She stood there and looked around examining the interior of my home, with a focus on the morsel of food sitting on my coffee table. As I stood there, speechless, she finally turned around and said, “Smelled the horror from my flat. Allow me to help you fix up something.”

That was months before the day. It was now December and the war was in full effect. Linda and I knew we needed a way out. We had consulted Mr. Pickens, who had already contacted an old friend and naval officer who had diplomatic ties—in the event that he needed to get Linda out. This old friend was able to fit me in, and get us both priority spots on the SS Drottningholm which was bound for New York. We pleaded for Pickens to come with us, but he refused, not willing to leave behind the shop, the only thing his father left him before he passed. Linda wanted us to stay until we convinced him to join us but I held out. I’ve known him for a while and if she knew anything about her uncle he was a man who once he made up his mind, there was no changing it. I remember it clearly, she was in my flat and I was in the middle of packing up my things, just the essentials needed to establish ourselves in the new city. Linda was hysterical, worried about Pickens and scared to leave the life she knew so intimately behind. It was the early evening and we talked for about an hour and a half, trying to calm her down. The truth was, it was to calm both of us down as I was also scared. I now had to make another life changing decision fueled by the threat or consequence of disaster, bringing back memories and feelings I had since forgotten. When the grim reality of Pickens’ decision set with Linda, I was able to lift her hopes up with promises. Promises that we’ll be able to build a new life while remembering and honoring the one to be left behind; Promises of happiness and tranquility found in a new place; Promises of both stability and adventure, the latter of which she was most drawn to; and the final promise of someone to always be by her side through the harsh times and rich. Someone who would love her completely and despite the trying times, would always try to do what's best for the both of them. I looked at her from across the room, she was sitting on the sofa while I leaned on the worktable by the window. She came over to me with a look of hopeful optimism in her eyes and kissed me. Her hands met mine as we looked into each other's eyes, I looked down and saw her silver necklace gleaming in the dusk—and that's when it hit.

I felt…nothing. The worst was maybe the shockwave of the plane flying overhead and the quick and brutal shaking of the building, but it was too fast for my brain to even register. I was just… gone. Everything was gone. The blitz took us all: Linda and I, Mr Pickens who was coming up the stairs with a list of final arrangements, our neighbor Mrs. Barlow, who I didn’t really see much, and finally everyone shopping downstairs and standing outside in the surrounding area. We were all lost. So there we were. Our close proximity to the windows caused our bodies to be flung out into the middle of the street. Soon, medical relief teams had arrived, and in the chaos and heat of the moment, and with the anticipated threat of more bombs, the corpsemen were under orders to transport the dead to the designated mass grave at Anfield Cemetery in Liverpool, along with those they found along the way through various cities. Thereupon we moved, going from one place to the next picking up new passengers on the way. It was daybreak and we had left Durning road, finally making our way into Anfield. The truck backed up over a large grave in the ground and two men began tossing some in one by one at first, then later started dragging and pushing us out in clumps. We piled into the grave like a mound of salt and I was ready to let go as I finally knew where fate would have me end up. I was content with not only the certainty that I tried in this wretched life, but also with the fact that my fears of eternal loneliness were gone with that one final gaze at my disposition. Up above in the clouds I could see the bomber jet planes, like butterflies in the sky. Most of Linda was still next to me, her necklace constricted around her neck… our fingers still somehow interlocked.