German troops engaged in a surprise attack through Belgium and the Netherlands, during their push into France. French troops were overrun. The German army lost 150,000 soldiers, but the Allies lost over 360,000 men and the British army retreated to the French coast.
I sat on a kitchen chair watching steam rise from the saucepan. The steam, in my mind, turned to gunsmoke and I imagined Union and Confederate soldiers from Atlanta shooting their rifles at close range. I had read in Gone with the Wind how men, already near death, wounded and bleeding, had walked through the smoke like ghosts, dazed by the war, dazed by sudden attacks, afraid, and in great pain. I shuddered. Would I see wounded Belgians staggering through the haze outside my windows?
The house shuddered. Bits of plaster fell from the kitchen ceiling. Planes kept flying over the city. I tried to block out the sound, covering my ears with my hands, and then I began to hum a church hymn.
The vibrations from the planes caused the windows to rattle loudly. People wailed in despair outside on the street. Bombs fell on the city. I couldn’t look. I didn’t want this to be happening. I couldn’t accept this was happening. Was the war going to kill us all? Was I going to die? Tears stung my eyes as I bit hard on my lip. I had to stay strong. I had to defend my father’s house. I had to make soup.
I was an 18-year-old girl in May 1940. I had no idea that 40 miles away the largest tank battle in the history of the world was taking place between the Nazi Panzer divisions and the brave, but lightly equipped, Belgian army and French tanks.
I thought my armour was strong against Duessa the Witch. I thought I was clever, and would be safe in my house. I was Salomé and, like many other teenage girls, in love with Clark Gable. I was the daughter of the general.
But in reality, I was frightened. My Maginot Line wasn’t working. My soup wasn’t having the required effect. I couldn’t bear to be in the house by myself. I saw the silhouettes of people rushing past the closed window shades: people fleeing their homes; little outlines of children’s heads bobbing up and down; shadows without faces. People with names and histories flattened to indistinct grey shapes on my window shade.
‘My name is Simone Lyon,’ I said to the parade of shadows. ‘My name is Simone. I am a brave Belgian woman.’ I pretended that the people behind the window shade stopped and listened to me, in awe of my courage.
I had no idea that British and French troops had tried to help Belgium troops stop the invading army and tanks from advancing towards Brussels. I didn’t know that on that day 2,500 Nazi aircraft had begun a bombing campaign against villages, airfields, and factories. I didn’t know that over 16,000 Nazi paratroopers had landed in Rotterdam and The Hague. But I did know that I had to save my arms from the Nazis. I knelt on the floor thinking about Atlanta burning during the American Civil War, and I tried not to cry. I was going to be brave like Scarlet O’Hara.
There is a section in Gone with the Wind where Margaret Mitchell says that Scarlet O’Hara’s suffering during the war was like a dream too horrible to be real. It felt as if I was in a horrible dream as I listened to the BBC. I heard the radio broadcast, and understood that Nazi troops were swarming into Belgium from the west. Then I heard another terrific explosion not far from the house.
The windows shook again, violently this time. The shadows moved past the window faster and faster. Brussels was under siege. German planes still passed over the city. Smoke bulged up in the distant sky, and then I heard a frantic knocking at the door.
I was afraid. Aunt Margaret had instructed me not to let anyone in. The knocking persisted. It was all too much: the bombs, the radio, the boiling water . . . the knocking. Even though Sergeant De Waden and my aunt had warned me to lock my door and not let anyone in, I grabbed the house key and raced to the hall hoping it was the sergeant, or my father. I turned the key and yanked open the heavy door. ‘Hava!’ I cried as she fell into my arms and wept.
‘My father sent me,’ Hava said as she leaned back and looked at me through her tears. There was dirt on her face. Her hair was matted. ‘There’s chaos everywhere. We heard the news about a possible invasion, and my father knew that you were alone. He wanted me to come to your house and see that you were safe. We didn’t know the planes were coming. I was already through the park when the planes arrived.’
I tried to soothe my friend between my own tears; tears of joy because I was suddenly not alone. The only thing I could say to her was, ‘Would you like some soup?’
We sat at the kitchen table in silence for some time, as if we were British gentlewomen taking afternoon tea. That is when I looked out of the window and saw that the next building was on fire. Orange and yellow flames seemed to be reaching out for my windowsill and I broke down, repeating again and again, ‘My arms! Don’t let them take my arms, Hava.’ I crumpled to the floor. ‘The Nazis, don’t let them take my arms!’ I began to shake. Poor Hava didn’t know what to do.