THE ROUND GLASS goggles stared up from the cardboard box like something alien. Emma lifted the gas mask, the bulky respirator ungainly where it dangled from the flimsy face. The sharp odor of rubber and disinfectant assaulted her senses.
“Well, this is exciting.” She bobbed the mask in the air, dancing it toward Olivia. “These look very...official.”
“Mine doesn’t look official.” Olivia withdrew her gas mask from the cardboard box, a slightly smaller version of Emma’s.
The start of school had been postponed as the buildings were being used as coordinating centers for various purposes such as distributing housing supplies and enlisting soldiers. Olivia was delighted with the delay, but the country’s preparations hung over Emma like a heavy cloud.
And then there was that letter.
Emma set aside her concerns and waggled her mask, making the wide glass eyes clack together. “This isn’t official-looking to you?”
Olivia giggled and her nose scrunched up the way Arthur’s used to. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Emma pressed, wriggling the mask emphatically. Olivia squealed with laughter and shook her head.
Those giggles were all Emma wanted to hear, sounds of joy to blot out the horrors she’d read about in Poland. The Evening Post had been full of terrible stories.
Small villages were bombed to oblivion, major cities had their schools and hospitals targeted. Too many atrocities to wipe from her mind.
Word was, Britain would be at war if Hitler didn’t pull out of Poland. But a madman like Hitler who was set on killing civilians likely wouldn’t care about threats from across the Channel.
She glanced toward the window, the light outside muted by a beige mesh pasted over the glass to prevent splintering in the event of a bomb. The sun rose high as late morning slipped into afternoon. There was still time before the sky darkened to night and brought the interminable hours filled with nightmares of bombs and war.
“Shall we try these on?” The smile on Emma’s mouth was forced. But Olivia’s wasn’t, and that was all that mattered.
Olivia brought the mask to her face, paused, and wrinkled her nose. “It smells.”
“On the count of three.” Emma held up her mask. “Take a deep breath.”
They both inhaled, chests puffed out in exaggeration. Together they caught the head straps with their thumbs and thrust their chins into the masks, per the directions.
Cold rubber clung unpleasantly to Emma’s face and suctioned against her skin as she inhaled. The stink of the thing was enough to make her eyes water. Through the round goggles, she could clearly see Olivia in her gas mask.
Olivia exhaled and the mask fluttered around her cheeks, mimicking the sound of flatulence. Emma did likewise, producing an even louder effect as the rubber vibrated against her skin. They both erupted into a fit of laughter. Their gasping inhales made the rubber suck harder on their faces and their explosive exhales sent the masks reverberating. The goggles fogged.
They could stand those awful masks only for a moment before both ripped them off their heads, eyes damp with mirth and the aftereffects of the noxious chemical smell. The cool air on Emma’s face was immediate and wonderful.
Olivia dropped her mask into the box, her smile fading. “That was funny, but I don’t like it.”
Emma didn’t like it either. “Good thing we only need them for emergencies.”
“Emergencies, like what?” Her daughter gazed up at her, a note of wariness evident in the fathomless blue.
A child’s innocence was such a fragile, ephemeral thing. Unable to be pieced back together once shattered. Emma knew that well enough from her own experience after her father’s death.
This was the part of motherhood she’d been least prepared for. How was a parent to be honest with their child while still safeguarding that precious innocence?
When school did resume, Olivia’s schoolmates would not be so gentle in sharing the news of the war, especially those whose parents or older siblings had been brutally honest with details of Poland’s devastation.
But then, not all children were as sensitive as Olivia.
“There is a possibility England might go to war if Germany doesn’t leave Poland,” Emma said carefully. “If that happens, Germany may try to attack us with gas.”
“Gas?” Olivia scrunched her face in disgust.
Emma nodded. “Gas makes the air hard to breathe. That’s why we all have masks. To keep us safe.”
Olivia slid a glance at the little cardboard box containing her mask as though assessing if it was indeed within arm’s reach.
“And why we need to have them with us at all times.” Emma smiled, trying to look at ease with the situation when she was decidedly not.
There had been many publications on the preparation for war, including what to expect. She had read them all, reasoning that the more she knew, the better she could protect her daughter.
But filling her mind with such things also meant that every night she lay in bed with Olivia sleeping peacefully at her side, she was haunted by what could be. Thinking of what a gas attack could do to the body, the carnage wrought by dropped bombs, the terror of the enemy swooping down on their quiet little street in the event of an attack.
Such possibilities were too horrific and had her pulling her daughter closer into her arms. As if love could be enough to shield Olivia from war’s harm.
No, Emma was not at ease with any of this, but she could be strong for her daughter.
A shout sounded in the corridor just outside the front door of their flat. She knew the time to be nearly eleven before she even looked at the clock.
The time Chamberlain would declare war on Germany. The time when life would change for them all.
Chills raced over Emma’s skin.
She had to hear for herself, to have the solidity of those words cement the truth. Her body moved of its own accord, carrying her toward the door to their flat and out into the hall. Mrs. Pickering’s voice filled the stairwell once more, this time calling for Mr. Sanderson as Emma rushed down the stairs, drawn toward the burbling drone of Mrs. Pickering’s radio.
The older woman waved her into the apartment. Olivia was at Emma’s heels, caught up in the moment of excitement.
Should she be there?
Emma hesitated, locked once more in the perpetual maternal battle of trying to decide what the correct course of action regarding her child. The gentle touch of Mrs. Pickering’s hand on her forearm interrupted the back-and-forth vacillation.
“Better she hear the truth herself than through the nattering of her classmates.” The older woman nodded sagely and tilted her head in silent invitation to Olivia, who remained anxiously waiting at the threshold. “But mind you keep quiet, love. We need to hear this.”
Mr. Sanderson entered the flat, his expression cross. “I have my own wireless.”
“This isn’t the kind of thing one should hear on their own,” Mrs. Pickering replied. “Now hush and come into the kitchen.”
They all shifted to fit around Mr. Pickering’s desk as the wireless crackled and emitted Chamberlain’s distinctive voice. Germany had declined the order to withdraw from Poland.
England was officially at war with Germany.
The air in the warm room was suddenly too heavy to breathe.
“Here we go again,” Mr. Sanderson muttered.
Emma sank into one of the cushioned chairs and Olivia nudged against her, a silent request all mothers knew well. Though Olivia was far too large to be held, Emma scooted back slightly, allowing room for her daughter to climb into her lap.
The comfortable warmth of her daughter nestled against Emma, the familiar clean scent of Olivia’s soft wavy hair was almost more than Emma could bear. She wanted to wrap her arms around her daughter and never let her go.
Not when Emma faced such a terrible decision.
Mrs. Pickering put her hands on her hips. “We pulled through for the Great War, and we’ll do likewise for this one.”
She was of a generation who had endured rations and terror and loss. Despite Mrs. Pickering’s determined speech, her gaze was haunted.
A chill rattled its way down Emma’s spine.
She had been born just days before the war broke out. Though she too had lived through the Great War, she had little memory of her life then. Perhaps that was for the best.
She held Olivia closer. The girl was quiet amid the reception of such unwelcome news, processing what had been said in that silent way of hers. Perhaps Emma ought to offer words of comfort, a more detailed explanation, something to assuage any burgeoning fear.
Except that she couldn’t speak, not when she was reeling, not when she knew the time had come for her to make the worst decision a mother had to face.
“I’m sure all will be well.” Mrs. Pickering’s shaky smile was no more convincing than the uncertainty of her tone. From the floor below, Tubby gave a low whimper and edged closer to rest his muzzle on his mistress’s feet. Mr. Sanderson grumbled something under his breath, as though the declaration of war was a personal affront, and left the room, closing the front door firmly behind him.
Emma rose from the chair, pulling Olivia along with her, cherishing her daughter’s weight in the brace of her arms, the reassurance of Olivia’s head resting in the crook of her neck.
“I think we should go,” Emma said softly.
Mrs. Pickering’s expression pulled down into one of sorrow. “The letter?”
Emma drew in a pained breath and nodded.
The letter she received in July indicated Olivia was eligible for relocation to the country, stating Nottingham was too dangerous. She’d run into the immensely perceptive Mrs. Pickering not long after having read the upsetting letter, after knowing what choice she would have to make.
That Nottingham would be considered a potential target for Germany seemed ridiculous when they were more than a two-hour train ride from London, where Hitler would likely set his sights. But then there were the factories, the ones like Raleigh, whose bicycle creation turned to munitions, and the Royal Ordinance Factory churning out explosives and massive gun barrels.
Yes, their quiet little city practically smack in the center of England would indeed be a target.
Emma nodded now.
“I have a Sunday joint in the larder,” Mrs. Pickering said. “It’s far too much for me to eat on my own if you’d like to join me.” She gave a mirthless chuckle. “Might be the last of our meat for a while.”
Emma adjusted Olivia’s weight in her arms. “We would like that very much, thank you.”
Mrs. Pickering smiled sadly and led them toward the door.
Before dinner could be served, the Evening Post distributed a rare Sunday newspaper with only four pages, proclaiming that Britain was at war with Germany and noting that all public entertainments had been canceled to prevent large gatherings. Not only were schools closed until further notice, but there was a note about evacuations.
Emma gripped the paper so hard, the pages crumpled against her palm. Evacuations would proceed Tuesday with details to come in the morning.
As promised, instructions were in the paper the following day, along with an ominous message: “Parents must make up their minds today whether or not they wish their children to be evacuated.”
Emma had thought of the possibility of sending Olivia away, but some quandaries were so awful that no matter how many times one turned them over in one’s mind, there was never a satisfactory resolution.
Olivia could be sent away to an undisclosed location to live with people Emma didn’t know for an unknown length of time. Or she could keep her daughter close in Nottingham, and knowingly place her in direct danger.
The time had come to finally decide.