Chapter 27 twenty six queenie

That goddamn grandfather clock chimes every fifteen minutes.I once almost begged Arthur not to keep winding the clockwork.Bernard said the grandfather clock belonged to his father, and even though he was in France, he never stopped winding the grandfather clock.I think the two of them are used to the bell, so they don't hear it, so whenever the bell rings towards me, I almost miss Chamberlain's speech. The policy failed when Hitler ordered the German army to invade Poland on a large scale.Chamberlain made a radio speech on the hour, announcing to the people of the country that Britain had officially declared war on Germany. ] I was knitting and Bernard kept looking at me as the needles tapped.I could see the knitting needles annoyed him.He pulls his chair closer to the radio and watches my needles slyly.I thought to myself: You have to speak up.You have to talk.Queenie, can you please stop knitting?I couldn't quite hear what the radio was saying, but I knew he wouldn't speak.He'll click his tongue, maybe, but that's all.This bale of wool has been woven three times.This morning the British ambassador to Berlin issued an ultimatum to the German government. Every time I finish weaving, I will tear it down and reweave another pattern.Withdraw the troops in Poland, otherwise the two countries will be in a state of war. He did ask once: Have you been knitting that dress for a long time?Makes me smile.Now I must tell you that we have received no such commitments and therefore our country has entered into war with Germany.That's it, just ding dong, ding dong, clang, clang, clang, well done, we're in a time of war.

The air raid siren sounded immediately, no exaggeration!For several seconds, the three of us looked at each other.We've heard sirens before, and never reacted to them.But that was before the war, a few minutes ago.It's wartime, so there's a good chance we're going to die. Bernard's first move was not towards me, but towards Arthur's gas mask, took it from the cabinet and threw it at his father.I waited for him to throw me my gas mask, but he went on to get his own.I have to get it myself.Bernard yells: Gas masks!Gas mask!Any noise made Arthur tremble, so even though we practiced it a lot, Bernard's yelling and sirens made Arthur tremble so badly that he couldn't even open the box with his clumsy hands, let alone put on the mask up.I wonder if he will start coughing, choking, and foaming at the mouth from the gas while I put on the mask?

Bernard yelled even though his masked voice seemed to come from a cavern.For the first time ever I had to say to him: Please, shut up!This is really a bit of a backlash, after all, this may be the last sentence I said to him.But he was busy unlocking the back door and didn't hear it.The mask on my face made it impossible for me to breathe, and I couldn't get in air, let alone poisonous gas.Arthur's gas mask was on the back of his head, the elastic band pressing down on his nose, and he was shaking so badly that other people might think he was making us laugh. Then I heard someone yelling in German: Quick, take cover!I thought to myself, how long has it been since the war started?In less than five minutes, a German came down the stairs of my house.Shaking all over, I yelled for Bernard.He heard it too.In addition to fast, take cover, there are a few other words.I bet he looked shocked to say that was weird because he was wearing a gas mask and I could tell.Our tenant ran in, a refugee from the suburbs of Berlin, but I remembered earlier: it was Mr. Plant!I let out a long breath, and the steam made the whole mask foggy.Mr. Plant's arms were flapping up and down as if someone were manipulating him with a guy wire from the ceiling.

What about gas masks?Bernard asked him.He looked at us in turn, slapped his forehead with his hand, and murmured words that no one would understand except Hitler, if he was there.Dude, you will be gassed to death!Bernard yelled at him, and the gentleman got up and walked out of the room, up the sixty-five steps to get his death mask. I grab him.No, go to the bomb shelter, there is no time now. Bernard yells at me: he'll need it then. Mr. Plant is not young.I said: When he gets it, it will be next Tuesday, so there is no time. With the door open, I looked up at the blue sky, the harsh sunlight casting shadows from neighbors' trees across the yard, and the thrush on the fence was singing until it saw the four of us crawling across the yard and stopped.I thought the sky would be dark with Nazi paratroopers sliding down, but there was only one bird watching us from under the cover of a tree.

Courtesy of the old and weak, women and children is a virtue: Bernard helped Arthur up the steps of the bomb shelter, reminding him to hurry up, while I was still urging Mr. Plant, who kept mumbling German.Then I stepped up the ladder of the dugout.This is the first time I've looked into a bomb shelter.My God, Arthur didn't dig an air-raid shelter for us every day from sunrise to sunset.He dug a burrow!I swear that hole is bottomless.Mr. Plant passed me, and I climbed out of the hole again, and Bernard forced a puzzled expression under the mask. I said to him: I don't want to go down and we will be buried alive.

He said excitedly, "Stop it, Queenie." There are no doors, and the air-raid shelter should not be so deep.I know that Arthur spent a long time digging this air-raid shelter, and he entered the door every night with mud and excitement, like a little boy returning from a sandpit.Bernard helps out on weekends.I asked him: how is it going?He replied: not bad.I didn't know they were so close to digging into Australia.I don't want to be buried alive, Bernard, I'd rather die on it if you don't mind. I thought it was good when I heard my husband tell you that you were happy, but it might just be a mask.He had just begun to climb into the hole when the siren went off.His upper body is still sticking out of the ground, reminding me of a caterpillar.I took off my gas mask and giggled.

I went back into the house, and without speaking to anyone, went straight into the bedroom, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock.That air-raid siren was the most exciting thing ever to happen in this room.A sound full of life, I think so.I took two steps and jumped onto the bed.Without a doubt, I look forward to this war. As soon as the fighting started, Mr. Plant left. Bernard said: It's better for everyone. I asked: what do you mean? Bernard complained all about the government, though he was always at the bank and never at home.The sinister government official with the notebook looked slyly over my shoulder, wondering who had visited Mr. Plant.where did they goWhat did you say?

I said to him: he is sitting in the room.Sometimes he would go downstairs and sit with Arthur on the steps looking out over the courtyard.He'd tell Arthur in English, with a more hesitating lord.Joyce. ] better, saying that he and his wife used to grow things in their garden outside of Berlin.So when this official came to visit the refugees in my family, all I had to do was tell him: It’s okay, no one has been here. But Bernard said: It's not worth getting into trouble for these Jews. They came early in the morning to arrest people.Where are you taking him?I asked.detained to protect him.He wasn't the only person taken on the street, there was a woman and a family down the street with young children.Drive them to the back of the truck even though it's just to drive them to the Olympia area.Mr. Prandtl had brought only the suitcase he had brought with him when he first arrived, when Bernard, unable to think of an excuse, had to let him the room.Before leaving, Mr. Plant tipped his hat to me.Seeing the truck, he paused for a second, then shrugged.

He is a German, so be on your guard.Bernard said, then went upstairs and spread the newspapers in the room. You devils!You devils!That's what I yelled the first time I heard a bomb go off.You devils!Those scary noises hardly seemed real, and I didn't have any image in my mind that matched the rumbling noise.It wasn't wardrobes rolling down stairs, full trucks spilling cans all over the floor, coal miners dropping hundreds of sacks on the pavement outside.The neighbors in the neighborhood did not slam the door at the same time.Somewhere, however, people are becoming familiar with the uproar, and now someone has vivid images to match the uproar.

The bombers arrived like thunder clouds.can you see itMaybe invisible.Threats to people follow like pain.With an almost majestic gesture, those dark clouds aimed ruthlessly at the target.Anti-aircraft guns shout: Here!it's here!Tried to divert their attention, but to no avail.We couldn't convince Arthur to go into the bomb shelter when the bombs actually came.No amount of coaxing or pushing could get him back into the trenches again during the bombing.He ran and hid under the bed in the room, as if a bayonet had stabbed him in the back. So it was just me and Bernard in the dugout.The air-raid shelter is now a standard specification of four feet deep, with a small bed for each person.A chair, on which Bernard often sits, and a small table with a lamp next to it.Everywhere I turned, I seemed to hit his knees, small lumps protruding like hammerheads even with pants on.He read the newspaper, sniffed, made strange faces, and stroked his itchy hair.He would clear his throat, coughing so loudly that I thought he had to spit it out, but he would blow his nose and stuff each wrinkled handkerchief into each nostril to clear it.At first, the smell of wet soil in the dugout, pungent as manure, made me feel like a daffodil waiting for spring.But after a few hours it was Bernard's breath mingling with the smoky smell of potatoes from dinner, followed by the fishy smell from his lifeless mouth.Then I said: what is that?Did you hear it?God, bad!Somebody got shot tonight hope Arthur didn't hear you see how he is?Was that bomb close, or closer?But there was no response.The dugout was both fucking loud and damn quiet.

As soon as Bernard chatted with his neighbor, Mr. Todd, he became almost in high spirits.They are happier with their own kind.He said.The two men folded their arms, looked serious, and shook their heads on the verge of touching each other.It does no one any good to put them here.I thought it was Hitler standing outside the door or maybe the whole Third Reich had moved into our street.There was a commotion, some people rolled up the curtains to look, some people stood in front of their own doors, the windows were opened, and they kept making tsk-tsk reproaches.But this is not an invasion, but a sadder sight than that.is a family.A mother in a brown coat with one sleeve undone, her baby wrapped in a shawl made of old sheets.The mother's face was not deadpan, but it was as indecipherable as a corpse.Following behind are four children.Four filthy waifs, darker than miners.Tangled hair flying everywhere.They looked left and right, one minute they raised their heads to look at the surrounding houses and opened their mouths wide in fascination, the next minute they felt the adults who were tsk-tsk looking at them, so they lowered their heads to look at their feet.One of the children (it could be a boy or a girl, you can't tell) is pushing a stroller.One of the wheels was deformed, and the stroller wobbled violently; another child reached up to hold on to the battered boxes above.There are also two imps holding hands, the girl is carrying a gas mask case, and the other boy is holding a small doll.The boy was wearing trousers that were too big, a pair of shorts that reached over the ankles and were fastened at the waist with a cord.The two little ones were trying to keep up with the line of prams, and the pram was trying to keep up with the mother, who was trying to keep up with a rather stylish woman in a wool suit with a fake rose pinned to her neckline, standing firm and straight. go forward. It wasn't the first time, Mr. Todd told all the neighbors.This was the third group he had seen, and he hoped there would be no more.These were bombed-out residents of Rotherhill Harbor, and a high-ranking official in a government department decided they should be relocated to vacant rooms in our street.Mrs. Newman, who lived at No. 30, took the family in. As long as someone listens, she says: I don't want to.I am forced.And, let me tell you, there are many people on this street who have bigger vacancies than mine. Does every displaced person have to come here?Mr. Todd asked, I mean, we already have a bunch of Poles living here waiting to rebuild the country.Now it's the East End guys again.help! We've had less air raids here, not like the east.Some buffoon in the butcher's said it was because if Hitler invaded, he'd want a nice place to live too.Bernard's reaction to these words was: Treason! The little boy with trousers that were too big tripped over the hem and fell to the pavement like an open sack.He didn't cry.My sister helped him up and led him forward.I don't know if he knew his doll was gone.He looked back for a second, and then had to scramble to keep up with the line again.The doll is lying on the road, run over by a car, and hidden in the mud.I picked it up, a damp and dirty puppy or pony, made out of old socks, with eyes sewn out with black woolen thread. Bernard asked me: What the hell are you doing with that?I've washed the doll and clipped its long legs to the clothesline outside.Those feet looked like they had been cut from old gloves.The little doll has recovered quite well, becoming soft and fluffy with the slightest breeze.One of the feet is out of line and needs to be repaired.I also added a bow around the doll's neck to make it look less pathetic. I dare say Mrs. Newman's attic where the family is housed is no bigger than our family bomb shelter.She looked as if she had stored the family in cupboards, leaving no room for them to live.The mother had to push the little boy forward before he took the doll from me.He couldn't recognize it.I said to him: This is yours, the doll you dropped. He took it in the air and twirled it, and then said like opening a dazzling gift: "It's Nadi!" He showed the doll to his mother, who said: Albert, thank you to this lady. But he didn't say much, even if his sister hit him on the head, it didn't help.His mother said: Hey, you, stop, if you want to hit, I will hit myself. Before I left, Mrs. Newman complained to me that the family was smelly and dirty, and there was no way she could let them in the bathroom.Can you expect them not to stink if you don't let them take a bath?And she said: Mrs. Bligh, I know you have a lot of rooms in your house, if you think you can do better, then you can take them in instead. He has stubble on his chin, I mean Bernard, almost growing into a beard.Too little time at home to shave, bloodshot eyes, unpolished and unkempt hair, skin as pale as a potato root.Maybe I don't look much better either, I've been wearing the same clothes for days and my hair is just a quick run of my fingers.We spent every night in the goddamn bomb shelter and it felt like there was no end to it.sleep?Isn't that what we used to do on peaceful nights? When the bomb is close, there will be a whistling sound.The bomb's melody is a screeching glide that only sounds right when it ends with a bang.Then everything you thought was firmly anchored to the ground instantly vacated, and then was lowered again, and if you were lucky for a second, it would be put back in the same place.The breath is drawn out from the lungs, the eyes are protruding, the stomach is churning upwards or squeezing outwards, the heart is beating at an unfamiliar speed, and it seems to be wound up.I think of the rush of the souks, the way we meandered to pay big bucks to bleach my face and whiten my joints.At that time, before the war, I thought it was funny to be petrified. I knew the bomb was going to fall nearby by the whistling, as clear as the sound of a kettle on a stove.Bernard turned the pages of the newspaper, lifted his chin to read the words at the top of the newspaper, and parted his lips involuntarily due to the effort.I can't say I heard the explosion, it's just that for a moment I was weightless and my arms were flailing in the air.He was still reading the newspaper when I hit the ground.When everything that was originally peaceful around him suddenly clanged, he still concentrated on the news.Fragments of shells and something unknown fell like hail on the air-raid shelter.Only his upper lip remained firm.And I swallowed back the vomit that overflowed to my mouth. His newspaper rustled and I looked around for the source of the wind.The newspaper flapped as if to fan the flames, and I realized Bernard was shaking.His fists were as tight as a baby's, gripping the newspaper so crumpled it was impossible to read. Bernard, are you okay?I expected him to grunt at most in response. He whispered: Queenie, it's our house.Then he choked, tried to take another breath and choked.father father father in the house is our house no queenie queenie father in the house A drowning man breathes more easily than he.I went over to take his newspaper away, but he held onto it so tightly that I had to tear it out of his hands.His fists still held some scattered newspaper fragments.Bernard, calm down. He gasped, hiccupping his chest.we will die here father is our house Bernard, listen, calm down.That's not our house.Not that close.Listen, I'll take a look. I was kneeling, and just turned around to open the curtain of the entrance, he roared a strong, bloody, full-strength no, rushed towards me, hurriedly hugged my waist and pulled me back, holding me tightly in his arms Here, squeeze the last breath out of me. No no no you no, absolutely not He put his head on my neck and wrapped his knees around me until I was completely captured by him.He held my angle so I could see our house.Dark mountain shadows against the sky.perfect.I looked around every corner, and everything that should be there exists as it is.Arthur was under the bed, probably dirty and scared, but he was fine. I said: I can see our house.He gasped, exhaling warm breaths against my neck.Arthur is all right, the house is still there, Bernard, the house.You see for yourself.But he wouldn't look up, just hugged me like a toddler for protection.And there I was, protecting my husband from those incendiary bombs dropped from the crappy German military planes, the naughty shrapnel shells, the horrific, horrific bombs.The funny thing is, I felt so calm in his embrace and whispered softly, "Okay, Bernard, okay, okay." By the time I felt his hand loosen gradually, it was much quieter outside.He moved away from me as if he had just moved towards me and sat with his back against the wall, knees up.Without looking at me, he wiped his nose, picked up the newspaper on the ground, folded it and put it on the table.He righted the fallen chair.Cough, clear your throat, smooth your hair and sit down.I watched him the whole time.The pungent burning smell and bursts of smoke made the air-raid shelter hazy.There were shouts, running, and the crunch of broken glass along the road.And somewhere the water was bubbling.Bernard looked at me, and I nodded hello, you're back, but he averted my gaze before long.He looked at his hand, the ten fingers that were slowly intertwined, licked his lips twice before muttering: Queenie, I want you to know that I really love you. The house at number thirty looked like a scary skull.The bomb went through the roof of the house, fell to the floor and detonated inside.There was no glass left, and the front door was gone.An empty shell was left behind, and a hollow head stood in the center of the large balcony.The remaining walls of the attic collapsed into jagged shapes to crown the head.Green wallpaper in one room and brown paint in another opened up to the sky like a gaudy Santa hat.What was once inside is now outside, the sidewalks littered with the wreckage of the attacked house, mountain after mountain of rubble blocking the way and crunching underfoot.You will be as safe as the house.Aunt Dorothy was always fond of saying that she considered anything solid to be reliable, even Bernard.I'm glad she doesn't have to live to be forced to face the fact that solid things can crumble. Everyone came out to watch, resenting the devastation, but thankful that it was not their own house that suffered.It's a good thing they're in the bomb shelter, it's a good thing no one's home, it's a good thing no one's buried alive in it.The owner, Mrs. Newman, was uncharacteristically speechless.Terrified, said the chief, as if someone had sucked her soul out.Only No. 30 was attacked, and no other places were attacked.Where the hell did that house get into this war?Turn it into a pile of rubbish, would Hitler sleep better?Like the other houses on either side, we lost a few windows, and a few chimney fragments from No. 30 pierced our roof.But that's all. The missile had their names written on it.Mr. Todd came to a conclusion. The lieutenant in the tin hat shouted: Don't get too close to avoid danger. This place will collapse at any time, so we are all blocked on the periphery.Dark-faced firefighters stare cautiously inside with weary eyes, pushing away walls, looking up, down, and around. The Port Rotherhill woman came home and saw her little garret falling apart, and blurted out: Oh, damn it!Mr. Todd said: There is no need to talk like that! I told him: It makes sense, she just lost the house. Mrs. Bligh, that's not her house. Oh, so what do you think is better? It might be my turn tomorrow, but I promise you, I won't talk like that. The woman ignored it, sat down on the fence and said: Does anyone have a cigarette?After a quiet, scornful look, someone offered her one.There are only two little ones beside her, and the other two are still in the subway station.And the two little ghosts scuttled like mice, disappeared among the rubble, and entered the house.The head of the village chased after him and shouted: Get out of there, it's dangerous!In less than a minute, the little boy who was still wearing too long trousers was dragged out of the room by the head chief pulling his ears.His feet almost left the ground.The head of the village said to him: Come again, I saw it, it is not yours. The mother stood up: Hey, put him down. He took something and I saw him pick it up and put it in his mouth. let him go. Unless I see him put something in his mouth.You shouldn't be around here. I told the chief: they live here. The head of the village asked: here?They live here?Are you sure?And the mother was still yelling at him: let him go, or I will do it.I've had enough, okay?Just let him go.The little boy puffed out his cheeks and spat something onto the ground.It's a brooch. The chief said triumphantly: "Look, little thief." Mother yelled: He is not a thief!She picked up the brooch. Hello!Put it down, that thing belongs in this room. this is mine. Give it to me, I'll keep it until it's cleared up here. The woman yelled: It's mine, it belongs to me.It was just a small brooch, like the ones found in lucky bags.The woman began to plead pitifully, and the two children each hugged her leg.That'smine.I swear, for real, it's mine. I said to the chief: give her the things. He said: "I'll have to wait until I'm sure whose property it is. I whispered to him: What does it matter?It's just a cheap brooch. He began in a voice that everyone could hear: My job is to make sure She just lost everything, and it wasn't her first time.Can't you just trust her for now? It's my responsibility to make sure the robbery doesn't happen here So I said to him: Oh, get out of here! Bernard doesn't say unless I die, because we've become a little superstitious this year.He changed his words and said: Don't think about Queenie under any circumstances, are you crazy? I said: They are people too, and they have nowhere to go. They are not like us. But they need help. They can't live here, somewhere will take them. It will be no trouble. Wish the kids were quieter now, but no.They ran around the living room, jumping on and off the furniture, playing planes and bombs, making matching noises.Their mother, with her feet on a chair, sips tea and smokes a Bernard. It's just a few days. I have made it clear. Oh please, Bernard.Don't you have any sympathy? He whispered: Queenie, they're dirty.He has a point.Their heads are overgrown with parasites.If I make little boy Albert spin in circles, the lice on his head should fly with him. We have such a large space, so many people have no place to live, how can we ignore it? The government will take care of it, you can't help everyone.There is a war going on now. I know what I mean. I took the poor family whose property had been bombed to the resettlement center, and Bernard and I picked up the baby and two other young children from the subway station.Back home later, I went in and broke the news to Bernard: Regardless of what he said, whatever he thought, I got myself a job.That's it!