Chapter 28 twenty seven queenie

Sometimes they're still smoldering, like a burnt pie coming out of the oven.The pungent stench of black smoke and the dust from the rubble radiated from them.To be dragged in, or carried in.Some were wrapped in blankets because the clothes had been blown up in smoke.With a blackened charcoal face, red and swollen eye sockets, the whites of the sunken eyes suddenly flashed, and he looked around in shock and excitement, as if he had stepped into another planet.Trembling, many people trembling non-stop. In resettlement centers, they are just population numbers.The bomb victims who survived the catastrophe that blew the world to pieces.Instead of lying in coffins made of cardboard boxes, they filled the classrooms of the old school building, sad-faced and ragged, making miners fresh out of the pit look like Christmas elves.They come in hordes, like the ones you elbow your way through at a subway station or at a department store auction.And some people just treat them as population numbers, not people.The mother, not Mavis, was too terrified to speak, clutching the two toddlers, who cried for their mother to stop the explosion so they could fall asleep.Not a ten-year-old boy, Rafe, wearing pee-wet trousers, trying to carefully arrange socks and a jumper, occupying the bed with a fierce expression.The husband, not Sid, put his bloodstained arms around each family member in turn, telling them he would go back to the bombed house and do what he could to fix it.Not the young woman named Christine, clutching the Lieutenant's back, begging him to find her fiancé who died under a collapsing wall.Just numbers.A group of people, crushed by despair, drained the colorful classroom with their lifeless appearance, and finally even the white potty in the corner shone like a diamond.I will never forgive Hitler for turning humanity into such a virtue.

My job is to find out who they were and where they lived, including those who lost their memories or still had the explosion in their ears and couldn't hear them.Some days the resettlement center is very noisy and I have to try to hear the small, fragile voices.Some days it's horribly quiet, and I wish someone would scream and even start singing that awful <Beer Barrel Polka> It became famous in the English-speaking world and became an inspiring song. 】.Sometimes, there are so many people rushing in that even I have to squeeze my way in.I would forget about people in line and just say to the first person I see: Do you need help?Well, let's start with you.

At the Camden School Placement Centre, I worked twelve and sometimes fourteen hours at a time.When I got home, Bernard would complain that there was nothing but dust on the dining table.He spent a considerable amount of time explaining that he wasn't worried about himself, but me.I'm just worried, obviously this job is too much for you, because everything On the other hand, there were two women sitting in the resettlement center, smiling at me gratefully.It was sisters Violet and Margaery, both of whom had husbands far away.One is in North Africa and the other is in the city of Northampton in central England.The two have three children together, aged twelve and eight, and one is mentally retarded.

Violet says: The house is completely ruined.They lost everything and still giggled and laughed.Someone warned me that it was a state of hysterical happiness over the safety of the whole family.When they were dug out from the steel-walled air-raid room inside the house, Margaery was tapping a teaspoon on the rose window on the ceiling, which was just within reach.Another chuckled: Look, our ration books are still in the cupboard.It's down there somewhere, but they tell us that finding this stuff isn't a priority.They say the survivors and the dead are their job. I started by saying, well, um, to get a replacement ration book, you have to go to the administrative center at City Hall to apply, or to the local food control office, just go to one of these places, and I can tell you Which bus are you going to take? The two of them are like mannequins, with glazed eyes.

Shall I write it down?I asked. What to write down? I just said that. What did you just say? The ration book thing. Our ration book went with the house, in a cupboard.We're getting new ration books. When I'm on vacation, I should be sleeping.The daily noise of postmen, delivery trucks, and children playing cricket in the street, the noisy and annoying daily noise of the pre-war period, now lulls me to sleep.But on these precious days, I crane my neck trying to figure out how long the lines can get.After six sausages and a loaf of bread, I still want to keep counting.If I cook dinner and Bernard and Arthur do it quickly, I can do the dishes, do some laundry in the hamper, and iron my overalls and one of Bernard's shirts.Afterwards, perhaps before the bombing began, an hour and a half of sleep in a perfectly bouncy bed with down pillows, clean sheets, and then back in the bomb shelter for the Armageddon battle.

It seems unnecessary to go home in order to spend hours at home and have to slog through a messed up world in the morning.The once-familiar roads became a wasteland littered with piles of debris, and the ruins of disintegrated and misplaced buildings were strewn everywhere.The cloud of rubble and dust made people cough.All of a sudden, the footsteps are light, and the center of gravity is suddenly unstable.A turn was necessary to avoid a still burning factory.The gushing water tapped my heels lightly, and the glass shattered under my feet.One morning, looking up at a road not far from home, I couldn't recognize it at all.In this newly formed place, I became a stranger.I have to ask the village chief: Do you know where Changqiao Road is?Even the chief of staff couldn't figure it out, looking around as if he had dropped his hat.He was around here before, and he could only provide this answer.I've got to start sleeping at resettlement centers because it takes hours to walk those miles to work here!Bernard didn't like that, though.He showed up at the placement center several times, standing on tiptoe at the door and scanning the classroom until he found me.

He'll say: I just want to know you're alive. I would tell him: Oh, yeah, live well. You said your clothes were all burned in the fire, and I started again, and your ration rolls. Let me tell you, miss, that all I have left is the clothes I'm wearing.That is, a pile of rags.His toddler was wrapped in a blanket and without shoes.My son was in bed at the time, I made a quick cup of tea, and when I saw the thing fall from the sky, I only had time to hug my son.Suddenly we were on fire.The neighbors were screaming, I could hear them through the walls, I got my son out, my wife was in the bomb shelter and she's in the hospital now.I don't know what happened to the neighbors.

There are clothes in the next classroom, you can go in and get them for your son and Miss, we have been there.When we arrived, your colleague pointed it out to us.However, no pants.No, he can't even wear it. My son really doesn't want to wear a dress. All right.I say, look for ways to do it in my pamphlets.To reissue the clothing ration roll, you need to obtain the CRSCI form from the administrative center, which is the CRSCI form.After it is finished, mail it to the Customs Office of the Trade Commission in Westminster, which is at No. 1 SW District. good.Is this the only way?he asks.

And I had to tell him: Yes, I'm afraid so. Well, I think we can look in the next classroom again. There are never enough beds.Everyone has to sleep on the floor. But my house is gone, I can definitely get some compensation now, let me find another house, right? Ma'am, you can try writing to the Rescue Committee or mailing to the War Disasters Committee for CI forms, but they usually don't pay until after the war is over. usually!what are you talking aboutHow many wars did we fight before this happened?And miss, please don't get me wrong, but God forbid, if we lose, what will they do with my claim?

Sometimes the food runs out and all we can offer everyone is a damn cup of tea. Do you have no other relatives who can take you in?I couldn't stop the lady in front of me from crying.Besides, what reason did she have for not crying?Her husband and parents were killed at the entrance of the bomb shelter, and she was at least eight months pregnant.Her only answer was a slight shake of the head. How about this, if you like, I can give you a gut? Once upon a time, after my father gave something that my mother didn't think should be given to a miner, my mother would say to my father: What you gave is the way to hell.Dad would shrug his shoulders and say: It was paved with good intentions.The rest of London's roads are of this kind.And I was at the desk trying to look through the manual to find the procedures for dealing with losses or disasters, stepping on every rotten stone leading to hell and back.My job these days is just to keep trembling and frightened people running around London once, twice, thrice, to answer more questions, to write more forms, to give them a chance to get back something that wasn't at all because of them. Something that was taken away abruptly by mistake.

Mrs. Pom insisted that I call her Dora.She was in an airstrike near Hammersmith, with her husband, three young children and a very dirty cat.I look at my house and that's it, gone.After talking with the station staff, she bounced towards me like a little girl.Queenie, they found us such an amazing place, I can hardly believe it.Guess where?Guess you will never guess.On Connaught Street.can you imagineMy husband has always wanted to live in an exclusive area like Connaught Street.It was like his dream.And now we can live in an apartment there.We are such ordinary people.He would be so happy to hear it.So, they told me to come to you and see if I could get some furniture. what happened to your furnitureI ask her. Oh, it's all burned up, not even a log is left. Did you make a statement at that time? I don't think so, my husband is in charge of that sort of thing and he just got out of the hospital the other day. So you haven't submitted the PC54 form yet? I don't think so.But I can do it now if needed. Mrs. Palm, when did your furniture break down? Please call me Dora. You make me feel so old.Well, let me think about it, it should be two months now.Because Jack was in the hospital for six or seven weeks.My son and I stayed at my sister's house, and we were bombed there as well.Been here for a week or so.Yes, almost two months. The oh brochure tells me that the PC54 form must be sent to the regional assessor within thirty days of the disaster or loss. Queenie, any questions?she asked.The message made my head heavy and I couldn't look up into her eyes.Is it for Jack to deal with it? Dora, about the furniture, I hesitate to speak, you should file a statement within thirty days of the loss. Her face has the clarity of a silent film star's expressive range of how, what, and when.After understanding, she raised her deeply locked eyebrows for a moment, then sank back into confusion and anxiety, and said quietly: But Bernard was furious, and the veins in his temples, which used to irritate me when I ate, now protruded and beat like independent hearts.Queenie, for the last time, these are not our furniture and should not be given away.This is my father's.I came home with a van and two gentlemen who carefully kept their heads down as they passed a table and another chair. I am not giving away, I am lending. These are still not our furniture, even if borrowed. The furniture upstairs is useless at all, it's just covered with newspapers in those rooms.It's just a few beds, a table and four chairs.We won't think about it until they come back. Where are you going?Who are you giving it to? Mrs. Pum Dora and her family. Who are they? They are placement center people. Absolutely not, Queenie!We don't know those people, how are you sure you'll get the furniture back? I know I will, I promise I will. Are these people like us? What's the meaning? Queenie, for God's sake, be sensible.You can't help everyone.Isn't it enough that you work in that place all day?Look at you, you are tired.You look awful. Thank you, Bernard. I'm just thinking about you. They're just waiting for me to borrow the furniture before I can apply for it for them.Otherwise, they'd just have one apartment they'd applied for, with nothing in it.empty. That's not our problem. Oh, no, sorry, you're wrong about that.Bernard, it's a war right now. I know this very well. Oh, is it so?Well, let me tell you something, let me justify the fact that there are thousands of people affected by the war far worse than you.As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back.I startled him like I literally spat in his face.He swallowed hard to absorb what I had to say, and nodded at me again.Just one click, then turned and walked into the dark room. Dora couldn't stop thanking me.I don't know what we can do, you've been a real help, Queenie, for real.When she came out, on her beloved Conant Street, she didn't seem to want to stop waving goodbye, and as I walked away I could still hear her shouting: How are we going to pay you back in this life?Don't lose contact, come and play anytime. Goodbye then.I said, noticing a lady chasing me all the way.She was well-groomed, her dainty high-heeled shoes rattling the sidewalk like a thoroughbred. She called: Hey, hey, are you in charge?I paused for a moment until she said: I want to know whose order it was to let those people live in that house.I walked quickly again, she chased me and said: I want to know the name of your boss.I want to file a complaint.I don't like those people living here.This is Gaochang's neighborhood, that kind of people don't belong here.Let me tell you, if they stay, there's going to be big trouble, because I'm not happy about it, I'm not happy about it.