Bombing Campaigns: July 7, 1917

Rutka POV

The first bombing as a shock. But that was two years ago, back in the spring of 1915, now it seemed, the bombings had slowed, and we started to believe that perhaps, the German zeppelins had found better targets. How wrong we were.

Rutka barreled into the kitchen, her dark eyes wide and frantic.

"Mama! Where's Chaim?! Where is he Mama?!" Golda looked up from her pot of cholent a moment before they heard the first gunfire. A look of horror passed over Golda's face, a look only a mother could have which represented a fear only a parent could know.

"Got in himmel, Rutka he isn't with you?" Rutka was half in tears, and her mother had gone completely white, but she pulled herself inward and hardened herself. She had other children to protect.

"Rutka, help me get the children into the cellar." Rutka felt her mother's hand on her back, pushing her out of the kitchen. The younger children had been playing in the courtyard, but eight year old Tzipporah had gathered her siblings and brought them inside, the small, white faced group stood at the door. In the front room, the only room which had enough light to read by on shabbos, Dovid and her father kissed their prayer books and walked towards the door as well.

"Come children, let's wait it out downstairs." Her father was calm, collected, but firm, just as he had been in Russia. Before... When the men came... As they climbed down the stairs, Rutka carrying little Gabi on her hip, she saw her father's lips moving slowly in prayer. Rutka remembered the way her father's lips had moved in a sad, silent kaddish after what had happened in Kishinev. She remembered the broken shops and destroyed houses, she remembered how her father had brought her close to his side, covering her eyes as they walked home past the rows of bloodied and battered corpses in the town square, the men's body's swathed in blood stained prayer shawls. She remembered the tears in his eyes and the hitch in his breath as they had passed the body of a small girl, perhaps twelve years of age. She remembered walking through the door to her house, and seeing her mother's flowers trampled and her prized front windows smashed. And she remembered the words painted on their door in pig's blood, two words: "Christ Killers."

When they reached the cellar, joining the rest of the families in their building, most observant Russian Jews like themselves, Rutka's mother took her aside.

"Alright Rutka, what happened? I thought you and Chaim were going over to Aaron and Fayge's flat to help with the new baby." Rutka swallowed, her voice shaking slightly as she spoke.

"We were, but when I got there Chaim said he was too tired to climb the stairs, he said he'd wait for me by the docks, but when I went to look for him he wasn't there... then I heard the planes and..." She was crying now and her mother took her in her arms.

"I couldn't find him! I couldn't protect him, just like back home! I was supposed to protect him, it's all my fault!" Golda rubbed her daughter's back soothingly.

"You started this war, Rutkale? You made your brother stubborn and willful? You are not G-d, child. You cannot choose what men do." Rutka smiled sadly at her mother, hugging her tight.

"We need him safe mama," Rutka's voice was pleading, Golda nodded.

"I know, and I pray he will be," She looked straight into her daughter's eyes.

"There have been many times I have put my children in G-d's hands. And he has always kept you safe my child. Always." As she spoke the last word, she looked at the ceiling as though commanding G-d to grant her children safety just one more time.

Chaim POV

Damn this stupid war. Damn tradition. Damn my stupid legs, Chaim thought. He had managed to give his elder sister the slip and was now walking towards Chiswell Street to meet with one of the men from the socialist youth group Chaim had secretly joined who worked in one of the offices on Chiswell Street, just outside where most of the East End Jews lived. He stopped for a moment and leaned heavily on his crutches as he pocketed his yarmulke and tucked his tziztis into his trousers as he reached the outskirts of the Jewish section of the East End. He couldn't fight back if anyone decided to make an example of him. Chaim had learned at a young age that it was better not to look like a Jew. It wasn't that he hated being Jewish, not exactly. He loved how close his family was, he loved speaking Yiddish, he loved the passion of the new youth movements. He just had trouble believing in G-d. How could a G-d who loved the Jewish people allow the Tsar to oppress and kill them? How could a loving G-d make him so... broken. He sighed, slowly continuing forward on his crutches. He hadn't been completely lying when he told Rutka that his legs were aching. They were, particularly his bad leg, he often spent Saturdays in bed to let my muscles recover from a week of walking, but now the muscles were aching from his continuous attempts to make the paralyzed limb work for him. But at least according to his doctor, it never would, the disease had ripped its way through his nerves and muscles, making even these short walks a painful ordeal. He finally made his way to the office where his friend Abe Cohen worked as a clerk. He pushed open the door and began hauling himself up the stairs when he heard the first rumble of the airplanes. It seemed directly overhead and it caused such noise and shaking that Chaim had to clutch the rickety stair rail or else risk falling. It took only moments for the first explosion to hit. As the first bomb struck, the front windows blew out and with the second the door was blown off its hinges, splinters of wood flying around the landing. Chaim dropped to his knees, clutching the stairs and waiting for the next explosion. When it came, there was no doubt that it was less than a block away. There was a shuffling of chairs and loud voices from upstairs and men started pouring down the stairs threatening to trample Chaim.

"Abe!" Chaim called out trying to grab hold of his crutches, he could only grab one before the other was kicked down the stairs and into the foyer.

"Chaim! What are you doing here?" Abe grabbed Chaim's arm and threw it over his shoulder to help him down the stairs.

"I was looking for you... the essay you gave me I thought we could talk." The two young men made their way out into the street, joined by their mutual friend Quinn who worked at a nearby dry goods store, and had just begun to make their way to shelter in the nearest tube station when the final bomb fell.

It was a direct hit. The building in front of the boys exploded.

All three were blown backwards. Chaim's ears rang with the whistling sound of the bombs as he found himself on his back, with a pain in his head and the wind knocked out off him. The sky was full of thick smoke and yellow dust, fumes, and flames. People were running, and the street was in complete confusion. The injured and dying were screaming and several badly injured horses joined in their death songs.

Chaim slowly sat up, his chest ached, his head was spinning, and his ears were ringing, he looked around slowly, taking in the carnage. Abe lay next to him, clutching his arm and screaming. Chaim's stomach lurched when he saw the bits of wood and glass embedded there. When he turned to Quinn, his stomach felt as though it had dropped from his body. Quinn's green eyes were wide open, his mouth was slack and a trickle of blood flowed from his mouth and more blood was flowing onto the ground from an unseen source. There was an ugly wound on his forehead where something had hit him. Perhaps the heavy wooden plank which lay across his body. Chaim shifted as much as he could, pushing the plank from his friend's body. The boy's chest was a bloody mess, caved in on itself, not moving.

Toyt. Chaim thought almost numbly. Dead. He is fifteen years old and he's dead. Chaim's hand caressed his friend's chest, waiting for a heartbeat he knew would not come. When he took his hand away, it was covered in dark blood. Blackness threatened the edges of his vision, and he knew no more.

When he awakened again, a burly man was shaking his shoulder.

"Are you alright lad? That's a nasty cut you've got there." The man gestured to Chaim's forehead. Chaim reached up dazedly, his hand came away bloody.

"I'm fine" He murmured, looking around "Abe? Quinn?" he muttered questioningly.

"The boys found with you? One of them got taken to hospital, the other... I'm sorry lad, the redhead didn't make it." Chaim nodded slowly.

"Do you think you can stand? You should get that cut looked at." Chaim looked around again, still dizzy, his ears still ringing loudly.

"My crutches... I need my crutches..." The man looked confused, not having noticed the brace hidden under Chaim's trousers.

"Crutches?" The man looked confused. Chaim lifted his trouser leg as though in explanation, exposing the metal brace. The man looked concerned and somewhat awkward, then the now familiar look of pity settled in his eyes.

"Can you walk at all without them? There could be unexploded bombs, they are clearing the whole street." Chaim shook his pounding head, he could hardly walk with the crutches let alone without them. The man grunted, bending and scooping Chaim up as though he weighed nothing. Chaim let his pounding head fall back against the man's shoulder as blackness once again crept towards the corners of his vision.

Chaim woke in St. Cuthbert's hospital, the same hospital where he had been taken when he contracted infantile paralysis. His parents were sitting by his bedside, looks of concern on their faces. Chaim leaned back on his pillows, G-d, he thought, if this headache doesn't kill me they will. His mother reached out and stroked his hand.

"Chaim, meyn tsigele, what happened?" Chaim sighed, pushing himself into a half seated position, he hated lying to his mother.

"I was just walking, and I thought I'd stop by to visit Abe, I haven't gotten to see him much since he finished school." There, that at least was mostly the truth. Then his father spoke, his gruff Volinyer Yiddish always ever so slightly harsher than his mother's soft Galitzianer lilt.

"Abe told me about your friend, I am sorry." Something broke inside Chaim and suddenly he was weeping. His mother took him in her arms, murmuring softly into his dark curls. When he finally cried himself out he breathed in deeply and looked hard at his father.

"Tayte I want to see him buried, I know it will be in a church but I have to. I saw him..." Chaim shivered, thinking of the blood, of his mangled chest. His father nodded slowly, Chaim looked up at him quizzically, he had expected a speech about the dangers of becoming too involved with Christians.

"There is something I should tell you Chaim, your friend's father is still here, he wanted to make sure you and Abe were..." Chaim cut him off,

"I have to see him Tayte! I have to tell him..." Tears pricked the corners of his eyes again as his father squeezed his hand softly.

"I'll bring him here, just a moment."

Quinn's father was a huge, burly, Irish docker, but when he came over to Chaim's bed, Chaim could see he had been crying. Chaim remembered that Quinn's mother had died only three years before, and that Mr. McEwan had been raising Quinn and his three younger brothers alone ever since. Chaim felt in that instant both very grown up, and very, very small.

"Mr. McEwan. I was, I was there. I saw everything. I wanted to tell you, I thought you would want to know. He was gone in an instant. He didn't feel any pain, he looked, surprised sir, surprised, but... It was so fast, he couldn't have been in any pain, I'm sure." Chaim wasn't sure, it had been an instant but, an instant where your lungs were being crushed? Even an instant of that was unimaginable. The enormous man nodded, patting Chaim on the shoulder.

"Thank you son. Thank you for telling me." Chaim lay back, exausted but still clasping Quinn's father's hand in his own. The man gave a small, sad smile and rubbed his hand softly.

"You sleep now son, you've had a hell of a day." Chaim sighed, looking over to the bed next to his own to see Abe's sleeping figure. When he looked back, Quinn's father was gone. He sighed and burrowed into his pillows, letting himself drift off again to sleep.

Colin POV

Colin lay listlessly reading a book, only half paying attention to the words on the page. He was running a low fever due to a urine infection and was supposed to be resting and drinking huge amounts of water. It was getting better quickly, and he knew he was extraordinarily lucky, but he still feared how helpless he was, how quickly his body could turn against him as it had for the other men in his situation, most of whom had no chance. Besides this, the pain in his back was acting up and his legs had been spasming on and off all day. This, he had found was one of the worst side effects of his injury. He couldn't move his legs, he couldn't move or feel or control them at all, yet at random time he would have stabs of burning, tingling phantom pain in his legs, then they would start shaking and jerking uncontrollably. Mary or one of the nurses would come and try to relieve the spasms, massaging and stretching his muscles or wrapping them in warm towels, but today nothing had helped and by the afternoon Colin was angry and exhausted.

The distant explosions came without warning.

The muscles in Colin's upper body tensed, he dropped his book and his eyes darted frantically around the ward. His brain was yelling at his body; Run! Run! Run! But half his body couldn't respond. He heard the voice of Lieutenant Barnett screaming "Get down Private!" It suddenly felt as though here back at the front, back in that hell of mud and blood, watching once again as Lieutenant Barnett was ripped apart before his eyes. He threw the covers from his body, trying and failing desperately to get up. It wasn't until Mary was by his bed, holding down his shoulders, that he realized he was screaming. He tried to focus on Mary's blue eyes, he managed to stop screaming but he was shaking and his legs were spasming more severely than they ever had before.

"Shh, shh, Colin, it's going to be alright. It's an air raid, everything will be fine. We're going to need to get you on a stretcher because some aeroplanes were spotted nearby. Everything will be fine, I promise." Colin squeezed her hand, trying to pull himself back from the memory.

"What's going on?" He managed to choke out. Mary folded his hands in her's as two orderlies transferred Colin to a stretcher and began to carry him out of the ward.

"The Germans have taken to dropping a few bombs on some of our cities now and then. They wouldn't dare hit a hospital I'm sure, but they're moving all the patients they can into a shelter just to be safe." Colin was still hyperventilating but his body had begun to calm slightly. The hospital was a hub of activity. Patients who could walk were being helped down the stairs, while patients in wheelchairs and stretchers waited at the top of the stairs and near the elevators. There was a lack of staff as some of the nurses stayed behind with patients in too critical a condition to be moved. A young man with only one leg wheeled himself up near Colin and gave him a reassuring smile.

"This has happened three times since I got here, I'm sure everything will be fine, it's mostly a nuisance, trying to move us all." Colin nodded, trying to control his breathing. He had managed to calm himself somewhat, but he knew he was still pale, and when they had moved him he noticed that his leg had spasmed so badly that the muscled hadn't been able to relax so his leg looked somewhat twisted. There was still a minor burning in his feet but most of the pain had gone, his survival instincts had taken over, protecting him from the pain. Colin looked over, trying to focus on the one legged man who was now trying to make conversation.

"I haven't seen you on orthopedic or in physio, what did you do to get a blighty?" Colin grunted, sure a "blighty," that coveted injury that made you useless to the army, but not anything truly debilitating like the loss of a limb.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a blighty, I broke my back." The young man's face reddened and he muttered a curse.

"Sorry mate, I didn't know." Colin waved off the man's apologies, too tired to deal with anyone's embarrassment but his own.

"It's fine." Colin replied slightly snappishly. Two orderlies began carrying Colin down the stairs while another helped the one legged man. His face was wracked with pain as he slowly made his way down, one step at a time. He was panting by the time they made it to the shelter. Colin's back was aching too and when the man sat heavily beside him Colin gave him a small smile and spoke to him softly.

"The pain can be a real arse can't it?" The man snorted.

"Yeah, every time I try to walk my bloody leg feels like it's on fire, but it's not even there." Colin nodded.

"That happens to me too. I can't feel my legs but sometimes there are these pains that feel so real, but I know they are not." The man looked inquisitively at Colin.

"I didn't know that could happen." Colin gave him a sad smile.

"None of us knew a hell of a lot about any of the things that have happened to us."

The man nodded slowly, "Truer words were never spoken." He paused, "I'm Daniel by the way, Lieutenant Daniel Bloom." Colin smiled, extending his hand towards the man.

"I'm Colin, Private Colin Craven."

Yiddish Glossary

Cholent: a stew traditionally served on the sabbath because it can be cooked for many hours and thus can be served hot without breaking the prohibition of cooking on the sabbath

Got in himmel: G-d in heaven, or oh my g-d

Shabbos: sabbath or day of rest

Kaddish: the prayer for the dead

Yarmulke: the skullcap worn by observant Jewish men

Tzitzis: the fringes worn on the corners of Jewish men's undershirts

Toyt: Yiddish for "dead"

Meyn tsigele: my little goat (I promise this is a totally normal Yiddish term of endearment)

Galitzianer/ Volinyer Yiddish: two different dialects, Golda initially came from Warsaw where they spoke Galitzianer or Polish Yiddish and moved to Kishinev to marry Chaim's father who would speak Ukranian (volinyer) Yiddish.