GIRL’S LETTER

Wairarapa Times-Age, 12 April 1941, Page 7

GIRL’S LETTER

life under the blitzkreig. “JUST ONE BIG DODGE.” A 13-year-old London girl writes as follows to her aunt in America, states the “Christian Science Monitor.” Dear Auntie,— These days we have several ideas going on in our ’ school—a Red Cross Fund, a wool fund for comforts for the Services which are knitted by us, a silver paper collection, and a shrapnel collection. This last to be sent back to somewhere to make more shells for our A.A. men. One girl is trying to collect fourteen pounds of shrapnel to make a shell; she already has three. Good finding to her. Just after I began this letter we heard two “squeal whistles," so we stopped a while and prayed. I’m sorry the ink is so rotten. War time contraption, for there is a lot of water in it. I might add that it’s washable ink, so don't cry over this page or any other!

This evening I was down in the High Road just after blackout. Many of the shops have had their windows blown out, but, with their wares all open to the road, they have put up notices saying, “Hitler can. break our windows but he can't break our hearts. Keep smiling.” I lingered awhiie and watched the traffic and people coming home from business. One by one, tiny sparkles of light appeared on the front and rear of cars and bicycles. The buses and trams looked like huge 'glow-worms plodding along behind the little lights. ... Yesterday I went to see the place where two bombs fell the other night. We knew they were near as the house shook so much. There were craters in the road and a barrier up but I managed to get through. No traffic could possibly get through as the rubble that was once several houses was strewn from one side to the other of the street. There was absolutely nothing left but heaps of stones and planks of wood. In the background I saw two dresses hanging over a chair. Littered over the place were various books. Among them, torn and battered, was. a Bible. Looking at the mess, I felt grateful for something that was Drought up in Sunday School class about bombs and wreckage—that even if bricks and mortar were strewn over tile road, the idea of home could never be destroyed. . . . We know we can rebuild and we shall some day have a happier world with more love and desire to help each other than ever before.

One fine day recently we had a picnic lunch in St. James’s Park. Just as I Was remarking how few birds there seemed to be and threw down a bit of sandwich, there was a stampede toward it by sparrows and pigeons and one brown duck. The birds were very hungry and at one time I had two pigeons on each hand, plus a sparrow pecking at my sandwiches. Life at present is just one big dodge to try to get things done before the next air raid. Bathing is an especially hectic operation—three of us had a oath yesterday, following each other in less time than is usually taken for one. Last week we had no gas so we ate cold things and washed up in cold water.

Last, week some incendiary bombs fell near us, causing thirty fires. The firemen did not know where to go first but they had them all out in half an hour.

One of our front windows is out and the paneci glass in the front door is bulged and-broken. It looks as though it was a blouse on a line being blown by a strong wind. On Sunday I cycled up to Piccadilly and found it a bit queer at Hyde Park Corner with the traffic sprawled all over the road instead cf keeping to the left. I should find it queerer though if 1 was cycling' in the United States. 1 am sure the British boys and girls there are wondering whether they are dreaming sometimes, especially those who have seen New York. 1 can just imagine them shutting their eyes and pinching each other and opening them again to see whether New York is still there. Susan.