—16—
London
[In Urdu]
Dear Tanveer,
You are right to suggest that my letters will be censored less if I write in Urdu. Although I am somewhat rusty (is that right?), it is good for me to have something to focus on.
It’s terrible here. The Dark One has bragged that invasion is imminent, and it’s hard not to believe it could be true.
So many bombs every night! Endless, loud, designed to unnerve and demoralize us.
It’s working. We’re all afraid, wincing at the sirens, ducking at every noise.
I haven’t slept in a week. Mother and Peter seem to be able to sleep in the daytime, but I find I cannot let down my guard.
I lie there and listen intently for any small thing that might alert me to danger.
Betty is missing. I sent her to see her family after the early round of bombs on the first night, and she has not returned.
That was almost a week ago. I fear she might have been killed, but I cannot seem to get through to anyone who might know.
The number I ordinarily ring goes unanswered.
I’ve twice thought I should make my way over there to see if I can find her, but that would mean leaving Mother alone for too long.
Peter is in one of his states, and unreliable.
I rush out to get rations when I can, but else, I stay here.
Waiting for the next bomb, or the invasion, or whatever awful thing might be coming.
It makes me furious. Furious! Did our generation not give enough to war already?
How many women never had the pleasure of a home or a husband because so many young men were wiped off the earth?
And I know it matters less to you, but how many of the great old piles were abandoned or left to crumble when there was no one to inherit, or if there was, no funds to keep them up?
It seems a terrible loss, just as the crumbling of palaces in India are a terrible loss, the stories they hold disappearing like the stories the dead soldiers will never live.
England will be the last of Europe to fall to the Nazis, and I fear we cannot hold them off forever.
I constantly think of how to plan in case of invasion.
What will we eat? How many resources will they take for themselves?
My cellar is stocked with carrots and onions and various other root vegetables, and the larder is filled with jars and jars of lentils, chickpeas, and white beans.
I am hoping to find some chicks. Nina has a few in her garden, and the eggs are a boon.
We shall not starve if they leave the food to us, but what if they take it for themselves? How will I care for my mother?
It’s impossible to know. For now, I live day to day, hoping that dreadful thing will not occur.
The government and RAF and navy are determined to hold them off, and perhaps I’m an ostrich, but I cannot live in that place of terror every single day.
One prepares, then lets go. I must live in this day, where they have not yet invaded.
One small beauty: a painting I made of a little scene in the kitchen one morning, an empty cup in a puddle of sunshine, the garden a hint beyond.
The moment was the beauty. Stillness and quiet amid the madness. And painting was the beauty as well, making something in defiance of the darkness, recognizing that there are, even now, moments of peace.
Give my love to Channan. Tell Gurdaya I eagerly await the next installment in her story.
Elsie