Love and War in Northern France

Part 2, cellar

Today, we were falling asleep in the shelter. If this cellar, filled with cobwebs and vegetables, could even be called that. Still, it seemed safer than my room. The dampness filled the air, adding to the already eerie atmosphere of the space. The cold crept through my clothes, slowly, as if it intended to catch us off guard. My skin was moist from the damp, and each breath tasted metallic, like old vegetables.

I pulled my legs up, as Phil had advised, trying to create an illusion of warmth so I wouldn't freeze to death in this dampness or die the most ridiculously stupid death in the midst of bombings, but it all seemed futile. The blanket looked like salvation, but Phil held it tightly, and I couldn't bring myself to ask. Strange how in war, even small things like a piece of fabric could become objects of desire.

Outside, it seemed the world was falling apart. Each explosion was so deafening that the walls of the cellar shook, like an old chest under the blows of a hammer. But inside, it was quiet. Quiet and damp. The only sound was the rhythmic drip of water falling from the ceiling into an old rusty tin in the far corner.

Phil was only a year older, yet it felt as though my close friend was an old, gray-haired man. Though, as far as the gray hair goes, that wasn't a metaphor. My friend had an impressive military background for his 27 years, and the gray hair was the least of it.

"Aren't you scared?" I asked after another explosion, shivering either from the biting cold or the sounds outside.

"Me?" Phil glanced at me over his shoulder, but it was too dark in the cellar for our eyes to meet. "I'm scared every damn day. But you know, over time it stops weighing on you as much. That's what's truly frightening – when fear becomes a habit."

I felt like a foolish little boy, as if I'd just been reprimanded for some prank or childish joke.

I pulled out Louisa's letter and read her words again... read the letter again, though I already knew it by heart. Louisa was begging me to come home. She was right – the war was closing in on England, and her fear for our future was palpable in every line. But how could I leave this place? Something was pulling me to stay, even though each day felt like it could be the last. Maybe it was the people I didn't even know by name, but who had become part of my world here in Sainte-Anne.

"Very soon," said the man standing at the door, "the Germans plan to sweep the village. We have a chance to escape, but the choice is yours. Someone has to stay and try to save those who can't leave."

I couldn't make myself leave. Maybe I just needed one more excuse not to think about Louisa's letter. But when the man, with anxiety in his eyes, waited for my answer, something inside me broke.

"I'm with you," Phil said shortly, knowing my answer already.

The stranger let out a sigh of relief, and I had the impression we were the only ones who had agreed to this "adventure."