When We Were Young

C H A P T E R T H R E E

September 7th, 1940

"Hey Tom, who's playing the piano right now?" Harry asked, laying his stomach on Tom's bed, his feet kicking in the air and his head resting on his fists. The pianist was playing so beautifully, each note full of so many emotions, that it immersed him into the music and lulled him into an emotional haze.

"Why do you want to know?" Tom asked half-mindedly, flipping another page in his book.

Harry had been friends with Tom for about two years now, and he was still working to get Tom to be open with him. Getting Tom to open up was like pulling teeth! Every time Tom did loosen up around him, he immediately closed back and pretended that nothing ever happened. It was ever so frustrating!

In turn, Tom was getting very angry with himself. He let Harry befriend him out of conventional purposes. He was supposed to use the boy for his benefit, not actually like him!

Every time Tom saw Harry smiling his pure, joyous smile at him, he melted and gave in to the boy. Time and time again. It was like he had no control over what he felt for the boy, and it was so frustrating!

How funny these two could be.

Tom listened to the piano playing through their staticy, old radio. Despite the static, Tom instantly knew who was playing. After all, there was only one person who could play like that.

"Nikita Pavlov, the child prodigy," Tom said, turning back to his book. Despite what many think, Tom did have a hobby other than reading. He listened to classical music, favoring the sounds of the piano and violin. Nikita Pavlov happened to be one of his favorite pianists.

Harry hummed, closing his eyes once more and listening to the flow of music.

Harry had known of Tom's music hobby the second day he befriended Tom. The older boy kept the radio on almost 24/7!

It was nearing five o'clock, almost dinner time at the Orphanage, when a whizzing sound was heard. Harry and Tom look at each other with a frown, both going to the window to see what was making that sound.

Boom!

In the far distance, flames and smoke exploded into the sky. The air raid sirens started to screech loudly all over London.

The beautiful music was abruptly cut off.

"The Germans are dropping bombs! Take cover!" The announcer yelled, his voice cracking over the static of their radio.

The boy's hearts suck to their stomach, time somehow slowing around them. Outside their window, they saw airplanes with the swastika painted on them swarm the skies. There were hundreds of them!

The boys stood frozen by the window, shocked and pumped with fear.

The matron was running through the Orphanage, telling everyone to either go under a table or a bed. Of course, if their area was bombed, the beds and tables would provide minimal help, but at least it was some type of covering.

They couldn't risk going underground to the subway because of the sheer amount of bombers flying over them. Going outside would be suicide. They just had to wait- for now.

Tom shoved Harry under his bed, scrambling under himself and holding the younger boy close to his chest. Both the 8 and 9-year-old's (Tom's birthday hadn't swung around yet, but they're still roughly two years apart) body's were trembling with fear and adrenaline.

They were very lucky that they hadn't been bombed that night. They heard bomb after bomb drop on London- and it was traumatizing. They feared of dying right then and there. They feared of dying when they haven't gotten the chance to live yet.