Waiting

Dark. The noise of the sirens in the night. Waiting. Waiting for what must inevitably come: the fire, the screams, the terror, the pain. 1

Pain of losing someone. Pain of being wounded. 2

Who ever said women were weak? I should like to have that man sitting in the dark every night. Have him know the feeling of pain, of fear. We know what happens outside. We know war. 3

But we have nothing to do. Factory work. Farming. Nursing. Daywork. 4

It is night, when the enemy comes. Night when their bombs fall. Night that is most dangerous. Each moment the safe-house could go up in flames. Will it hurt? Will I notice it? Will anyone care? 5

Like so many others I am alone. Only strangers in this shelter. But strangers become acquaintances, become friends. We know each other well. We care for each other. The old woman, who spends hours rocking back and forth. The mother cradling her baby. The lover mourning her man. The bittermother cussing everything: men, war, regulations. 6

The sirens never stop howling or so it seems. And we are waiting ... waiting in the dark.7

There is the sister praying the rosary, her chanting is the only sound if the sirens stop. For sometimes they do and the world holds her breath waiting for the detonation, the flames, the screams, the pain.8

The room is damp. The pot smells. Once upon a time it was a chamber pot, its decoration of elegant green enamel edged with gold. Now it is a stinking mess. Once upon a time when the world was as it should be, it was clean. when war was a distant thing and present only in newspapers and books. Idolized. Creating heroes and casting them down.9

The baby wakens from its deep sleep, bawling, crying, competing with the sirens. And its mother feeds it in the hope of some peace. 10

Peace. A word of hope, but also of terror. What then? I remember the last time. Remember the men coming home to find they have lost everything, that they cannot settle down. Waking from nightmares, screaming like children. Cussing, drinking, beating. What will this peace bring for which we are waiting? 11

Waiting. Waiting in the dark for what must inevitably come: the terror, the screams, the pain.