My Lion Makes Me Brave

The world was at war and had been for a year. It began in September 1939 when Germany invaded Poland. We all know the story, but it’s important to understand that by the time the Blitz started in, the war had not been going on for all that long at all. But we were somehow a threat to Nazi Germany, even though we were just trying to get by and live our lives. Did you know that civilians made up almost three times the number of casualties compared to soldiers for the allied forces? They don’t talk about that enough in schools nowadays.

My family and I lived in a small home in Woolwich. It wasn’t much; we had a few photographs on the walls, and our furniture was old, probably given to my parents by my grandparents when they’d saved enough to purchase new things. My mother was a schoolteacher, and my father worked at the munitions factory making shells and bullets, whatever they needed for the war effort. I had just turned eight when the Blitz began in September of 1940.

We had listened to news about the war on the radio every night since it began. We knew the Germans hated us, and that Adolf Hitler and his Wehrmacht wanted to hit us and hit us hard. Mother and I didn’t even know what was happening until a bomb struck the Royal Arsenal where Father worked and he arrived home covered in dirt, dust, and bloodstains. Thankfully, he was unharmed, but London was put on high alert.

By October of 1940, there had been regular bombings carried out by the Luftwaffe on London and other cities in the United Kingdom. Father told me that they wanted to damage our military capabilities and make sure that we wouldn’t be effective at fighting them anymore. Most importantly, they wanted to make it impossible for our air force to carry out attacks on the German forces. They bombed London and surrounding cities for months to try to gain air superiority, but they weren’t just killing soldiers or destroying parts, they were killing us too. They didn’t care – whatever suffering they inflicted on the British was unimportant to the Nazi High Command. We were the enemy.

So many people we knew were dying; by the end of the month, my class had lost many students who lived in affected areas of Woolwich. Not everyone was dead, of course; many of my friends were being shipped to family members and kind strangers in other parts of the country in the hopes that that would keep them safe. Nowhere was truly safe, not by a long shot, but so far the bombings had been contained to major cities and towns where we had munitions factories and military bases.

As our numbers dwindled, I grew more and more frightened. I didn’t know what had happened to my friends, and we couldn’t ask. I had come home crying to my parents about how my best friend Laura was nowhere to be found at school that day, and the next day, when there were no more tears but no less sadness, my father arrived home with his hands behind his back. He came and he kneeled in front of where I sat by the fire.

“Margaret my darling, I know you’re afraid,” he said.

“All my friends have gone, Father. I’m scared that I’ll be gone too,” I said.

“You won’t be gone, my girl. But to help you feel a bit braver, I’ve brought you a friend to keep by your side and give you courage,” he said. He took his hands from behind his back and revealed a lovely stuffed lion, almost as big as I was, with fur the colour of a delicious sweet potato and a mane the colour of sunlight. I hugged it tight to my chest and smiled widely; it was the nicest toy I’d ever received.

“A lion! Oh, Father he’s perfect!” I cried.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Margaret. In fact, I think it’s very smart for a girl your age to know when to be afraid. There are many big and evil things in this world, my girl, and you’re living through one of them right now. But you will be alright, it will all be alright, and this lion will make you brave,” he said. My mother and father smiled weakly as I danced around the living room with my new toy, forgetting, for a moment, that as I danced, London was on fire.

On November 15, 1940, Mother had come and taken me out of school early. I think all of our parents were worried that the school would be bombed and they’d never see us again. Many of my classmates were kept at home, and as the number of students dwindled, so did the need for teachers. They thought it best we continue our studies at home for the time being. Even though the Luftwaffe had shifted to bombing us at night, our parents wanted us close, and we wanted to be close to our parents too.

We were sat around the radio as we usually did until Father came home from work and it was time for dinner. Rabbit was not rationed at the time, at our neighbour Mrs. Davies had given us vegetables from the small garden that she grew in her yard since it was hard to come by fresh produce at the shops. It was never much when she could spare some, but it was enough to make a stew. I remember the delicious bits of potatoes and carrots from the garden, how fresh and earthy they tasted compared to the salt used to season our meal. For a moment at least it seemed like there was no war at all. All there was in this moment was my little family enjoying a little but delicious meal before bedtime as the radio played quietly in the background.

We finished dinner and I was escorted upstairs for a bath before bedtime. Mother and father both tucked me in that night, kissing my forehead sweetly and wishing me sweet dreams. I snuggled under my blankets with my brave little lion and fell asleep, but I had scarcely been asleep for an hour before the air raid sirens went off and I was being hustled out of bed.

I was in Father’s arms as he rushed down the stairs with Mother close behind. We hid in the pantry, where there were no windows that could break and make us bleed. They thought we’d be safe there, and we were for a while. One loud crash and bang after the other sounded all around us, and in a brief moment of silence, we left the safety of the pantry to check the state of the street. The end of it was a gaping crater that had consumed the homes of some poor souls we had likely passed by many times before. Our house was thankfully left untouched and we breathed a sigh of relief before going back inside and sitting in our kitchen.

In a moment of misplaced hope, my mother decided to go and check on Mrs. Davies and make sure she was alright. Father sat me in a kitchen chair and went with her, confident that I would be safe.

The wall of the living room shattered; it felt like it happened in slow motion. In hindsight I know it was much quicker than it felt for my eight-year-old self. There was no time for screaming, though today I feel as if I can hear my Mother crying out in pain. I ran to the pantry, gripping my lion tight, and hid as my parents had taught me to do during previous raids. I screamed for them to find me, I begged and prayed to God that I would not be alone. By the time I left the pantry, half of my home was gone, and bits of my mother were scattered where my living room used to be. I could see the burnt remains of Mrs. Davies’ Sunday service hat where our shared wall used to be, the dark blue velvet smoldering away. I searched frantically for my father and eventually found him trapped under the collapsed brick from our destroyed home. I pulled as hard as I could on his burnt hands, but it was no use. He could not move, and I could not move him. I was nowhere near strong enough.

“Margaret….” He said. His voice was barely audible, too weak to belong to someone with any hope of living. “You need to run, get out of here. It’s not safe.”

“But Father I’m scared!” I said.

“You have to be brave, Margaret. Be brave for your mother and me. I love you,” he said. He was gone, and I was alone. I had never been alone before. I sat holding his hand for a while, desperately wishing I could join them, but I had to be brave.

My parents had decided long ago that should they be killed in the bombings, the best course of action was to send me to my Grandmother’s house in Alfriston, East Sussex. It was a short journey by train, and then I would have to walk, but I could manage short distances without being too tired and needing Father to carry me. There was no other choice for me now but to make my way there and pray that I could get there alone.

I got to my feet as I cried and searched the remains of my home for the tin that I knew Mother kept spare money in for when we needed it. I took the tin and ran from what remained of my home, past the people attempting to check for survivors and the ones trying to put out the flames. I had to be brave. I had to be safe.

I arrived with my lion at the train station, my nightgown covered in dirt and ash and demanded a ticket to the station closest to Alfriston. The salesman questioned where my parents were, and I cried as I told him I didn’t have them anymore and I just wanted to go to my Grandmother’s house because I could be safe and brave there. He told me that they had people here who could help me, that they could take me to a home for kids who lost their parents in the bombings. But I had to leave, I had to be brave. The next train wasn’t coming till morning, if it came at all, and I’d have to wait until it arrived, he said. He gave me my ticket and stared as I walked away.

I took my lion to the nearby bench and sat, and waited, and was as brave as I could be. All night, all I could think of was the sight of my parents, and that I had left them there, and that they had left me here alone. I hugged my lion tight, breathing in the smell of the sawdust that I’m sure it was stuffed with, as many stuffed toys were back then. The train arrived sometime in the mid-morning, and I hopped on without so much as a word to the ticket salesman.

I didn’t have a watch, but I guess that by the time I arrived it was sometime in the afternoon. I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get to Grandmother’s so I wouldn’t have to be brave anymore. I hopped off the train and began walking down the long, winding dirt road that led into Alfriston. I just hoped I made it there for dinner – I was starving.

Many cars passed me by on the way into town, and not one thought to stop except one. It was black, and there was a man with a camera in the backseat. They passed me and stopped just ahead, and the man with the camera came running out towards me. I shielded my face with my lion, scared of who this stranger might be.

“Are you alone, little girl?” he said. I didn’t answer.

“Did you come from London?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Dear God,” he said, “you poor thing. Where are you going all on your own?”

“To Alfriston. My Grandmother lives there and once I get there, I’ll be safe, and I won’t have to be brave anymore,” I said. He looked so distraught and sad. I guess it wasn’t so common for people who lived outside of London to see victims of the raids.

“And you got here all by yourself?” he said.

“Yes.”

The man paused before kneeling down in front of me with his camera. He asked me then if he could take my picture, told me that he sometimes photographed parts of the war so that people would remember it in the future. He told me that someday, people might look at these pictures and see how brave I was for getting here all on my own, and that maybe it would give other people courage too. He even said my lion could be in the picture with me. I nodded and started walking away, unsure of where he would want me to stand, and I heard the flash go off. I turned and waved, thinking we were finished, but he called me back to him.

“You know, I’m going to Alfriston too. Can I drive you there? You must be tired from the long walk,” he said. I nodded and climbed into the back of the car. My legs were so tired, and I was grateful for the break. We arrived at my Grandmother’s soon after, and before we parted, he told me his name was Peter Walker, and asked me for mine. I told him that I was Margaret Brown and thanked him for the ride. My Grandmother was in tears when she saw me, and quickly ushered me inside.

I had almost forgotten about that day for so long; I was 83 by the time I saw that picture again on a trip into London with my grandchildren. It was at a gallery in downtown London as part of an exhibit about the war and the victims of the Blitz. Underneath the framed picture, it said my name and the date that it was taken alongside who it was taken by. My grandchildren were thrilled, though surprised, as I had never really spoken about my childhood before.

“Gran, how did you survive?” they asked.

“Well, my darlings, you see that lion I’m carrying in my arms?” I said.

“That’s the same shabby lion on your rocking chair at home!” they said.

“Yes, yes, it is,” I said. “My father told me that he would share his courage with me, and he did. That lion right there, that lion made me brave.”

I took the children back to their parents’ house and rode the train home. I unlocked the door of my tiny house decorated with old furniture and lots of photographs and went to my rocking chair. Carefully, I picked up my brave little lion, whose fur was now tarnished with age and whose mane was no longer the colour of sunlight and took a deep breath.

It was brave to remember.