Finally. I think I got everything packed. I zipped up the last satchel, one of six that were stuffed to the rim with shirts, pants, socks, shoes, and a few toys the children liked. Six leather bound satchels for my five children, all ready for the train tomorrow that will take them far away from London headed north away from George and I. We waited a year for this. Some parents decided to send their children away last September, but I couldn’t let them go. We—I wasn’t ready.

The children were running around upstairs. They were probably playing some sort of sword game—at least the boys were. Georgiana and Julie, on the other hand, not quite what they’re up to. Ethel was asleep on the couch in the living room. George jokes that he’d love the quiet of our home when the children are gone, but that makes it sound like the absence of the kids was just for Holiday, or one on one time as husband and wife. No, the sounds we’ll be forced to listen to are planes rumbling overhead and our city around us getting destroyed. It happened to our neighbors just two days ago.

The laughing, running, crying and even knocking over stacks of mail in the house will be absent from our home. Dealing with it all is what makes me, me. I am a mother. But I’m the unfortunate mother who might never see her children again. I’ve held on to my children for one year before George approached me to send them away to a foster family. My kids were one of the only ones left at their local school and George was beginning to get looks at work for not sending them off sooner.

I would do anything for it to not be this way. I am angry. Angry that we declared war on Germany a month ago. I am angry at George for giving in to what people were saying around him. Angry that he is always right, and angry that I can’t argue enough to keep our children here. War is war. But war dealt with together is a war in it self that is won.

The war wasn’t something I could control. I couldn’t help but to tear up while looking at all the leather satchels on the table.

Georgiana, Julie, Sheldon, Mark and Ethel…my sweet little—

“You got everything together?” George came down the wooden stairs of our old crusty apartment and went over to the sink.

“Best I could,” I snapped. I even looked at him, searching for any type of reassurance or sign of affection to help me get through these emotions, my inner temper fuming.

Washing his face, “socks, shoes…”

“Yes. Check. Shirts, pants, they’ll have to wear their coats, I couldn’t fit them in.”

“Clever, clever. Well. This shouldn’t be too bad then. Train leaves tomorrow at—“

“Eight!” I lost it. I shoved Mark’s satchel on the ground and threw myself in the kitchen seat and wept. Wept at the table where we might never gather again.

“Winifred, hey, hey.” My face was in my hands and he came to put a hand on my shoulder. “This is for their safety. I want to see my kids again, and if we—“

“But we’re a family George! This whole billet system is absurd to me. Send my children away and to who? Someone who I only know has good penmanship and a house in the middle of no where, no supervision from us! What if they get bombed, or worse what if they get sick, you know how Julie can sometimes—“

“Enough! You’re acting absurd, it’s only temp—“

“What about their school? They were doing fine! Sister Margareta always—“

“Winifred, they’re going to be fine, they’re not missing any school, they’ll be at the—“

“Laurie hasn’t even heard from her children in 3 months, what if the Paxtons prevent—“

George dried his hands and walked up to Winifred sitting at the table, “Winny. We waited one damn year and look what happened. Our three year old is running to a shelter every other night, and the rest of our children are frightened. Have you seen Mark’s tears? Our oldest son crying?”

“I know he’s sensitive George but we’re a fam—“

And that’s when we heard them. The sirens.

“Winifred, trust me on this one. Georgiana! Sheldon!”

The children must have been awake, for all five started to scramble towards us. There was no time for me to think or respond to their cries of mommy and daddy. I went and grabbed my youngest Ethel’s hand and started running out the door.

“Don’t stop! Air raid! Air raid!” People shouted in the dark foggy streets. The ground began to rumble and I looked back. George had the rest of the children, I had to ignore Ethel’s cries.

“We’re almost there sweety, children hurry now!” Luckily the air raid shelter was only 6 houses down from us and we were able to make it cramped in the small little brick building. George helped the children down the cement stairs and together we cramped in a small corner. An officer was helping ushering people in, sirens still blaring.

Mark turned to George, “Father when will this end?” Sheldon scoffed, “you’re just scared you scaredy pootoody.” “Am not!”

“Hush! Stay quiet now,” I snapped. Everyone in the room fell silent. Georgiana was crouched next to Jules, Mark and Shelton had wondering eyes looking towards the entrance and little Ethel, sucking her thumb and staring up at me. George put a hand on my shoulder again and drew me in for a kiss on my head.

“See they’re the only kids here.” He whispered. “All the other children have left for their hosts two weeks ago. I cannot have my children running to rickety brick shack every damn night in fear of losing their life, this is the right thing to do.”

With the bombs going off in the distance and the sound of planes zooming over head, I just staired at my children. All five looking at me. It was one of those moments in life were of you took a picture, it would be remembered forever. Emotions git the worst of me. The fear of losing my children, with the fear of dying here tonight.They don’t deserve this, I know.

After an hour or so of sitting in silence, listening to crashes and watching the flashing of lights from the bombs shine through the cracks of the little brick shack we were in, people began murmuring that it was over. I glanced at my children again, Ethel exhausted from crying in my arms, Julie and Georgiana sleep deprived and my two boys, Mark whom was crying and Sheldon asking George about the possible damage tonight, I began to soften, and let some tears roll down my face.

I gave George a glance and his eyes met mine. It was a look of reassurance, and one of determination. The children had to go tomorrow.

We slowly walked back to our home, luckily tonight none of the houses on our street were hit and ours stood in the darkness brilliant and untouched. We sent the children back to bed, and when George and I made it to our bedroom, no words were discussed. Instead we got into our crankity iron bed and he held me from the back. “It’s for the best, Winny,” he whispered and turned my heavy heart in.

The next morning, I fed the children their oatmeal and scrambled eggs. Not many words were exchanged between George and I. The children were asking questions about where they will be staying, what was the Paxton family like, is there a farm, etc. I had no answers and George was answering them for me. “I believe they have a dog too, at least that’s what the letter said.” With that Sheldon and Julie squealed.

“Mother, why do you not say anything to us? Is something wrong?” asked Georgiana.

Flipping the last bit of eggs, “Everything is fine my dear, I am upset that—“

“That she won’t get to celebrate your birthday! But you know I bet the war will be over sooner than we know it! In fact I hear that Churchhill is sending our his own planes that are far better than the Germans and the war will be won in no time!” George knew I was about to choke up. “Best to be positive,” he whispered to me, getting up from his seat at the table. Tears again were streaming.

It was about seven-thirty. George helped me get all the children in their coats. Julie complained, it really wasn’t that cold outside, but there was no other way of stuffing them inside their satchels.

“Everyone ready?” George asked. The children nodded silently in agreement. I wonder how they were feeling. Were they feeling the heaviness I was? Maybe my oldest Georgiana, but she was nearly finften. Ethel was beginning to cry. She too at three was to be sent away. She didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve it.

Now was the moment. Before we headed out the door, “Wait! Wait.” I looked at all my children individually. Georgiana and her golden locks, Julie and her glasses on her head, book in hand, Mark and his slicked brown hair to the side like his father, Sheldon and his big round glasses and oversized coat, and my little Ethel with her rosey cheeks and watery eyes, and cried “I love you. Each and every one of you I love. You all have your scapulars, right?” It was our Catholic tradition to wear it. “Yes mommy,” said Sheldon. “Good. As long as you wear these, and daddy and I will wear ours, we are still a family. It’s a reminder that you are under God’s protection and you will be home again here with us. Now go with your father, be good.” I kissed each one goodbye, but Ethel was the hardest.

Ethel grabbed George’s hand, and the rest of the children picked up their satchels, Mark carrying two. I couldn’t bare saying goodbye from the platform. To see all those kids being taken away from their parents, the ones who didn’t leave the first time last year. I couldn’t have that image in my head of the last time seeing my children, waving from a train. I wanted it to be here. I wanted to capture the moment of them leaving from here, our home where we are a family.

As I stood in the doorway, and watched George guide our children on the side walks towards the station, Ethel stopped in her tracks and “Farewell mommy!” As did the rest of the family, “Farewell.”

Farewell, my loves.