Boom!
Everything shook. We sat there silently. Grandma started cheering. We joined her.
“Go mark it on the wall, my boy, so we don’t lose count,” grandma told one of my little cousins.
We have been living in this bunker for the last two months. It’s me, grandma, my cousins, and our neighborhood children.
My parents left the day we came down here. They were wearing matching clothes and holding big guns. Dad said they were going on a hunting trip with our neighbors. At first, I thought something was wrong because everyone was crying, but then I realized they probably felt bad for leaving us behind and having fun alone.
When we first entered the basement, my grandma stood on a wonky chair, twisted the single light bulb hanging from the dusty ceiling, and lightened the room. Its yellow light looked so weak that it felt almost pointless to have it on. But grandma left it like that and carefully got off the chair. She helped us set up our beds by putting old clothes and blankets on the cold ground. Some of us were lucky to get mattresses, but that meant we would have to share our beds with other people. I had to sleep with the nine-year-old twin sisters from next door.
After getting everyone situated, grandma sat us down for a talk. “We are going to be here for a while, so I want all of you to be responsible with your food and water rations. It is not going to be easy, but we will get through this,” she said with her big, toothless smile. I had always wondered how she chewed food without any teeth, but my mom once told me not to ask her questions like that.
“Grandma, why are we even here? I want Mommy and Daddy,” asked my five-year-old cousin, the youngest of us.
“They are reconstructing the city and planting flowers for us, so we live in a beautiful place when we get out. We are going to hear loud bangs and crashes, but I don’t want you to be scared. That’s the sound of roots getting into the soil. It might also shake the ground a bit, but it’s nothing to worry about. We are safe here.”
My little cousin looked at her with his round, chocolaty eyes and said, “Will the sounds be too loud?”
“They might be, but we can think of little games to make them fun, all right? How about we clap and cheer every time we hear something, then sew a button on our flag, so we can keep track of how many flowers they plant.”
We did as she said. In two days, we ran out of buttons, so we scratched sticks on the walls every time we heard crashes. I could not wait to get out of the bunker and see our new, beautiful city.
Grandma also taught us how to sew little cats out of fabric. She would tear her clothes into pieces and divide them between us. Then, we would cut out little cat shapes and sew them faces: first, the eyes, then the nose, and, finally, a little, thin line for the mouth.
Since grandma’s clothes were colorful, we got to choose the colors of our cats, but everyone always liked the black ones. Those would usually turn out the best, even though they were harder to spot in the almost dark bunker.
My youngest cousin was surprisingly the best at them. I had never seen a boy sew before.
Grandma would praise us all, though. She had always been like that. Even if you were bad at something, she would still say she was proud of you for trying. One year I wanted to bake her a cake for her birthday but accidentally poured salt instead of sugar. Even though it made her feel sick, she still said, “Thank you for this special surprise, my girl. The taste doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts. I am so proud of you for trying something new to make my day.”
She was naturally a happy woman, always making us laugh during the day. She would tell us funny stories from her childhood and her adventures with her brothers. “Ahh, I wasn’t always an old grandma. I was once a little troublemaker like you. Have I told you the story of how I…,” she would start every time she saw us sad or bored. Her stories always lightened up the mood, especially because of her lisp.
She was a different person at night, though. She would get on her knees when she thought we were asleep and start whispering and crying. She would look up and start fighting with the air. Maybe she had sleep demons too.
I used to have those a while ago. They were so scary that I would refuse to go to sleep. My mom would come to bed with me and hold me tightly so that I wouldn’t be scared. It helped. She said she was my guardian angel and would always protect me.
Before she left, she gave me the ring she used to wear all the time.
“This will protect you from everything, my love,” she said.
I laughed and replied, “But, Mommy, it’s too big for my finger. I can’t wear it now. You can give it to me when I’m older.”
“I want to give it to you now, and I want you to always have it on you. It will keep you safe.”
After saying that, she put the ring through a thick, brown thread and hung it from my neck.
“I promise always to wear it, Mommy.”
I kissed the ring goodnight in the bunker every night, pretending it was my mother. When the sounds got too loud, I would hold the ring and instantly feel better. It felt like my mom had put her soul into it.
“Putting your soul into something.” That was one of my grandma’s favorite sayings. She would say, “You need to put your soul into your food, so it tastes good.”
Our food didn’t taste good in the bunker. After we ran out of our canned foods, we only ate stale bread.
“Did you know this is what superheroes eat?” my grandma would say, adding, “We need to be grateful to Mr. Breadman for giving us this treasure.”
Mr. Breadman was our friend from the outside. He would visit us once a week and bring us bread and water. He said he couldn’t tell us his real name, so we called him Mr. Breadman. We laughed so much after we came up with that name.
He was a funny man, always acting like a cartoon character. But he got sadder with every visit. He would go into a corner with grandma and whisper quietly. Their talks always made grandma sad, but it was worse once. Mr. Breadman said something, and grandma fell on her knees. I gave her my last bit of rationed water, and she felt better. She was a different person after that day.
I always wanted to ask what she had heard but never dared to because I knew it would make her feel sad again. I never wanted to make her sad. I hated seeing sad people. My father was always sad, especially after watching TV and reading his newspapers. When his friends came over, they would close our living room doors and talk. I thought they would cheer him up, but they didn’t. He would come out of the room even sadder, his hair was messy and eyes red.
He only smiled when he was with me. His face would get all wrinkly, and his yellow teeth would show. I missed the days when he didn’t have to force his smiles.
Mr. Breadman’s smiles were starting to get forced too. One day he came to us without any bread. He talked to grandma and left without looking at us. Grandma told us he would be back the next day to get us out.
Everyone got excited and started packing immediately. We were going to see our parents.
The next morning, Mr. Breadman came and told us to say our goodbyes and follow him quickly.
Confused, I asked my grandma, “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, sweetheart, I need to stay here to greet your parents when they come back.”
“But aren’t we going to meet them now?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is he taking us, then?”
“To a new home. To a safe home.”
“But I want to stay here. I want to be with you. We can be safe together.”
“You should go now.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“I will miss you, grandma.”
“I will always be here with you, sweetheart, in your heart.”
She gave me a tight hug and pushed me to get in line.
When we were about to get out of the bunker, she poured her “treasure wine” after us. Grandma always poured water after travelers. She said it was done to take negative energy, jealous eyes, and unkind hearts off the travelers and wish them a safe journey. She had done that when my parents left too. There was no more water left, so she had to pour the wine. We had called it her “treasure wine” because she had refused to open it until my wedding. “I am saving it for my girl’s big day,” she would reply any time people reminded her of that old wine.
After all those years of saving it, why did she decide to waste it on the floor? Did she lose hope that I would get married one day?
Before finally getting out, I threw one last look at the bunker. It was our home. It was overly crowded, damp, and sometimes scary but filled with love and care. I even thought I might miss it in the future.
When we got out of the bunker, I took a deep breath and looked around. Everything was different, but not the way grandma had described it. Instead of flowers, there were stones everywhere. Stones of all shapes and sizes. Maybe grandma had mixed things up and said flowers instead of stones. Maybe those stones would be used to build new homes because our old ones seemed gone.
I didn’t get to take a final look at my neighborhood since Mr. Breadman told us to get into his big car quickly. It did not have any windows. We had no idea where we were going. Everyone was scared, and since I was the oldest, I had to think of lies to make them feel better. Was this what grandma had been doing all along?
After a while, the car suddenly stopped, and three young men opened the door with shaved faces and clean uniforms. I remember when my dad used to shave his beard. He would look so young and happy, but the last time I saw him, his thick beard was slowly turning silver.
These young men were not nice, though. They yelled something at us. We had to get out of the car and stand in a line. We waited there until Mr. Breadman talked to the rude men in a different language. He was wearing the same clothes as them, but he never acted like them. He was always soft and caring with us.
He seemed to change after that conversation, though. He came to us and aggressively shoved us into the back of his car. He screamed something in that other language and went to take his seat behind the wheel.
“Sorry for that. If I were friendly with you, these bad men wouldn’t let us go,” he finally said after we drove away.
“Mr. Breadman, are they your friends?” I asked.
“Of course not. You lot are my real friends. I just have to pretend to be their friend to help you guys.”
“Okay,” I replied with a smile.
“Good, good,” he said, returning my smile.
“So, where are you taking us now?”
“To one of my old friends.”
“What about our parents?”
“They will join you later, but you will be staying with my friend for now.”
“Will you live with us too?”
“No, sweetheart, I have to come back here and finish some old business.”
“Please, don’t leave us.”
He tried to say something but didn’t. We didn’t speak another word for the rest of the drive.
After what felt like forever, we finally got to our destination. Mr. Breadman introduced us to her friend, who was a tall, beautiful woman around the same age as my mother. She gave us big hugs and led us to her house. There were other kids there: some younger and some much older than me.
She had a serious conversation with Mr. Breadman in the corner of the room, after which they gave each other piles of handwritten letters.
We were sitting on a big brown couch. The walls were filled with pictures of women reading books, writing, talking, holding guns, and leading crowds. I loved them.
Before leaving, Mr. Breadman gave me a hug and said, “You’re one of the good ones, kid. Don’t ever change that, yeah? I am sorry for everything. I will do my best…”
He left without finishing his sentence. I was left heartbroken.
It didn’t take long to adapt to our new life. We quickly made friends and got busy with schoolwork. We would have several classes every day, all taught by different women. We had math, literature, and history, which turned out to be my favorite subject. We learned about a lot of horrible but very interesting things during that class.
We had evening activities too. Other women would come to our house and have long conversations about books. We were allowed to join too. I would sit there with my mouth wide open, taking in everything they were saying. I wanted to be just like them when I grew up: strong, smart, and independent.
Sometimes their discussions were private, though. They reminded me of the ones my father used to have with his friends. But these meetings were different. Instead of being all men, they were all women. And their discussions were peaceful, not like my father’s, where everyone would shout and not let each other speak.
Since there weren’t any more spare bedrooms, a few other girls and I had to sleep on the living room couch. It was soft and warm, a hundred times better than what we had in the bunker. Every night, after Mr. Breadman’s friend finished her lullabies for the younger kids, she would come to the living room, light a candle, and start writing. She would write for hours, and I would silently watch her.
One night, while she was writing, she whispered, “Do you want to see what I’m doing?”
“Me?” I whispered back.
“Yes, you, you little night owl.”
I quietly went and sat next to her. She showed me what she was doing and then asked me about the ring that was hanging from my neck.
“She must love you a lot,” she said after I told her the story.
“She does.”
She gave me a side hug, and, for a moment, it felt like I was being held by my mother. It felt nice.
Later that night, I asked her if she could take me back home, even for a short visit. She told me to wait.
​​​​​*​​*​​*
I waited…
More years than I could count on my fingers. I had heard all the stories. The stories that were about me. The stories that were about my family, the heroic deaths of my parents, the unselfish surrender of my grandmother. The stories of everyone trying to protect our home.
Home…
I was finally standing there. The place where I grew up. The place where I spent my best years, oblivious to everything.
The street was silent. The houses looked different. The people were cold. There was nothing familiar left.
All I had were memories. Memories that I had been holding onto as tightly as the black cat in my pocket that I had made all those years ago.
I touched my mother’s ring on my ring finger.
“You kept me safe. You stayed true to your promise. But sometimes I wish you hadn’t…I miss you. I miss all of you.”
