The City in Flames Read Free Page B

be in the cellar by now. But what about my mother? My father? On my hands and knees, I started back up the stairs, calling for them: “Mama! Papa! Hurry!”
    My father was in the hallway on the third floor, and my mother was still in the kitchen, desperately searching for the briefcase.
    “Forget about the money and papers!” my father shouted.
    “I got it!” I yelled upstairs, even though I didn’t have it anymore. Again I started for the cellar, though not without warning my parents about the loose banister on the second floor.
    It was on the ground floor that I found the briefcase. A small beam of light coming through the open door of the cellar lit up the spot where the precious case had landed. It was leaning against the wall, just like it had been neatly put there.
    “Thank God!” I said aloud and picked it up just in time to hand it to my oncoming mother.
    We had just reached the last step of the cellar stairs when a second bomb hit. This one landed half a block away on the other side of our house. It must have been twice as big as the first bomb. The impact was so tremendous we thought the bomb had hit our house. The canned goods on the cellar shelves came tumbling down, hitting some of our tenants before crashing to the ground. Instinctively we braced ourselves against the rough, moist walls of the cellar to await another hit. My grandmother, her rosary between her folded hands, had already been engrossed in silent prayer, but now she fell to her knees, and the other women joined her and prayed aloud. The men, too, joined in, their hands folded as they stood against the wall, ready to drop to the ground should another bomb fall from the sky.
    After we had been in the shelter for about an hour, my father and a few other men felt it was safe enough to emerge and see what was happening outside. Just then we heard the all-clear sound in the distance. Our own neighborhood alarm system must have been damaged in the attack, for we never did hear it.
    Then everybody felt brave enough to go upstairs. Both entrances to our street were blocked by flames bursting from the roofs and windows of the houses that had been hit. People filled the street, and everyone was in a panic. There were people trapped in the houses, but the heat was so intense that no one dared go near. A fire truck was on its way, someone said. But would it come in time?
    Sparks and burning debris flew through the air, carried by a breeze that swept through the cold February night. This created a new danger. The fire could spread. People started evacuating rapidly. Featherbeds flew out of windows. Suitcases tied to ropes were lowered to the ground, and baskets filled with fragile objects were carefully carried to the center of the street.
    Nobody dared to sleep that night. When we finally returned to our apartment, morning had begun to dawn. What awaited us made us forget our sleepiness. Every window was broken, and a cold draft filled with the smell of smoke had settled in the house. We tried to look over the rooms for damage, but the electricity was out, so we had to wait for the morning sun.
    When I entered my bedroom, a chill came over me. There in my bed, right on the pillow, rested a stone too big for me to lift. It had broken out of the wall. Our house had been in the family for many generations; it was built from natural stones of various sizes. The one in my bed was about two feet square.
    Despite the terror and sadness of that night, my sister and I couldn’t help but laugh when we saw our naked Christmas tree.
    “What’s so funny?” my father asked in a somber voice, sticking his head through the living-room door.
    “Look at it!” My sister laughed as she pointed to the tree.

    The naked Christmas tree
    The tree leaned against one of the walls, its branches stripped of needles, which now covered the floor, table, and chairs. Some even made it to the kitchen, where they had settled on top of the potato soup in the pot on the stove.
    The