Bertie lit a lantern, casting a glow over the shelter. He rubbed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Susan looked up at the ceiling, a mosaic of broken bricks, stone, and mortar. She listened. No explosions. No sirens. No grinding engines. Only tweets of predawn sparrows outside the door. “Are they gone?”

“I believe so.” Bertie looked at his pocket watch. “But we should wait.”

Susan stroked Duchess. The pigeon cooed. Susan’s heartbeat slowed, her breath gradually returning to normal. Within a few minutes, a loud, monotone siren sounded from North Weald Airfield, giving the all-clear signal.

Susan tucked Duchess into her arm, stood, and opened the shelter door. She took in a deep breath—a mixture of fresh air, dew, and discharged gunpowder. A few remaining stars were dissolving into the sky, giving way to a rising sun. She looked toward London. Fires glowed. Streams of smoke rose from the horizon, as if the bombing had cracked open the earth, creating a gateway to hell.

Susan felt her grandfather’s arm on her shoulder. She lowered her head and leaned into him.

It had been four straight nights of bombing. The ashen haze would dissipate throughout the day as fire brigades relentlessly fought raging fires. But night would bring another round of bombing and more destruction, forcing them to burrow into the shelter like moles, only to emerge each morning to learn what remained of London.

“Will they ever stop?” Susan asked, wiping her eyes.

“Eventually,” Bertie said, a slight hesitation in his voice. He shifted his weight and grimaced.

“How’re the knees?”

Bertie rubbed his kneecaps. “A bit dodgy, I’m afraid.”

“You should be using your walking stick.”

Bertie shook his head. “Saving it to break over Hitler’s arse.”

Susan squeezed her grandfather’s hand. “Come inside, and I’ll get you some ointment.”

In the living room—a cozy space with a stone fireplace and timber-beam ceiling—Susan helped Bertie into his chair, rolled up his pant legs, and rubbed ointment into his knees as Duchess sat perched on the mantel. She wiped her hands with a towel, then walked to the radio in the corner of the room and flipped the switch. Static cackled. She adjusted the knob and found the signal.

They listened to news reports, which provided only vague descriptions of the destruction and no mention of fatalities.

“Why aren’t they giving details?” Susan asked.

“Spies. We don’t want to provide the Nazis with any intelligence on what they accomplished.”

Susan shivered at the thought of spies in London. She desperately wanted to know more, and more importantly, she wanted to know what she could do to help. An hour later, she got her answers when the prime minister addressed the nation.