Readers Remember

I am just climbing on Nana’s lap for a bedtime story when, oh no! Not again. The scary air-raid siren wails so loudly. There will be no story now. The lights are turned low. The ugly black material over the windows is checked. Not a glimmer of light must show.

Quickly, Mom, Nana and my aunties with babies hurry into the cupboard under the stairs. It’s creepy dark and smells so damp. We hear the bombers coming closer like droning bees, hear explosions but not too close. The house does not shake too much. Only the china rattles.

Soon it is quiet. We hear the “all clear” siren. Nana jumps up to put the kettle on for tea to soothe our nerves. Uncle Ron comes home from air-raid duty. “It hit two streets away. Got the pub and the dairy.”

We can sleep tonight. We still have a roof over our heads, but tomorrow no beer and no milk.

Summer 1943

Liverpool, England

JACQUELINE L. KOVACS

Mission Viejo

At age 19, I was manager of a small Western Union office in Hackettstown, N.J., during World War II. Special treatment was given to telegrams delivering the news that a loved one had been killed or was missing in action. When I received one, I would call the telephone operator to get the phone number for a next-door neighbor. We never wanted a person to be alone when the telegram was delivered.

LAURA BRADY

Covina

In 200 words or less, send us your memories, comments or eyewitness accounts of the 20th century. Write to Century, Los Angeles Times, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053, or e-mail century@latimes.com. We regret we cannot acknowledge individual submissions. Letters may be edited for space.