The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley Read Free Book Online

either. Never was, not even when I was your age. I hate the darkness and the cold.”
    I nodded. I hated them too. In winter chilblains covered my hands and feet, and they itched and burned like crazy. I asked, “Was Becky your kid?”
    “My kid ?” Miss Smith gave a bark of harsh laughter. “No. She was my friend. My best friend. We were at university together. This was her house, she left it to me.”
    “And Butter,” I said, remembering.
    “She gave me Butter long before she died. She wanted me to like horses, the way she did. It didn’t take.”
    “What killed her?” I asked.
    “Pneumonia. That’s a sickness in the lungs.”
    I nodded. Talking to Miss Smith had helped my panic subside. I unclenched my hands from the blankets and lay back down. “You could sleep here,” I said to Miss Smith. Jamie was in the middle of the bed, so there was room on her side.
    She shook her head. “No, I’ll—well, maybe. Just this once.” She slid in beside Jamie and pulled the blankets over herself. I pulled my end over myself, feeling again the unexpected softness, the warmth.

    The next thing I knew the room was full of light, the sound of church bells was coming through the open windows, and Miss Smith was saying, “Oh, Jamie, you wet the bed.”
    He never did, at home. I remembered the surly salesman who’d complained about his evacuees’ bedwetting, and I gave Jamie such a glare that he burst into tears.
    “No matter,” Miss Smith said, though she looked annoyed. “It’ll all wash. Monday we’ll buy a rubber sheet in case it happens again.”
    She was all the time having to buy stuff. I said, mostly to ease my worry, “Of course, you’re rich.” Of course she was, with the posh house and all the food, not to mention a bank to hand her money.
    “Far from it,” she replied. “I’ve been living off the sale of Becky’s hunters.” She stood up, stretching. “What’s with those blasted bells? Have we slept that long? I suppose I should be taking you to church, that’s what a decent guardian would do.” She shrugged. “Too late now.”
    Downstairs she made tea. She told Jamie to put the radio on. A deep, sonorous voice came out of it, very solemn and slow. Something about it made Jamie and me sit to listen. Miss Smith came in from the kitchen and perched on the edge of the chair.
    The Voice said, “As the prime minister announced just a short time ago, England and Germany are now at war.”
    The church bells had gone silent. Jamie said, “Will they bomb us now?” and Miss Smith nodded and said, “Yes.”

Up until then, that morning, I’d forgotten about the bombs. They were supposed to be in London, not here at Miss Smith’s house, but even so I’d forgotten them. You wouldn’t think you could forget a thing like bombs.
    The squelchy feeling swirled in my stomach again. “What do they mean, we are now at war?” I asked. “Weren’t we already? We’re here.”
    “The government evacuated cities ahead of time,” Miss Smith explained. “They knew the war was coming, just not exactly when.”
    “If they knew it was coming, they could have stopped it,” I said.
    Miss Smith shook her head. “You can’t stop Hitler without a fight. Don’t worry, Ada. You’ll be safe, and your mother will be safe, and I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon.”
    The way she said it, with a fake smile, told me she was lying. I didn’t know why she would lie.
    “I hope not,” I said, before I thought. I bit back my next words, which were, I’d rather be here.
    Miss Smith looked startled. She seemed about to say something, but, before she could, Jamie began to cry. “I want to go home,” he said. “I don’t want a war. I don’t want bombs. I’m scared. I want to go home.”
    When I thought of going home, I couldn’t breathe. Home was more frightening than bombs. What was Jamie thinking?
    Miss Smith sighed. She took her handkerchief and wiped the tears and snot off Jamie’s face. “No one’s