Page 15 of A Thousand Painted Hours

It’s all so wasteful. That’s what I think about, the utter mess of it. War wastes lives, but also everything else. It lays to waste homes and perfectly good streets that have to then be rebuilt, and parks that have been standing for years and years. What will be left when all the shouting and fighting is over? Where will the homeless live? What will be left of London, Paris, Berlin? How long will it take to smooth the fields and repopulate them with wheat and sheep?

To tell you the truth, Tanveer, some part of me was so very sure that it would never come to this, even as I’ve already witnessed one war and all the catastrophe it unleashed, even as Paris fell. I had hoped that England might emerge unscathed. The heart bends toward hope, I suppose, or at least mine does.

My heart hoped that something would clog the war machine, this destructive monster mowing everything down in front of it, before it got here. Even after the Germans bombed the ports to the south, the aerodromes, the various targets that one would expect to see destroyed.

I ask you, what point is there to all of this? When it’s all done, what will be left of Europe, of England? Wasn’t it enough to destroy a generation once before?

Never mind.

Let me think of something happier. We told the story of when the tiger first came the village tonight, how she terrified us all. I was so sure that if I met her in person, we would be friends, as if she were a creature in a fairy story. How I wish I could capture that sense of possibility tonight, that wonder.

Tell me what transpires in your world. How does India fare these days? How is your family? Give my love to Channan and Kirandeep.

Your friend always,

Elsie

—8—

The all clear sounded at 4:00 a.m. I helped Mother upstairs, and looked for Peter, but he was nowhere to be found. I tumbled into my bed and fell into a hard sleep.

It was the ringing phone that awakened me. Electricity zapped my nerves as I rushed down the stairs, worrying who might be hurt or need help or have news. My brain ran through a litany of people I worried about, but mainly Betty, who must not be here if the phone went unanswered.

I snatched the receiver at seven or eight rings. “Hello?”

The line sounded staticky, and it was a moment before a voice came through. “Elsie, is that you?” The tone was tinny and far away, but I knew it instantly.

“Tanveer!” I sank into the chair by the phone table, pressing the earpiece harder to my head as if to clear the line. “How in the world are you calling? Where are you?”

“I am in Delhi, and it was complicated.” His voice, so rich and particularly accented, filled my ear, my head, sent relief cascading through my body. “I couldn’t bear not knowing if you were safe.”

“I am safe. Mother is safe.”

“I have been so worried. The reports have been terrible.”

I imagined him sitting in a telegraph office, dressed in a loose, fashionable suit, wearing good shoes—his city clothes. The visual settled the thready beat of my heart, calmed me enough that I could take a deep,long breath. “Itwasterrible,” I said. “It just went on and on and on. They didn’t sound the all clear until nearly four.”

Silence fell between us, echoing down the line. A twist of the connection made his reply staccato, and I couldn’t decipher it. “I didn’t understand that. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” The word came through as if he were sitting right next to me, and the next phrase was so clear I could hear the raw worry. “Please keep speaking.”

“The cellar held up well. We drank tea.”

He chuckled, as I’d hoped. “Tea cures all.” And then, in Hindustani, he said, “I was so afraid you would be killed. It was—” The line swallowed the words.

“I wrote you a letter,” I said in the same language.

“Will you write me every day, so I know that—”you are still alive.

“Ha, yes,” I said, softly. “Will you write to me, too? It will give me something to look forward to in all the madness.”

“Every day,” he promised. His voice deepened in sorrow. “They’ll destroy the whole of Europe this time.”

Tears rose in my throat as I thought of the letter I’d written. “It is unbearable.”

“No,” he said, clearly. “It is bearable. You will bear it, and you will live. Do you understand?”

I took a breath. “I promise. You should be grateful Kirandeep is too young to fight.”