June 14, 1942
I sit here in the cramped flat at 12Baker Street, the same stale air that has been my companion for three years now. Two women occupy the adjoining room, and they are as close as sisters can be, though there is a decade between them. If you didnt notice the age gap, you might swear they were twins.
Both are gaunt, wiry, with thin pursed lips and a permanent frown etched into their faces. Their hair is pulled back into tight knots, and they wear identical drab grey overalls that blend into the brick walls. The whole block scorns them, fears them, and looks down on them in equal measure.
The younger lads on the estate loathe them because the two are forever making remarks, forever dissatisfiedcomplaining about the music that blares from the common room, about the latenight gatherings, about the constant clatter. The children keep their distance, knowing the older women will tattle to the council if they hear a single light left on in the communal bathroom or a discarded wrapper on the hallway floor.
Ethel, the sweettempered one, is despised for everything she lacks: a university degree, a husband, children, and for the way she constantly scolds everyone. Yet she never meddles. When the boys Vicky and Sidney sneak back after curfew, she barely lifts an eyebrow. Thats the way of itthese two are simply the sort of women they are.
The youngsters, however, love Ethel. She never rats them out to the wardens, no matter what mischief they get up to. She just gives a sly smile, a quick wink, and keeps quiet. The flat is always noisy, a constant hum of voices and footsteps.
Often it was Agnes Parker, the elder of the two, who would step out, purse her lips, and lecture the boys:
Now, you cant be shouting so loud! Someone might be trying to sleep. Old Mr. Peters from the night shift is back, and perhaps Miss Valentina is trying to finish her novel, shed say, pointing toward the cracked door where Mabel, her sister, was indeed penning a story.
The whole block would snigger, and Ethel would always be the first to join in.
Val, when are you going to finish that book? Im tired of waiting! I could read it tonight, the old lady would demand, bursting into giggles that all the neighbours picked up.
Mabel would tighten her already thin lips, say nothing, and retreat to the room where she sobbed quietly on her sisters shoulder.
Agnes, why do you keep talking about the book? Theyre already laughing at us, she whispered.
Let them laugh, her sister soothed. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont take it to heart. Dont weep.
Then in 1941 the war escalated, and by September the Blitz began. The hunger didnt hit us straight away; at first there was just the cold. The flat slowly adjusted to the new reality: ration coupons, halfempty rooms, the wail of airraid sirens, the absence of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of our neighbours, and an eerie quiet that gnawed at the soul more than any prewar clamor.
The youths no longer strummed guitars, and the children stopped playing hideandseek. It was hushed and still, a silence that tore at us deeper than any bomb.
Agnes and Mabel grew even thinner, but they still wore their grey overalls, draped over them like a second skin, and kept watch over the flatnow over different things. Ethel only left when absolutely necessary, and one day she simply vanished. She didnt return. Agnes and Mabel searched for her for days, but she was gone as if she had never existed.
In the spring of 42 the first death struck our block. Mother of Tommy, a lanky boy of eleven, passed away, leaving him utterly alone. We all felt sorry for the lad, but there was little we could dowar had taken everything else. The sisters took him under their wing, fed him, looked after him. Soon after, Vasily and Jimmy lost their mothers as well; their fathers were away at the front, with no word for months. Agnes and Mabel became their de facto guardians, watching over not just those three but over all the children in the buildinga veritable army of orphans.
Each day, the sisters boiled a pot of soup once, stirring it for ages, adding whatever scraps they could find. The pantry was nearly empty, yet the broth turned out richer than any wed tasted before. All the kids ate from it at the same hour, every day, and they christened it Rascal.
Grandma Agnes, why call it Rascal? I recall you called Vicky that name once, Tommy asked, his curiosity bright.
A tear slipped down Agness cheek at the mention of Vickyno boy had lived here since the war beganbut she answered gently:
Arthur! We make this soup the Rascal way, thats why it bears that name.
Whats the Rascal way? the boy pressed.
The way you toss everything you can find into the potmillet, barley, even a splash of gluelike broth if youre lucky, perhaps a spoonful of tinned meat. Then I pluck a tiny crumb of sugar from my pocket, pop it straight into the lads mouth so none of it is lost in the handoverhand passing, Agnes explained, patting his head.
Tommy, go see if Grandma Mabel has any glue left, Im about to season this Rascal, he shouted, the flat resonating with the chatter.
Soon all the orphaned children were gathered into the sisters room. They lived together, warmth spreading through the cold walls. Mabel would tell them bedtime stories from her unfinished manuscript, the very book that had long been destined for the fire. She remembered each tale perfectly and even invented new ones on the spot.
Grandma Mabel, will you tell us the one about the Beauty of the Snowy Hills tonight? a little girl begged.
I will, Mabel replied, and began.
Every child had chores: Tommy stoked the coal fire, Vasily gathered wood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were distributed, and the soup was tended. Songs rose each morning, led by Jimmys voicewhether you knew the words or not, you sang along.
One day Agnes brought in a girl from the street, neardead, and rescued her. Mabel later found another boy, then another, and another By the end of the siege, twelve children lived under the sisters roof, all of them alive. A miracle, no doubt.
Even after the war, we kept making Rascal soup. The children grew up, scattered across the country, but never forgot Agnes and Mabel. Their flat became a pilgrimage for their grownup children, who visited often, bringing food and stories. Both women lived nearly to a hundred, their storybooktitled My Dear Council Blockfilled with tales of each grandchild theyd raised.
Every May9th we gathered at Agness and Mabels hearth while they were still with us, a big, happy family that kept expanding, even welcoming greatgrandchildren.
And the staple on our table? You guessed itRascal soup. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and the stubborn spirit of those who refused to let the darkness win.
Looking back, I realize that the smallest acts of caring can turn a bleak world into a place where hope still breathes. That is the lesson I carry with me now.
