The Underground Library

by Jennifer Ryan

And as she stood, the pink petals from the cherry tree blew from the tree in front of the house, some resting on her shoulders, and she suddenly felt the shiver of how transitory life was, how nothing ever stayed the same, every life fluttering in the wind.

Her mind went back to the book she had found late one night, hidden in her father’s library. It was titled The Brown Book of Hitler’s Terror, written by those worried about the Nazis’ tyranny. As she read page after page, the full realization of what could happen to her family descended on her.

“It will surprise you what people can do, especially if we go to war. Everyone will be looking the other way. No one will see what is happening under their very noses because they will not want to.”

Looking ahead to her new home, she’d read A Room with a View—would the Wainwright’s house be adorned with wisteria and croquet lawns? She tried to remember every description from the novel, letting the heartwarming tale comfort her, removing her from the strange, prickling fear that gripped her inside.

tempestuous,

capacious

profligate

He’d slipped her a book, The Edwardians, and she’d read it that night, barely able to wait until the next day to discuss it.

That’s where their hands accidentally touched, his fingers covering hers as she passed him a battered copy of The Rise of the Educated Classes.

“To me, books are like old friends, telling us great truths, holding our hands through the difficulties, showing us light and joy at the end of every tunnel.”

“Sometimes all I need is to see my battered copy of Pride and Prejudice to know that the characters are there inside me, warming my spirit, telling me to live life on my own terms, comforting me that everything will be all right in the end.”

doyens.”

“And I like murder mysteries,” Mrs. Ottley said, adding with relish: “A good Agatha Christie makes for a perfect evening.”

“But life isn’t always about choosing the plot. It’s about plunging in or plugging on, becoming submerged in your own story, having the courage to dip your head beneath the surface.”

Today I was reading T. S. Eliot writing about being stuck on the front in the last war: ‘For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.’ ”

obsequiousness

What had she been thinking? And she made a vow. Next time, she would be more prepared, find the best shelters. Next time, she would stop depending on her parents to know what was best. Next time, she would trust herself.

Juliet flicked open the first page of Emma, by Jane Austen. “This is one of my favorites.”

The first is called ‘Hope.’ It’s by an American poet, Emily Dickinson.” “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

be the end of her story. She mustn’t let this defeat her. And as she took in a great lungful of air, she felt the small bird of hope inside her singing for all it was worth,

In her daze, she muttered, “What happened to you, Sebastian? You’re so different now.” “I suppose the war makes you see a different side of life. I was responsible for my unit, some hardly more than boys. I had to grow up, make good decisions, safeguard them as best I could, even when I couldn’t.”

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. And as the opening lines of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities swam in front of her eyes, she grasped the true and immense power of books. How they could transcend time and speak to an inner voice.

“Life isn’t always straightforward, though,” Irene said, her pale blue eyes glistening. “Sometimes we have to find the courage to try something new, not worry about how it might turn out.”

enigmatic

Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die.

How she wished things could have been different. And it was with this in mind that later that evening, when everyone had left the library, she lit the lantern she kept under the main desk and slid out a single book from one of the bookcases, Goodbye to All That, by Robert Graves, checking it out in her own name.

portentously.

A book isn’t just a physical object; once you’ve read it, it becomes a thought, a story, a memory that is alive inside you forever.

incongruous.

“Come and find me in the service passage after the reading

reticent,

unctuousness

effusive

You needed to love every day with every ounce of energy you had—in case this one was your last.

Sometimes all you need is the right people in your life.” She clenched her lips into a line. “Friends can make life bearable through the unbearable.”

“Libraries aren’t only about books; they’re about people. They’re about human

life, how books can mend hearts, comfort wounds, and inspire us. But most of all, books can bring people together. Their ideas and thoughts make us realize that we are not alone, that we are all connected.”

At least three babies were born underground, including the celebrity Jerry Springer, who was born in Highgate Station in 1944.

The term “cultural genocide” did not exist until decades after the Second World War,

The experience of nuns helping to hide Sofie in the train across Europe came from the account of a young woman in similar circumstances that I read in the impeccable reference book, Millions Like Us by Virginia Nicholson.