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Six Years of Darkness

by J. Davey

289 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0540; ISBN 1-4120-0172-2; US$24.50, C$28.00, EUR20.00, £14.00

Creative non-fiction introduces readers to Joni who survives WWII as an enemy alien in England. Learn about her harrowing days during the war, and the new life she discovers afterwards.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Part One: SIX YEARS OF DARKNESS Refugees from the Nazis, seventeen-year-old Joni Morgen and her mother arrive in blacked out London in November 1939, after an eight-months stint as domestic servants at a seaside resort. Standing on the wet pavement outside Victoria Station, Joni takes one look at the hustle and bustle of the busy street and is immediately sucked into the spirit of this great city. There is no other place where she wants to be at this time in history. She remains in London through air raids, destruction, shortages, financial stresses and twelve hour work days. Finally the war was over. With youthful optimism she writes: "Peace! Peace on Earth! No man, woman or child will ever be killed again, no bomb dropped, no torpedo fired. World peace. How long mankind longed for that. Now it*s real." Part Two: THIS NEW LIFE Seven years after the war, Britain is still trying to recover from its devastation. Disillusioned, tired of unending rationing, bomb-damaged buildings, shortages and personal restrictions, Joni and her friend Gerda, both alone in the world immigrate to Canada. An unexpectedly carefree and exciting new life opens up for thirty-year-old Joni, a striking contrast to the severity of the war years. The personal nature of these stories allows the reader to walk in the shoes of an "enemy alien" during the war, and an adventurous young woman seeking a purpose in life after the war.

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About the Author The author lived and worked in London during WWII, immigrated to Canada after the war and finally settled in Seattle. She is a wife, mother and grandmother. J. Davey's work can also be found in a recent publication entitled THE OLDER THE FIDDLE THE BETTER THE TUNE by Willard Scott. As of June 19th, 2003, Scott's book has reached #19 on the New York Times bestseller list. Other contributors to THE OLDER THE FIDDLE THE BETTER THE TUNE include Art Buchwald, Bill Cosby, Art Linkletter, Jayne Medows, John Updike and Leon Uris to name but a few.

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Sample Excerpts

From Part One

After several detours due to new bomb damage I was late for work and surprised not to hear the radio blaring. Everyone was quiet, some of the girls had been crying.

Elsie's chair was empty. My heart stopped beating. I knew instantly.

"Elsie?" I asked Lore. She nodded. She was crying.

I could not cry. The pain was tearing me apart, my chest was burning, but I couldn't cry.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice so hoarse I didn't recognize it. Lore shook her head, she couldn't answer.

Later, when I found out what happened, I couldn't think of anything else. My throat seemed to be closed, I couldn't eat or drink. Early in the afternoon I told Jake I was ill, I needed to go home. He didn't argue.

Mama was out. Without taking off my coat I reached for my diary.

20 October 1940 Elsie was killed last night. She went back into the house to get the thermos of tea her aunt had forgotten and had almost reached the tube shelter when a bomb exploded a few feet from her. All they found were bits of clothes.

There was nothing left of her! Nothing left of her round, cheerful face, of the blond hair she'd had newly permed and was so proud of! Nothing left of this kind, selfless girl who'd do anything for anybody, but take nonsense from no one.

She was nineteen, going to be married next year. Nothing left! God, how could you let this happen! You let a criminal like Hitler escape a bomb directed at him, but Elsie, who never hurt a soul, be blown to bits. That's not justice!

Nothing left! Yesterday she was laughing and singing, today there is nothing left.

Mama came home and I stared at her blankly. "My God!" she said. "What happened?" She came over and put her arms around me. Then I cried and couldn't stop.

From Part Two

Christmas dinner was to be at three o'clock. With incredible foresight -or perhaps my mania for planning-I insisted that we prepare some of the food the evening before.

Gerda and I made the cranberry sauce-the package came with directions -scraped the carrots and potatoes the way we had learned on our dinner demonstrations. She put them into bowls in the refrigerator. Gladys made her apple pie. When she took it out of the oven at midnight it looked wonderful.

I'd set the alarm for six. After a leisurely breakfast I went to work on the turkey. It would take six hours to cook and I wanted to be sure it was done. I unwrapped it, rinsed it under the tap and put it in the pan. It hung over at both ends.

I tried hard, but could not get the turkey into the oven of our small, two burner stove.

Too shocked for words I fell into the nearest seat. Gerda came in, followed by Gladys, and all three of us stared at the turkey.

"Cut it in half," Gerda suggested after a moment.

"How's that going to help? I can't get the whole thing in, how can I get in two halves?"

"Well," Gerda said. "Cook one half for three hours, then the other half for three hours. While we eat the first half the second half can be reheating."

I smiled with relief. "Boy, are you clever this morning!"

But a turkey is not made for cutting in half, especially with blunt knives. We chopped pieces off here and there until it fitted into the oven. The giblets we never noticed.

At two o'clock Gerda put the vegetables on. Usually we ate at the dinette in the kitchen, but for this special occasion we set the dining table in the living room. We were debating how to put candles on the table without candlesticks, when the smell of burning reached us. We dashed into the kitchen. Gerda hadn't put enough water in the carrots and they were burned beyond redemption.

While Gladys and I jumped all over the place, Gerda remained calm. "So we'll just have peas."

"How many cans did you buy?"

"One," she said sheepishly. Never losing her sense of humor, she grinned. "I think we can have five peas each."

"Gerda!" Gladys said, thrusting out her chin in disgust. "How can you laugh about it?"

"You want me to cry?"

Gladys didn't answer. She took a knife and went to cut her pie. The knife would not go through the crust. Gerda and I had stopped what we were doing to watch. Gladys pushed harder and the Pyrex pie dish slid off the Formica table, crashed to the floor and broke into pieces, scattering pie all over the kitchen. Stunned, we stared at the mess. Gladys broke into tears and fled to the bathroom. I looked at Gerda. Her eyes glistened suspiciously. Not from tears, from laughter.

"Don't you dare!" I said. It was too late. I quickly shut the kitchen door, but Gladys heard us.

"I don't think it's at all nice that you're laughing at me," she said, returning from the bathroom.

I put my arm around her shoulder.

"Gladys, we're not laughing at you. Yours isn't the only disaster. We're laughing at ourselves for attempting such a thing. If we get this dinner on the table it'll be a bloody miracle!"

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Catalogue Information

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