On this winter solstice day 2020, we seem to be truly entering dark times. The coronavirus is surging worldwide, even in nations or states that took the pandemic seriously from the start and where the authorities have demonstrated effective leadership. Here in California, where we thought we had flattened the curve back in the summer, cases and deaths are soaring, hospitals are overflowing, health care workers overwhelmed.
Thanks to the ingenuity and diligence of our 21st century scientists, two vaccines have been developed with incredible speed and are now approved for emergency use. And in the U.S., there is the promise of decent, science-based leadership at the Federal level starting January 20th. These are two bright spots of light at the end of the tunnel. But the tunnel remains long and dark. It’s clear that our lives will not return to normal for several more months, that many more people will get sick and die before the virus is eradicated.
I am reminded through all this of the last year of World War II in England. I immersed myself in the history of this period while working on my novel When Its Over, published in 2017, and based on my mother’s experience living as a Holocaust refugee in war-torn London. Growing up in the 1950’s, I’d heard tales of living through the war from all the adults in my life, but it wasn’t until I was researching for the novel—after the death of both my parents—that I came to fully appreciate what the waning months of the war were like for those on the home front.
After the success of the D-Day landings in Normandy in June 1944, it was clear that the Allies would be victorious. The days of the Nazi regime were numbered. But a lot more suffering lay ahead. In October 1944, Hitler launched his “revenge” weapons in the notorious V1 and V2 rocket attacks, wreaking death and destruction on London and other British cities.
These bombs were more deadly than the Blitz had been during the Battle of Britain in 1940. They dropped at any time of day or night, with no advance warning from air-raid sirens. Whole blocks were demolished in seconds, leaving only a gaping crater. And people’s nerves were frazzled; they had endured years of deprivation and rationing, and were ready for it all to be over.
I think of this as I stand in line to get into the grocery store. My parents both died in their early eighties, more than fifteen years ago now, and I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about the vulnerability of aging relatives during this pandemic. Yet I wish I could talk to them about how they coped with six long years of war. Perhaps because they had lived through the Great Depression, they didn’t take easy living for granted. Certainly, they benefited from strong national leadership providing a unified sense of purpose. People came together and helped each other out. And surely, they demonstrated a resilience we can all learn from today.
Everyone around me is feeling the strain of social distancing, of having to wear masks whenever you leave the house, of not being able to find what you need at the store. I desperately want to travel again, to attend concerts and sporting events, to see family and friends who live afar. And I’m very conscious that millions have suffered far greater hardship than I or my family have experienced. It’s gone on for far too long. The third wave is worse than we feared.
The sun has set on this solstice, the longest night of the year. The days will be getting brighter now. We can do this. Keep calm and carry on. The end is in sight.
