The War That Saved My Life
Language: English
Pages: 336
ISBN: 0147510481
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
*2016 Newbery Honor book
*Winner of the 2016 Schneider Family Book Award
This New York Times bestseller is an exceptionally moving story of triumph against all odds set during World War 2. For fans of Counting by 7s.
Nine-year-old Ada has never left her one-room apartment. Her mother is too humiliated by Ada’s twisted foot to let her outside. So when her little brother Jamie is shipped out of London to escape the war, Ada doesn’t waste a minute—she sneaks out to join him.
So begins a new adventure of Ada, and for Susan Smith, the woman who is forced to take the two kids in. As Ada teaches herself to ride a pony, learns to read, and watches for German spies, she begins to trust Susan—and Susan begins to love Ada and Jamie. But in the end, will their bond be enough to hold them together through wartime? Or will Ada and her brother fall back into the cruel hands of their mother?
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counter, and he counted out money and gave it to her. “A money store,” Jamie whispered, eyes wide. I nodded. We sure didn’t have one of those on our lane. We were back wearing our clothes from the day before—we couldn’t have gone into town wearing only Miss Smith’s shirts—but Miss Smith had washed them so we looked and smelled nice. She marched us into a store that sold clothing anyhow, and bought us each a new set of clothes, top and bottom, and something called underwear, which she said we
from the Swiss Family Robinson book. Susan said onagers were like donkeys. You could ride them. They were nothing like cats. “Don’t you dare take that animal into your bedroom,” Susan yelled after him. “I’m not,” Jamie said, “I’m giving him a bath.” “Good Lord,” Susan said, to me. “We’ll have to call an ambulance. It’ll scratch him to death.” It didn’t. Jamie bathed the mangy cat and drowned its fleas. He brought it back downstairs wrapped in one of Susan’s best towels. He fed it part of his
blanket with Bovril’s face peeping out beneath his chin. Susan snored gently. One of her arms was flung up, under her ear; the other still rested across me. Her hair had come out of its bun and was sticking out in all directions. She had a long red furrow down one cheek from where I’d scratched her, and her blouse—her best blouse—had a rip at the shoulder and a button hanging by a thread. She looked like she’d been in a war. I was so completely wound in a gray blanket that I could only move my
later. They didn’t upset me, not when I’d already helped Dunkirk soldiers firsthand. But those newsreels showed a lie. In them, the soldiers evacuating Dunkirk looked tired, but happy. Under their tin hats their faces were dirty, but their eyes shone bright. They grinned and waved and gave thumbs-ups to the camera. Stalwart British fighters, heroic and grateful to be home. Maybe there were soldiers like that somewhere. The ones in our village were shot, dead or dying; others were sick from the
planes every day. Germany lost more. New planes flew into our airfield from the north of England. New pilots came straight from their training fields. They went up every day, and not all of them came back. We had to win this battle, Susan said, or we would lose the war. On the radio Prime Minister Churchill said, “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.” It meant the pilots were saving us all. It meant they were the only thing keeping the Germans away.
