What does a fire engine mean to you? You probably visualize the usual car, painted in the traditional red, with sirens whining and firemen in their odd pointed hats. You, who have always lived in the United States, are used to them and especially to their sirens. It is of these wailing instruments that I wish to speak, of the seconds of terror they gave my one night here in Cambridge. Don’t think I am going to describe a fire; no actual facts, but purely imaginative ones inspired this fear.

A word of explanation is necessary. I left the German-occupied territories four months ago, having been there since the beginning of the war. I was in Paris during the air raids of the winter of 1939-1940. These raids, as you may know, are signaled by the use of sirens which give the alarm, and that is what I think of when I hear them.

One of the first nights I slept in Cambridge, I was awakened by what seemed like a familiar sound. Sirens! My room was very dark; I could only vaguely distinguish one of the windows. It didn’t seem to be quite in the right part of the room but, as I am very used to changing the location of my bed, this didn’t worry me. Then I realized that through this open window came the sound of sirens. They were modulating, up and down, up and down, some being on the high notes while others were on the low ones. That meant the beginning of an air raid! I felt something tighten in me; I listened as carefully as I could for the sound of the planes that always come a few minutes after the sirens. My room seemed stuffy, I wondered that the cold December air was not coming in.

It seemed to me that I could hear the far way drone of an airplane. It must have been very high up, but it didn’t come any nearer. Then I realized it must have been the blood pounding through the veins in my head. The sirens were growing fainter which seemed very strange as they never did that; they always stopped short. I was still half asleep, however, and my brain was functioning very slowly. I wondered if the rest of my family, my father or my mother, had been awakened by the “alerte” as the French call it. Should I really go to the cellar? I wondered if I should sneak down and turn off the electric and gas meters as we had been told to do. This woke me up a little more, though I still thought I was in Paris.

Then came the worst part of this waking nightmare of which I remember very little. My ears still straining for something to focus on, detected the distant drone of a plane. It came closer and closer and in proportion to its approach I felt a wild and uncontrollable impulse to run, I knew not where. But I couldn’t move. My last thought was that as the drone was low-pitched, it was a German plane. Then came a blank. I found myself sitting up in bed. Wide awake at last with my heart pounding so hard I felt a throbbing all over my body. The plane was directly overhead flying low and making a great roar. Now, however, I could distinguish the features of my room; the four big windows and the general position of the furniture made my realize I was no longer in Paris but here in Cambridge. I was safe!

Ever since I have been in the United States, the sirens on fire engines and police cars have been associated with Paris and air raids, but I never had such a complete imaginative reconstruction. We usually had our alarm at night, and here the setting was perfect for the circumstances to evoke a complete experience.