A Bilingual Children's Story About Family History and WW2

This bilingual children's story follows Issy and Poppy as they discover their Dad's mother's handwritten memories of living through World War Two in London. Through gentle questions and honest answers, this story introduces children to family history, wartime Britain, and the importance of remembering. Perfect for ages 6-12, this bilingual children's story handles difficult history with sensitivity whilst honouring those who lived through it.

My talking detective rescue greyhounds are chatting in the afternoon sun in the courtyard of Casa Adora in Monte Lope Álvarez, rural Andalucía.

Poppy: Wait, what? Dad has a Mum?

Issy: Claro. Well, he did. She died a few years ago. She was lovely.

Poppy: What, you met her? In England? You've never been to England.

Issy: I know. During the first year Dad rescued me, she came to stay for six weeks.

Poppy: What was she like? Did she like dogs?

Issy: As I said, she was lovely. A lovely old lady. And yes, she loved me.

Poppy: How old?

Issy: She was 86 years old when she visited. 93 when she died.

Poppy: That's really old.

Issy: We used to walk up to the gasolinera bar for coffee, then we'd walk along the track that leads to the cemetery.

Poppy: That's a long walk!

Issy: For an 86-year-old, yes. But she was lively. Calm, but she could talk a lot. She liked reading, crosswords, and knitting.

Poppy: What else?

Issy: She wasn't very tall. Four foot ten inches.

Poppy: What's that in our language?

Issy: One metre forty-seven.

Poppy: Not much taller than me, then. Does Dad talk about her?

Issy: Sometimes. Actually, I heard him talk to his dad once.

Poppy: What, he was here too?

Issy: No, he died a long time ago. Dad was asking him how to operate a power tool.

Poppy: Wait, Dad has power tools?

Issy: Yes, a shed full. But you'd never know.

Both girls laughed, their tails thumping against the warm tiles.

Later that afternoon, whilst Dad was making tea in the kitchen, the girls wandered into his office. It wasn't really an office—more of a small room with a desk, a chair that squeaked, and shelves lined with books nobody ever seemed to read.

Poppy squeezed herself under the desk, her favourite spot when Dad was working.

Poppy: Ay, there's not enough room.

She nudged a cardboard box with her nose, trying to shift it further under the desk.

Issy: Cuidado, Pops. That might be important.

Too late. The box tipped, and papers scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.

Poppy: Oops.

Issy bent down, sniffing the papers.

Issy: These smell old. Like… like libraries.

Poppy picked one up gently in her mouth, then set it down to read.

Poppy: It's handwriting. Someone wrote this. Look—"My name is Sylvia Christine Morrison…"

Issy: That's Dad's mum! His mother. I told you about her.

Poppy: Why did she write all this?

Issy scanned the pages.

Issy: Mira. It says "WW2 and the London Blitz." I think… I think these are her memories. La guerra. The war.

Poppy: We should tell Dad.

They found him in the kitchen, dunking a Garibaldi into his tea.

Dad: What have you two got?

Issy dropped the papers carefully onto the table.

Issy: Lo siento, Dad. We knocked over a box in your office.

Dad set down his mug and picked up the top sheet. His face changed—softened, somehow.

Dad: Ah. Mum's notes.

Poppy: Your mum wrote all that?

Dad: She did. I asked her to tell me about her life during the war. We'd talk on video calls—she was still in England — and she'd tell me stories. Then she started writing them down. Pages and pages. Her handwriting got shakier as she got older, but she kept writing.

Issy: ¿Por qué? Why did she write it?

Dad: So we wouldn't forget. So her grandchildren and great-grandchildren would know what she lived through.

He picked up another page, squinting at the cramped handwriting.

Dad: After she died, I typed everything up and put it on my website. But I couldn't throw these away. Her actual words, in her actual hand. It felt… wrong.

Poppy: Can you read some to us?

Dad looked at both greyhounds, then back at the papers.

Dad: Are you sure? Some of it's quite… heavy. Frightening, even.

Issy: We're detectives, Dad. We can handle it.

Dad smiled.

Dad: Alright then. Pull up a cushion.

Grandma's Story: Selected Moments

Dad settled into his chair, the girls curled at his feet. He began reading, slowly, sometimes stopping to explain.

The Big Family

Dad: "At this time I lived at 574 Garratt Lane, Earlsfield, London, with my parents and eight siblings. Two sisters and six brothers."

Poppy: Eight? That's a lot of brothers and sisters!

Dad: Nine children in total. Can you imagine?

Issy: ¿Cómo dormían todos? Where did they all sleep?

Dad: Four bedrooms. They shared. A lot.

He turned the page.

Dad: Not all of them survived childhood. One brother died when he was just two weeks old. Another at eighteen months. That was common back then—no antibiotics, diseases we don't worry about now.

Poppy pressed closer to Dad's leg.

Evacuation

Dad: "We were aware that war was coming, everybody thought London was going to be invaded, so I, aged 9 years, my brothers and sisters were evacuated to Cranleigh in Surrey in July or August 1939."

Poppy: What's evacuated?

Dad: Sent away. To the countryside, away from the cities where the bombing would happen. Children were put on trains and sent to live with strangers.

Issy: Sin sus padres? Without their parents?

Dad: Without their parents. Mum says here she was unhappy. She wanted to go home. Eventually, her dad brought them back, even though it was dangerous.

Poppy: That's really brave. Going back to be with family even when it's scary.

Dad: It is, isn't it?

The Morrison Shelter

Dad: "We had an Anderson air raid shelter in our garden but it wasn't big enough, so we got a steel Morrison shelter—sleeps eight—which was erected in the kitchen."

Poppy: A shelter? In the kitchen?

Dad: Like a big steel cage. A table, really, with metal sides. When the sirens went off—warning that bombers were coming—the whole family would crawl inside and wait.

He read further.

Dad: "One night us kids were in the Morrison shelter and I heard my Dad shout out, 'if you think that is going to help then you have another thing coming'—my Mum was on her hands and knees with just her head poked in the shelter."

Issy: Pobrecita. She was scared.

Dad: Everyone was scared. Mum says at the end, "Overall, was I frightened? You bet I was."

A silence settled over them.

Rationing and Making Do

Dad flipped through the pages, looking for something lighter.

Dad: Here—this bit's quite interesting. "Clothing rationing was announced on 1 June 1941. We used to 'make do and mend.'"

Poppy: What's that mean?

Dad: They couldn't buy new things. Everything was rationed—food, clothes, petrol, even sweets. Eight ounces of sweets per month. That's about this much.

He made a small shape with his hands.

Dad: So they'd patch clothes, hand them down to younger siblings, make new things from old curtains or blackout material.

Issy: ¿Qué comían? What did they eat?

Dad read from the list.

Dad: "Sunday: roast brisket, potatoes and Yorkshire puddings. Monday: leftovers. Tuesday: bacon bone and vegetable stew…"

He looked up.

Dad: They ate bacon bone stew for two days running. Dried powdered egg. Bread and dripping. Mum says, 'I don't remember being hungry, but I am sure the boys were.'

Poppy: That's sad.

Dad: But they managed. Everyone did. Her dad had an allotment—a little plot of land where he grew vegetables. Half the park was turned into allotments. There were posters everywhere: "Dig for Victory."

Issy: Como nuestro huerto. Like our vegetable garden here.

Dad: Exactly like that. Growing your own food because you have to.

Brother Fred

Dad's voice grew quieter as he read the next section.

Dad: "On 20 May 1940, somewhere near St Omer in northern France, my eldest brother Fred was taken prisoner. Together with other POWs he was forced marched 500 kilometres to Poland where he had to work in a salt mine."

Poppy: Five hundred kilometres? That's…

Dad: That's from here to Madrid and back again. On foot. With hardly any food.

He continued.

Dad: "Meanwhile, my mother had received a telegram to say that he was 'missing in action—presumed killed.'"

Issy: Pero… but he wasn't dead?

Dad: No. They found out six months later he was alive. He was imprisoned for years. But he was musical—he played the clarinet—and the Red Cross sent him one. It kept him going.

Dad paused.

Dad: Later, when the prisoners were marched out before the Red Army arrived, Fred swapped his clarinet for a loaf of bread. That's how hungry he was.

No one spoke for a moment.

Poppy: Did he come home?

Dad: He did. After the Americans liberated them, he made his way back. He and Mum's other brother, Reg, both came home. And Reg brought a friend with him—David Morrison. Who later married Mum and became my dad.

Issy: Entonces without the war, you wouldn't exist.

Dad: Strange, isn't it? All these huge, terrible things, and somehow they lead to… us. To you two lying here listening.

The V2 Rocket

Dad hesitated before reading the next section.

Dad: This bit's frightening. Are you sure you want to hear it?

Both greyhounds nodded.

Dad: "One Sunday morning at around 8:30 in 1944, we heard a tremendously loud explosion. It was a V2 rocket that dropped onto Hazlehurst and Foss Roads. At least thirty-five people were killed and over one hundred injured."

Poppy shivered.

Dad: "It was where my sister's best friend, Dolly Flowers, lived. Joan dragged me off in search of her. We arrived to total devastation, people running around, mothers screaming and crying."

He looked up.

Dad: But Dolly wasn't killed. She survived. And so did Mum, and her family, and most of their neighbours. They were incredibly lucky.

Issy: Y muy valientes. Very brave.

Dad: Very brave.

Remembering

Dad set down the papers and looked at the greyhounds.

Dad: You know what's amazing? She remembered all of this. The names of shops, the streets, the songs her sister used to sing, what they ate on Thursdays. She was nine years old when it started, fifteen when it ended. And she carried it all with her for nearly eighty years.

Poppy: Why did she write it down?

Dad: So we'd know. So we'd remember. She says at the beginning, "My eldest son, Philip, asked me to recall my life during WW2 and the Blitz as part of his recording of our family tree and history."

He smiled.

Dad: That's me. Philip. I asked her because I wanted my children—your human siblings—to know what their grandma lived through. And now you know too.

Issy: ¿Está en tu website? Is it on your website?

Dad: It is. Every word. Anyone can read it. You can read all of Grandma's story at theflexiblechef.co.uk.

Poppy: Will you keep these papers? The handwritten ones?

Dad picked up a page, running his finger along the shaky lines.

Dad: Yes. They're… they're her. Her hand, her pen, her memories. I'll keep them safe.

He carefully gathered the pages and returned them to the box.

Dad: You know what Grandma would have said if she knew you two were reading her story?

Both greyhounds looked up.

Dad: She'd have said, "Good. That's why I wrote it."

The afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Dad made another cup of tea whilst the girls stretched out on the cool tiles.

Poppy: Dad?

Dad: Mm?

Poppy: Thank you for reading to us.

Dad: Thank you for asking.

Issy: Fue importante. It was important.

Dad: It was, wasn't it?

He sat down with his tea, the box of papers beside him.

Dad: You know, Mum used to sit right where you're sitting now, Issy. Six weeks she was here. We'd walk to the gasolinera, drink milky coffee, and she'd tell me stories. Not just war stories—everything. Her whole life.

Poppy: I wish I'd met her.

Dad: She'd have loved you both. She loved dogs. She loved stories. She loved family.

He sipped his tea.

Dad: And now her story's part of your story. That's how it works. We remember, we tell, we pass it on.

Issy: Como una herencia. Like an inheritance.

Dad: Exactly like an inheritance. The best kind.

Above them, a swallow darted across the blue Andalusian sky. Somewhere in the olive groves, cicadas sang their endless song. And in the courtyard of Casa Adora, three beings sat quietly, holding the weight of memory and the gift of survival.

English-Spanish Glossary for This Bilingual Children's Story

Spanish Words & Phrases

• Claro – Of course / Clearly
• la guerra – the war
• Lo siento – I'm sorry
• ¿Por qué? – Why?
• ¿Cómo dormían todos? – How did they all sleep?
• Sin sus padres? – Without their parents?
• Pobrecita – Poor little thing (feminine)
• ¿Qué comían? – What did they eat?
• Como nuestro huerto – Like our vegetable garden
• Pero – But
• Entonces – Then / So
• Y muy valientes – And very brave
• ¿Está en tu website? – Is it on your website?
• Fue importante – It was important
• Como una herencia – Like an inheritance
• Ay – Oh / Ouch (exclamation)
• Cuidado – Careful / Be careful
• Mira – Look

Andalusian/Casual Spanish

• Gasolinera – Petrol station (often has a small bar/café in rural Spain)

Historical Terms Explained

• WW2 – World War Two (1939-1945)
• The London Blitz – German bombing campaign against London and other British cities (1940-1941)
• Evacuation – Sending children from cities to countryside for safety during wartime
• Morrison Shelter – Steel table-like shelter used inside homes during air raids
• Anderson Shelter – Outdoor corrugated iron shelter buried in gardens
• Rationing – Government control of food and goods distribution during wartime
• POW – Prisoner of War
• V2 Rocket – German long-range missile used in 1944-1945
• ARP Warden – Air Raid Precautions warden who helped during bombing raids
• Allotment – Small plot of land for growing vegetables
• "Dig for Victory" – Government campaign encouraging people to grow their own food

Why Family History Stories Matter

This bilingual children's story demonstrates how personal histories connect us to larger world events. Grandma Sylvia's testimony teaches children about:

• Resilience – How ordinary people survived extraordinary circumstances
• Family bonds – The importance of staying connected even in difficult times
• Material culture – Understanding how people lived with less
• Bravery – That being scared and being brave can exist together
• Memory – Why it's important to record and share family stories

Reading bilingual children's stories about real family histories helps children understand that history isn't just dates and facts—it's real people, real families, real lives.

Sensitive Discussion Points:
This bilingual children's story touches on war, death, fear, and hunger. These are real and important topics. Children aged 6-12 can handle difficult history when:

• It's presented matter-of-factly but with empathy
• They can ask questions freely
• They understand the historical context
• They see that people survived and persevered
• They connect it to real people and families

About This Story

About Grandma Sylvia: Sylvia Christine Morrison (née Partleton, 1929-2023) lived through the London Blitz as a child. She wrote her memories at age 89/90 so her family would understand what she and millions of others experienced during World War Two. Her full testimony can be read at 'my story'.

About Issy & Poppy: Two rescue greyhounds living in rural Andalucía, solving mysteries (and mainly napping) in the Spanish sunshine. In this bilingual children's story, they discover that sometimes the most important investigations are about understanding where we come from.

This story is part of the Issy & Poppy: Kids Edition collection — bilingual adventures with Issy and Poppy in Andalucía. You can explore the whole collection in the Kids Edition Hub.
Esta historia forma parte de la colección Issy & Poppy: Kids Edition — aventuras bilingües con Issy y Poppy en Andalucía. Descubre toda la colección en el Kids Edition Hub.