‘We’re going to die nann!’

Air-raid drone ringing in his ears, Ġorġ Debono climbs down into a recently discovered WWII shelter dug by hand one-and-a-half storeys below Main Street in Qormi.

An orphan, Mr Debono “il-Minka” was brought up by his grandparents on a farm behind St George’s parish church. The family used to take refuge in a shelter similar to the one on Main Street, situated behind the church.

The war years were the worst days of his life, he says – although young, he thought he would not make it through alive.

“Before the war started, low-flying aeroplanes would cast gas-bombs sporadically and we would scurry around, filling the crevices with wet sacks,” he says, one wrinkled palm in the other.

Mr Debono, now 85, recalls the first air-raid, which he says was a terrifying experience.

“People started yelling ‘They’re here!’ This just scared me to death and I remember telling my grandmother, with whom I was selling goat’s milk in Birkirkara: ‘We’re going to die nann!’ We took shelter under some palm trees, then sprinted home as soon as the aeroplane drone died away in the distance,” Mr Debono says, his glazed eyes looking into the distance.

Initially residents used to take shelter in cellars.

“But that wasn’t safe at all, as people could get trapped inside, with no way out of the rubble.”

He looks down at the smooth ground of the shelter.

“We used to lie down there, on the ground. If we were lucky enough, we would find a sack to sleep on. Otherwise, we would just huddle on top of each other in pitch darkness. At night we were not allowed to light up candles or cigarettes, lest low-flying aeroplanes caught a glimpse of the flickering light. “But oh dear me, when we woke up, our skin would itch so badly. I couldn’t wait until we got the all-clear and headed back to the farm, where I could sooth it with goat’s milk.”

A long corridor stretches from one of the shelter’s three main access points to the farthest end. Five other access points lead to private houses.

A contract was signed yesterday between Parliamentary Secretary Jason Azzopardi and Mary Louise Coleiro on behalf of the NGO Fondazzjoni Ulied Ħal Qormi for the 10-year conservation of the shelter. The NGO has been granted possession of the place while the Kumitat Festi Esterni San Ġorġ Martri will be acting as curators. They plan to open it to the public on a weekly basis.

Visitors will have plenty to see and imagine. Some 20 rooms were dug out on the sides of the shelter by families after obtaining a government permit. A curtain hung up at the doorway of every room to provide a modicum of privacy from the stares of the unlucky ones who, meanwhile, spent long hours sprawled across the corridor.

Flickering candles placed in holes in the walls clothe the place with the same eerie atmosphere of 60 years ago, trails of soot rising up the walls.

During the blood-curling hours of an air raid, the Maltese would flock down to the shelter, most resorting to prayer, invoking the help of a regiment of saints. A well-preserved portrait of the Mother of Sorrows was carved out of the wall by a C. Micallef on May 1, 1942, opposite sketches that the artist pencilled on the wall. At one place, the humid and well-ventilated shelter is dotted with stalactites.

The curators have found another access hole which they think might either lead to another corridor or to the cellar of a private residence. They have also found several items, including toys and election medals.

“They used to give birth in this particular shelter,” Catherine Fenech, 74, recalls, pointing to a room with a window positioned high up away from the reach of children.

Ms Fenech and her 10 siblings would often go around scaring people huddled in the shelter. “We’d go around shouting ‘boo’ in the rooms, or in people’s ears. The war for me was an adventure because I was too young to be scared,” she chuckles.

Mr Debono says one had to live day by day. “Food was rationed. We were given some 300 grams of bread to last us 24 hours before the victory kitchens were set up where we would queue with watering mouths, longing for that ladleful of soup at noon,” Mr Debono smiles, adding his grandparents bought a sack of wheat for one pound, 10 shillings, which had been brought in to shore from a sunken vessel.

“The taste of the sea-drenched wheat was horrible,” Mr Debono grimaces, “but that was a time when you had to live by what you had.”