It's Sunday, June 18, 1944, five days after the first V-1 killed six people in East London.

Hundreds of worshippers are at the Guards Chapel near Buckingham Palace, a place to practice faith and pray for the war to be over.

At 1120, the choir is singing the Eucharist. Voices soar to the domed ceiling, drowning out the sound of a pulse jet engine overhead.

The parishioners have no idea what's coming,

or that the engine's sudden silence

means the V-1 is now free-falling toward the ground.

When the bomb hits the chapel roof,

100-year-old walls collapse, concrete, glass, and wood crashing down on the congregation.

Rescuers find 123 bodies in the wreckage, and legend has it that the six candles in the silver altar cross were still burning. I'm not sure whether this last part is true or not, but I've

learned from my own family that legends have a way of becoming the soul of the story.

Oh, wait, I'm supposed to sit in quietly. Okay, sit quietly. Tanta Heidi has been the keeper of

our family legends for decades, but now her time is running out. I'm dizzy.

Remember all her complaining?

My back ache so bad.

My left knee is going out.

It turns out it's not just old age.

It's not right.

My tant has been diagnosed with cancer.

Stage four.

Here, let's try to put it on a little tighter.

And as I wrap the blood pressure cuff around her too thin arm,

memories of my mom hit hard.

...