My friend, a Dutch war bride, and I are gossiping. We’re also sharing war stories. It’s obvious mine are not nearly as exciting as hers.
As a pre-teen in B.C., I remember filling bags with sand, loading them on a wagon and pulling this heavy load to…I’ve forgotten where but it was very important at the time.
I remember tiny licorice cigars and miniature candy ice-cream cones. They could be purchased at the local 5 cents to $1.00 store. It seemed just as I had discovered these delightful treats, they vanished – never to be seen again until after the war.
And of course there were ration books. In a burst of independence I argued with my mother. “If you get a ration for tea for me, now that I am 12, I think I should be able to drink it.” So began an addiction that endures to this day.
But my memories are tame compared to my Dutch friend. She confides that even after several months of being in Canada, at the sound of an airplane she would automatically “hit the dirt.”
Her stories are ones of riding hours on her bike to exchange “hope chest” china for food to feed her brothers and sisters, of dragging her few possessions down miles of roads, then leaping into ditches as airplanes zoomed and strafed from above.
And yet we have much in common. The war years affected us both. I was younger but had two brothers and a sister involved. Telegrams were scary. Then, news came of wounds on the battlefield but there was recovery and eventually they returned home.
Somehow, this soul-sister and I chanced to meet through the church, each with such different backgrounds, yet feeling a natural bond through our faith and a forgotten war.
On November 11th she marches with the Legion Ladies Auxiliary and I watch from the sidelines.
We stand apart, yet our thoughts are united as we pay homage to all those whose sacrifices brought us together and made such a difference in our lives.
Printed in 1995 in Maturity Magazine
