Childhood Memories of WWII

I woke up that May-day morning
from intimations of immortality
to the sounds and sin of World War II.

Behind me were five years of hazy bliss
of much innocence and memories few,
before me lay five years of fear
and a life-time of experience
whose recollections have the power
to haunt me still this year.

I remember now the bright-blue, spring-sprung sky
smeared suddenly with swastikas on gleaming wings,
the angry droning of a thousand warplanes
silencing the sounds of music from hedge and trees.

I remember now that father prayed that day
for God to help us all, to save our land.
But Hitler’s mighty forces had their way.
My little world became unsafe, and fear
moved in, a pallid and unwanted resident.

I remember now the man wanted alive or dead
for whom we made a hiding place.
One day the Germans came to cross our land.
My friend and I stood watching through the glass
when I saw a strange expression on his face,
when I saw a revolver in his hand,
to shoot himself, I wondered, or the enemy?
The soldiers skipped our door, thank God,
but I was terrified.

I remember now my mother on her bicycle,
side bags bulging with papers from the underground
she would deliver on her special paper route
while I feared constantly that she’d be caught
and we would never see her face again.

I remember now the deadly dogfights in the air,
the Allied bombers smoking, hurtling down
so close to us, I thought we would get hit.

Later friends and I sneaked inside the burned-out hulk,
where I smelled death of the 12-men crew,
found buttons, belt-buckles, a first-aid kit,
a half-burned boot, mementos of the men
who were buried in the village churchyard
far from their native soil.

I remember now the power of the flying bomb,
the German V-twos sent to London
as a hoped-for coup d’état.
This one fell not far from us
and left a crater deep and wide
enough to drop a house in.

I remember now the protest day when
farmers spilled their milk upon the ground
instead of shipping to the factory.
And Germans eager to retaliate
grabbed some townsfolk here and there,
and lined them up; they were shot and killed,
all sixteen of them, execution-style, then
thrown into a mass grave, as of no account.
One was a boy only four years older than I was.

I remember now on liberation day
when the forces of the underground
came to pick up collaborators with the enemy,
including dad and son whose land lay next to us.
When these refused to come outside,
their captors tossed a hand grenade.
Then they went in and found
the father dead with a bullet in his head,
the mother dead from the hand grenade,
only the wounded son survived; his hands were bound,
and then he stood before the crowd
whose wartime anger, long pent up,
was now unleashed; some slapped his face,
others spat upon him, all taunted him
who had just lost his dad and mom;
and these were good Christian folk.

I remember now the day
I met a man from far away,
walking down the main street of our town;
his hair was thin and white, his beard was long.
He asked how he might find the way
to the gravesite of his only son.
I showed him where the churchyard was,
but I did not invite him home with me,
I did not seat him in our best chair,
find the prettiest cup and saucer on the shelf
and make some tea for him.
I did not invite all the war’s survivors
of the town to come and thank this man,
thank this broken father for what his son had done;
for I was too young then and did not think of that.
But I would like to thank him now,
and all the others who gave more
than what we ever have a right to ask.

We learned while very young
that there is evil in the human heart;
the dreams of innocence were shattered,
we always looked through broken glass.
Even after 70 years, our vision has not been restored.
For some there’s only hope, grounded in faith,
that there will be a day, when face to face
we will know as we are known,
and shalom will have come at last.