~G. Norman Patterson
Toronto, Ontario
All in Vain?
The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
~Czesław Miłosz, The Issa Valley
It was my granddaughter Celeste’s idea that we visit the National War Memorial in Ottawa. I had been to many other Remembrance Day services at the memorial at home. There I marched and stood in silence with my family, friends and comrades from the Canadian Legion. I paid my respects and remembered the conflicts, those who had fallen and those who survived, scarred for eternity.
But today would be different. It was only a short walk across the plaza to the Memorial, but it seemed that with every step a memory would resurface. Perhaps it was the weather. It was a grey day, with dark clouds. The chill wind whipped around my legs. The damp, bone-chilling cold that seemed to be reserved for every November 11th was miserable.
I shivered. It was like this when I was captured, barely alive, surrounded by the shattered bodies of men and horses lying in the bloody mud. We were marched as prisoners, in wooden shoes, herded like animals across Nazi-controlled Europe. I escaped twice, was twice recaptured and finally exiled to the notorious Stalag 13. But I survived.
Prompted by today’s martial music and the flags snapping in the wind, memories of “liberation day” brought back memories of the Allies arriving to be met by cheering crowds. I was free — free to wander from country to country, to work camps and resettlement camps, and finally to a job in the Netherlands. It was hard, menial work; but I met my Tilly and found love, marriage, children, family and hope. Then the Soviet KGB came. They wanted me and my language skills for their intrigues. We fled to Canada where we faced more challenges — another language and a new culture. But we found peace.
I squeezed Tilly’s hand a little tighter as our family group made its way across the plaza, seeking seats in the public viewing stands. The Memorial dominated the centre of the civic square. I could see the rows of satin-ribboned wreaths, their red poppies fluttering in the stiff breeze, waiting to be placed at its base. Just as we reached the stands, an official looking woman approached. Were we in the wrong place? She spoke but I couldn’t hear all her words. She repeated her query more loudly. “Veteran?” I nodded. She smiled and motioned for Tilly and me to follow. Rows of chairs had been arranged in a special area at the front. Some were already filled with men and women, in and out of uniform, people our age.
Tilly and I were seated like honoured guests. A warm blanket was laid across our laps, and we were given a commemorative book and special coin. I watched the final preparations from a new perspective. Commands were barked and rows of today’s young soldiers snapped to attention. A children’s choir, dressed alike in red and white, took its place and began to sing. It seemed strange, their young voices singing old songs — from past wars and from new ones, calling for peace. My fellow veterans who could still march filed past and stood in silence, waiting. The service was similar to the many I had attended back home, just on a larger scale. I could not hear all of the words spoken, but I knew them by heart.
The clock in the Parliament Hill Peace Tower struck eleven and we silently listened to the mournful sound of the “Last Post.” The assembled artillery fired their salute and all eyes turned skyward as the jets flew over with an incredible roar. Then, as if a celestial command had been given, those threatening clouds parted and the sun finally shone. The orderly ranks became a moving mob, returning to everyday life. The rest of the family re-joined us and we began to make our way through the crowd to place our poppies on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
I was still lost in thought. Each November 11th, I asked myself the same question. It was good that we remembered, but had it all been in vain? Then I felt a tug on the sleeve of my coat. I looked down and saw a little girl smiling up at me. Still dressed in her red and white choir clothing, she appeared to be draped in the Canadian flag. Her bright eyes sparkled as she spoke. “Thank you! Thank you for fighting for our freedom!”
My heart swelled; what better answer could I have been given?
~Walter Sawchuk
Orillia, Ontario
A Bloom of Friendship
No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night.
~Elie Wiesel
While studying in Ottawa in the early 1980s, I never questioned why our capital was host to the Canadian Tulip Festival. Like Winterlude and other seasonal events, it just was. But in 1995 I came to understand the festival’s origins. That year marked the 50th anniversary of the Liberation of the Netherlands and, to highlight the significant milestone, hundreds of Canadian war veterans travelled back to Europe to revisit the Dutch people and battlefields they had known half a century earlier.
There was substantial news coverage of the commemorative celebrations, and Peter Mansbridge from the CBC was there reporting live. As our Canadian war veterans proudly paraded through their streets, the Dutch people cheered and celebrated. The palpable joy and gratitude emanating from my television screen moved me to tears.
That week I learned how Dutch children help take care of the war cemeteries where Canadian soldiers, who never came home, are buried. The children decorate the graves with flowers in the spring, and light candles and place them on each grave every Christmas Eve. I also learned that the genesis of our annual Canadian Tulip Festival was a gift of 100,000 tulip bulbs from the monarchy of the Netherlands in 1945. This offering was to thank us for having provided safe haven to members of the royal family during World War II and, more importantly, to thank Canada for the pivotal role Canadian soldiers played in liberating the people of the Netherlands from Nazi rule. Every year since, Canada has been given 20,000 tulip bulbs from the Netherlands, and we will continue to receive this bequest in perpetuity. Why tulip bulbs? During the last months of the war there was so little food left the people were starving; many of the Dutch ate tulip bulbs to survive.
My uncle, Thomas Delaney, was one of the thousands of Canadian soldiers who fought to help free the Dutch people. In 1944, at age eighteen, he had enlisted in the Army and was sent overseas. On the morning of April 8, 1945, he was shot in the hip by a German sniper. He was then recovered by members of his unit, and hidden in a barn owned by a Dutch family with young children. Like many war veterans, when he returned home he never spoke much about his experiences during the war. It was only after his return from the Netherlands in 1995, when he recounted the joyous celebrations he had attended, that he finally shared his war story with me.
While he was visiting the Netherlands, with the help of a local historian from Holten in the Dutch province of Overijssel, my uncle was able to find the barn in which he had been hidden fifty years earlier. “The barn was painted a different colour,” he said, “but I recognized it immediately. With this historian’s help,” he continued, “I was also reacquainted with one of the daughters of the Dutch farmer who owned the barn. She remembered the event in detail.”
Uncle Thomas returned to the Netherlands in subsequent years, and each time he was treated with warmth, respect and admiration by the Dutch people. Health issues prevented him from attending the 70th anniversary celebrations in 2015, but I know he was there in spirit. For all these reasons I resolved to preserve my uncle’s story, and, in my own small way, help teach children in this country what Dutch children have been taught, generation after generation, of the sacrifices our Canadian soldiers made so many years ago.
My first children’s book, A Bloom of Friendship: The Story of the Canadian Tulip Festival, was the result of this promise. If stories of our past are not recorded, they are lost when the voices that experienced them pass on. May our proud Canadian heritage never be silenced, and let us all endeavour to preserve the precious threads of our history.
~Anne Renaud
Westmount, Quebec
A Poppy for Remembrance
What the soldiers gave us is freedom and the air to breathe democracy.
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~Mark Cullen
When I first arrived in Canada from Michigan, one of my editors told me that come fall, I should look for poppies. I had no idea what he was talking about and soon forgot. Adapting to our new surroundings was my all-consuming challenge. Canadians and Americans appear similar until you scratch the surface. I was quickly face to face with dozens of cultural differences, from where you buy your stamps to what’s on the extra-value menu at McDonald’s.
It was nearly November before I remembered my editor’s remark about poppies. But I didn’t have to look for them; suddenly, they were everywhere.
I noticed it first shortly before Halloween, when people started arriving at storefronts and gas stations holding boxes of red plastic poppies. I didn’t think much of it at first as there is frequently somebody collecting money for something outside of Canadian stores. This, however, was different. Unlike most charitable donation collectors, there was no pitch. I also quickly realized no one was trying to avoid them. I watched people stop at these vendors, purchase a poppy and immediately pin it on their jacket. One after another. I was aware that Canadians celebrate Remembrance Day on November 11th, the same day Americans celebrate Veterans Day. I had even purchased paper poppies before in America. I figured this was something similar.
But it wasn’t. Poppy boxes soon graced every counter of every business. Day after day, without comment, poppies were purchased for a donation — and worn. When I saw sales material, which was rare, it was simple and without agenda: “In Remembrance.” Then, unannounced and without request for payment, two more poppies arrived in the mail. My husband came home from work with one. My children came home from school wearing poppies. Poppies were slowly taking over the coats, jackets and sweaters of every man, woman, and child around me. Eventually, I was embarrassed not to wear one.
I was even more embarrassed to ask why this was happening. I purchased a poppy, pinned it to my jacket, and went home to research Remembrance Day.
Poppies, I learned, are the symbol of the fallen soldier, made famous in the poem “In Flanders Fields.” The author, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, a Canadian soldier who fought and died in World War I, was born in Guelph, Ontario, less than forty kilometres from where I live. Since 1921, Canada and all the British Commonwealth countries have worn poppies on Remembrance Day. The proceeds from poppy sales go to assist veterans and their families.
While it’s true that Americans make similar gestures and have similar symbols, they splinter into a hundred different expressions according to the individual. This was different. Everyone was united under one symbol — a simple red poppy secured by a straight pin on the left lapel. On November 11th there were special services and official ceremonies, but to me, nothing could be as sincere a tribute as an entire population quietly wearing this symbol of the fallen soldier — and remembering.
The poppies lingered long after Remembrance Day, slowly fading off lapels like real blossoms fade off trees — a little at a time. But I kept mine. After two years, this will be my last Remembrance Day here in Canada. Next year I will be home, observing Veterans Day like my fellow Americans. Still, I plan to wear my poppy. It may be a Canadian gesture, but it’s universal in its powerful meaning.
~Nicole L.V. Mullis
Battle Creek, Michigan, USA
The Night We Were All Just Canadian
Under this flag may our youth find new inspiration for loyalty to Canada; for a patriotism based not on any mean or narrow nationalism, but on the deep and equal pride that all Canadians will feel for every part of this good land.
~Former Prime Minister Lester Pearson
While driving home on October 22, 2015, I heard the breaking news. Corporal Nathan Cirillo, an army reservist from Hamilton had been shot and killed while standing guard at the National War Memorial in Ottawa. As the day progressed more information came in and, along with other Canadians, I experienced a deep sadness.
Nathan had been a typical young Canadian with a son and a loving family. His goal had been to become a full-time soldier but, in the meantime, he was active in the reserves. As he stood on guard, unarmed, at the National War Memorial, he was shot without having a chance to defend himself. He probably barely even saw his killer. It seemed like he could have been the guy next door.
Five days later we were out of town and heading back to our home in the western Toronto suburb of Mississauga. Our regular route was jammed with traffic, so we decided to take an alternate way back through Hamilton. The sun was setting as we got to Hamilton, and streaks of bright orange and yellow painted the western sky. As we drove along Highway 403 we noticed one of the overpass bridges was crowded with people, cars and emergency vehicles with their lights flashing. At first we thought there must have been a major accident, but we soon discovered it was the same for every bridge we passed under. On the third bridge we saw a number of construction vehicles including dump trucks and graders. There were also a couple of cranes with strings of white lights that were flying Canadian flags.
I turned to my wife Susan and said, “This is so strange. Why are these vehicles blocking every overpass across the highway?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Let’s turn on the radio and see what’s going on.”
It took less than a minute to hear the news. We were travelling east on the same highway that Nathan Cirillo’s funeral procession would be taking as it travelled west to the cathedral in Hamilton. At that point we were about half an hour away from the funeral vehicles that were heading our way. Over the next few kilometres we began to see cars stopped along the side of the highway, their drivers and passengers standing outside. The farther we went the more vehicles were parked on the shoulder of the roadway — from pick-up trucks to cars and utility vans. Some people were saluting, others just quietly standing. It had turned dark and the wind was cold, yet more and more people had stopped to stand and wait for the funeral procession.
The radio host kept us updated on the progress of the funeral cars, and by the time we entered Mississauga we were only about five minutes apart. We were on a six-lane limited access highway, but I had a strong feeling that we too needed to pull off to the side. I shut off the engine, and we sat in silence and waited. A couple of minutes later we saw the funeral cars and the hearse, followed by a couple of police cars with flashing lights. It felt like time stood still as we sat on the shoulder of the highway. A young Canadian soldier — one of us — was passing by on his last journey. He was just twenty-four, but he would never see another sunrise or hug his five-year-old son again.
Once the procession had passed we started our car and slowly moved back on to the highway. Other cars that had stopped began moving as well. About a kilometre away we were approaching our exit from the highway, and slowed down as we got closer. The entire overpass bridge was packed with people of all ages. Parents were there with babies and young children. A few seniors were in the crowd as well as small groups of teenagers. Every race and ethnic group in Canada was represented on the bridge; they had all come to say goodbye to one of our own. Everyone was quiet; there was no need to talk. Most were carrying or waving Canadian flags. Some people were hugging each other and more than a few were brushing tears from their eyes. Several police cars and an ambulance were parked on the bridge, and as their lights flashed they illuminated the crowd around them.
On the bridge were a number of construction vehicles with their drivers standing beside them. These were working men — covered with dust and grime, having come directly from their work sites to honour this young reservist. I noticed one little boy about eight who was carrying a Canadian flag and holding his dad’s hand. Tears streaked his father’s face and, as this little boy looked up at his dad, we could see the sorrow in his eyes as well. It was at that moment that a wave of emotion swept over me. Not only had we lost a young man from Hamilton who was serving his country, but for that moment in time we were all united as Canadians; we were one. Regardless of our age, colour or cultural background —
we stood together. I felt my eyes filling with tears as I watched the solemn crowd moving past us. We drove home in silence knowing this would be a night etched on our hearts for life — a moment in time when all our differences melted away, and we were all just Canadian.
~Rob Harshman
Mississauga, Ontario
We’re All in This Together
My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.
~Jack Layton
The 2010 Winter Olympics
Canadian pride may not rest on our sleeves, but it resides in our hearts.
~Steve Miller
Like most Canadians, we were excited when Vancouver hosted the Olympic Winter Games in February 2010. Generally during the Olympics we cheered for our Canadian athletes from half a world away. This time was different. Now they were competing in our own country. Sweeter yet for my husband Don and I… we were staying with our two granddaughters, Jordan and Lindsay, in Kelowna, British Columbia while their parents vacationed.
On that first day, we tuned into the Opening Ceremonies just in time to see Canadian snowboarder Johnny Lyall leaping through the giant Olympic rings. He sure got our attention! Then, after First Nation leaders welcomed the world to Vancouver, we cheered as 2,600 athletes entered the stadium. Vancouver’s BC Place was suddenly transformed into varied Canadian landscapes, and the entire opening ceremony gave us goose bumps and left us with tears of pride. When it came time to light the giant caldron, four iconic Canadian athletes appeared — Catriona LeMay Doan, Steve Nash, Nancy Green and Wayne Gretzky. It couldn’t have been better.
A few days later, twenty-two year old Alexandre Bilodeau, a freestyle skier from Quebec, dazzled us with his superb performance on Cypress Mountain to win Canada’s first gold medal of the games. It was Canada’s first gold medal ever won on home soil! The crowd was delirious with excitement… and so were we.